The Smart One (28 page)

“Bev! Bev!” cried the angel of death, trying to get me to look. The presence was so real and terrifying that I awoke with a start to realize someone was really in my room. It was Clare.

“I tried calling,” she said, her hand gripping my shoulder.

I sat up, shaking off the dream to understand what was really going on. Clare was in my bedroom, her face pink and blotchy from crying. I looked at the clock. I’d been asleep for six hours—enough time for anything to have happened. I looked back at my sister, knowing she wasn’t the Grim Reaper, but may as well have been. With a somber face, she delivered the grave and startling news.

The funeral service was held at the grave site. It was a bright summer morning, and though the sun hadn’t yet had a chance to heat the atmosphere, I was starting to perspire in my dark blazer. My narrow heels dug into the soft earth, and I lifted one foot and then the other, hyperconscious of every mortal sensation. When the rabbi finished his eulogy and offered the mourners the chance to bid their final respects by emptying a shovelful of dirt into the grave, there was a moment of hesitation where no one came forward.

I squeezed my mother’s hand and wondered if she was thinking about the last funeral we had been to together. Hard to believe it was only a year since Joey’s former band member had died. Our whole family had gone to the memorial service, and as we sat watching Tyrone’s poor relatives collapse in grief, all I could think was,
This could be us.

We only knew Tyrone through Joey, but his family and the minister made it their business to let everyone learn about the boy he had been before his downward spiral. One by one, the mourners got up to tell stories about the sweet, funny, talented little boy they so adored. By the time the service had
ended, every one of us had fallen in love with him and were grieving with as much agony as his family.

But where were my stories about Joey? My mother squeezed my hand back, and I wondered if the physical gesture could yield some sweet memories. But only the bitterest droplets emerged. It seemed like Joey and I had spent our whole lives in stupid conflicts. I remembered our teenage fights, and how furious I was when she pounded at the bathroom door while I showered, yelling that I was taking too long. I shrieked at her and she shrieked back. I remembered being furious with her for borrowing my things without asking. Once, when we were young, she took my favorite chapter book outside to read. It was a wonderful fantasy about a boy who turns into a bird and saves a kingdom. Joey was only seven, and it was too advanced for her. So she got quickly bored and left it there on the patio. It rained that night and my book was ruined.

When I discovered it, I cried with all the melodrama I could muster, wailing that Joey was never allowed in my room again. Of course, she didn’t listen, and that night when I went upstairs I found all of Joey’s favorite picture books laid out on my bed as an offering. I picked up a Dr. Seuss book and opened the cover. Inside was the familiar personalized bookplate that was in all of her books. The imprint said, “This book is the property of Joanna,” but she had crossed out her name in blue crayon and written “Beverly.” I picked up the next book and it said the same thing. So did the next and the next. She had done it to every single book, even
Where the Wild Things Are
, her favorite.

It was a perfect eulogy story. I blew my nose and hoped I wouldn’t be needing it any time soon. Joey, thank God, was still alive, albeit comatose. This was Sam Waxman’s funeral.

As Clare explained to me that day in my bedroom, Sam had been struck and killed by an oil truck after he once again
wandered onto the interstate behind his condo development. No one knew for sure whether it was the Alzheimer’s disease or suicide, but since it happened the day before the police were to announce the results of his DNA test and reveal that he was, in fact, the father of the dead woman’s baby, most of us assumed he had killed himself rather than face his guilt.

It took a few days for Kenny to make arrangements to have the body flown up north for the funeral. Renee was a wreck, of course, and I worried what would happen to her if, under the circumstances, Sam wasn’t allowed a Jewish burial. But I learned that even if Sam had left a suicide note, Jewish law allows a religious burial if the suicide resulted from mental illness. One more thing Sam Waxman had gotten away with.

Renee took a weak step forward as Kenny assisted her toward the grave. “It’s okay,” she said to her son, letting him know she would do this on her own. Renee took the shovel from the rabbi and pushed some dirt onto the casket. She turned to the mourners, holding up the shovel for whoever wanted to go next.

Some murmurs and coughs rippled through the crowd, and I thought that if she gave it another moment someone would have stepped up. But the hesitance alone was enough to push poor Renee over the edge. She threw down the shovel and her eyes lit with a wildness I’d never seen in her before

“You all have no right to judge him!” she cried, pointing an accusatory finger at the crowd. “No right!
God
will judge him! Only God! Because he knows…he knows…”

Kenny stepped toward her and Renee collapsed into him, crying.

“It’s okay, Mom,” he said, leading her away from the gaping hole.

My father hobbled forward in his walking cast and grabbed the shovel. Following his lead, the other mourners stepped
forward one by one to offer the grieving widow this final respect for her husband. At last, the rabbi said the final prayer, in Hebrew and then in English.

His final words were, “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” Here the rabbi paused and we joined him in the final
“Amen.”

The next day Clare and I found ourselves alone in the hospital room with Joey, as our parents were busy helping Renee get through her day of receiving visitors. The results of Joey’s daily CT scans were always the same—there had been no further bleeding and the swelling in her brain was receding little by little. Still, the doctors offered no definitive answers on when, if ever, she might wake up.

Clare and I sat side by side looking at Joey, who seemed to lose more weight every day. I worried that if she kept getting thinner, there would soon be nothing but a skeleton with flesh lying in that bed.

“Too bad they can’t put a hot fudge sundae in one of those things,” Clare said, pointing to the bags on the IV pole.

“Should we tell her about Sam?” I asked.

“I already did, but try again.”

I leaned in, resting a hand on Joey’s bony shoulder. “Hey. Joey. It’s Bev. Listen to me. Sam Waxman was definitely the murderer. DNA results came back and proved he was the baby’s father.” I paused, waiting for a response. Clare took Joey’s hand and I continued. “But there won’t be a trial because Sam is dead. Did you hear what I said, Joey? Sam Waxman is
dead
.”

“Oh!” Clare cried out, startling me.

“What is it?”

“I think her hand moved.”

Clare opened her own hand, showing me Joey’s resting upon it. We both started down at it.

“Do that again, Joey,” I said. “Move your hand.”

Nothing.

“It’s us,” Clare said. “Me and Bev.”

“Bev and
I
,” I corrected.

Clare tsked at me but I smiled so she’d know I was kidding.

“You hear that?” Clare said to Joey. “You can’t leave me alone with her. She’s such a pain in the ass.”

We focused on that hand, trying hard to discern the tiniest movement, when we heard something. A moan. We looked up at Joey’s face. The breathing tube was still in her throat, but her head turned from side to side as she tried to make sounds. Joey was waking up.

Two weeks later found me cleaning and straightening, getting the house ready for Joey’s homecoming. My parents, who were now back home to stay, had gone to the hospital to pick her up. After those first initial sounds, the doctors removed Joey’s breathing tube, and she groaned in a voice so quiet and hoarse it wasn’t recognizable. It sounded like she was saying words, but most of her mutterings were indecipherable. The first word we really understood was
“Thirsty,”
and soon after that she started responding to yes or no questions, though her answers were often more automatic than truly cognitive. One such conversation went like this:

“Hi, Joey. It’s Bev. Do you know where you are?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you?”

“Rowaauh.”

“I’m here too,” Clare said. “Do you know who I am?”

“No.”

“I’m Clare. “You’re in the hospital, Joey. Do you know what happened?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell us?”

“There’s a white dish in the sink.”

“There’s nothing wrong with her,” I said to Clare, “she’s just turned into Dad.”

Then, one day when my mother and I were at her bedside, Mom asked if she wanted a sip of water. Joey said, “Yes,” and then sucked from a straw Mom put to her lips. When she finished, her expression was confused. She touched the bandage on her head as if she were just discovering it. “Shit,” she said, looking at us, “was I in a motorcycle accident?”

My mother gasped and I was so overjoyed I couldn’t help laughing. “No,” I said, “you OD’d and needed brain surgery.”

“You don’t have to sound so damned
happy
about it.”

And that was it. From there, the language came tumbling out, though we celebrated with reserved joy, unsure of how complete Joey’s recovery would be. For her part, Clare obsessed on Joey’s voice, which remained a faint whisper. And though I kept reminding her that it was the last thing we needed to worry about, I was alarmed when the occupational therapist told me that after a week of working with Joey there had been no improvement, and that she could eventually need surgery on her vocal chords. She might, it seemed, never regain her old voice.

I tied two dozen yellow and white helium balloons to the lamppost out front and then came back inside to hang the Welcome Back Joey banner I had made with poster paints on a roll of craft paper. I stood back to admire my work and thought the place looked festive enough for a party, though we hadn’t invited anyone except Kenny and Renee, as we didn’t want Joey to be overwhelmed. However, Detective Miller had called that morning to ask if he could come over with some sort of big surprise he had promised Joey. Of course, I told him he was welcome. And though I was overjoyed that I got my baby sister back, a familiar jealousy began to roil inside.
Besides a second chance at life, Joey would get to choose from two wonderful men vying for her attention, Kenny and Miller.

Then, as if awakening from my own coma, I remembered the letter from Las Vegas sitting unopened in my dresser drawer. I took the steps two at a time and hurried into my bedroom. The sealed envelope was right where I had left it. I took it out, coaching myself that I’d be okay no matter what it said. There was, after all, a substitute teacher position in North Carolina that I could have just for showing up. Still, I wanted this so badly. I was ready for my very own classroom, for a sea of eager faces putting their trust in me, for the desert air, for ubiquitous swimming pools, for living in a city filled with people who believed in the fresh start as much as I did.

I carefully opened the envelope and unfolded the contents. “Dear Ms. Bloomrosen,” began the cover letter, “It is my pleasure…”

Ecstatic, I scanned the letter quickly for the particulars. It outlined the starting salary, the benefits, school holidays. I was so excited I almost overlooked one critical fact at the bottom of the letter: the deadline for getting the signed contract to them was tomorrow.

I didn’t spend more than ten minutes looking over the document that would seal my fate. I signed in ink and folded it into the enclosed envelope. Then I rushed out the door to our local FedEx office.

Clare, Marc, Dylan, Sophie, Kenny, and Renee were there when Mom and Dad arrived home with Joey. She was still bone thin, but was walking on her own now and the light was back in her eyes. She smiled as she crossed the threshold to the house, enjoying the attention.

“I should OD more often,” Joey said in her new whispery voice.

“Don’t joke about a thing like that,” our mother said. “It’s not funny.”

“It’s a
little
funny,” Kenny said. “She just needs to work on her delivery.”

Inside, Joey asked the heavily sedated, nearly catatonic Renee Waxman how she was doing.

“My husband is dead,” she said.

“I know,” Joey answered, giving her a hug. “I’m so sorry.”

Renee’s eyes stared into the distance, unfocused. “I made such a terrible mistake.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Joey said.

“No?”

“We all know how much you loved him.”

“He was very good to me.”

Kenny rolled his eyes and walked out of the room. “Anyone want a cold drink?” he called over this shoulder.

“Such a terrible way to die,” Renee muttered.

“He didn’t suffer,” my father said.

Renee looked up as if she was surprised to see him there, surprised, in fact, that anyone had heard her.

A short while later, when we were all settled into the family room, a tray of beautifully arranged cookies (courtesy of Clare, of course) on the table before us, the doorbell rang. I ran to pull it open and saw Miller standing before me.

“Hi,” he said to me and the gang assembled in the living room.

“Hi, baby,” Joey whispered.

“Are you all ready for my surprise?”

“I thought it was just a surprise for Joey,” I said.

“Oh, I think you’ll all enjoy this,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

I watched as he dashed to his car at the curb and opened the passenger door. A middle-aged woman in a yellow top and tan pants got out. He walked her toward the house, and as she neared, I realized she looked familiar, though I couldn’t quite place who she was.

And then, as she stood before me, I knew.

“How beautiful you’ve grown up,” she said and smiled.

I reached out and touched her hand to make sure she was real. Her skin was dry but warm…and alive. And then at last I said her name.

“Lydia!”