Page 92 of This Is How It Started
For some reason this makes me cry, and I continue to rush through the terminal with tears dripping down my face. Thank God it’s an airport and no one seems to think anything of the fact that I’m weeping in public.
My mother is still in the ER when I arrive. Both Hannah and Adam are around her bed in the tiny room where she’s waiting to be wheeled in for X-rays. Her hip is blown up like a balloon, and the back of her head has a knot on it the size of a tennis ball where she hit it on the stair railing as she was going down.
“Oh, Rachel, you should’ve gone to Chicago,” she says in a limp voice that actually sounds like she means it. “I’m fine.”
“Honestly, Mom, you don’t look fine.” I’m betting money that her hip is fractured. And the ER doc thinks she has a concussion. “What’s taking them so long?” I pop my head out of the curtain as if the action alone will somehow summon someone sooner.
“According to Brooke, they’re slammed and understaffed,” Hannah says.
“You think we could get a pizza delivered here? I’m starved.” Adam plops down in the only chair in the room. Hannah and I look at each other and shake our heads.
“Go to the cafeteria if you’re hungry,” my mother says. “Bring something up for your sisters.”
“The food’s vile.” Adam stretches his legs out in front of him.
There’s a knock on the curtain, and Brooke walks in. “Not too much longer.” She circles the bed, stepping over Adam’s feet, to check my mother’s IV bag. “How’s everyone doing?” Her eyes meet mine, and I send her a silent thanks for calling. For involving herself even though it was probably awkward.
“What does not too much longer mean?” Adam bobs his head at Brooke. “Do we have time to order in a pizza?”
Brooke ignores him and goes about checking my mother’s vital signs. The room is quiet, except for the hum of the medical machines. Hannah’s texting on her phone. It’s the middle of the day, so I assume she’s updating her law firm, which reminds me to call the Ackermanns.
I step out into the crowded hallway. Mom was lucky to get a room, and I wonder if Brooke had something to do with that. I find a private spot and break the bad news to Pauline, who is both understanding and disappointed.
“I’ll come as soon as I get my mom settled in.”
“It’s a shame you’ll miss the yahrtzeit. Rabbi Naditch does a beautiful service. She’s a woman, you know?”
“I remember you telling me that. I’m so sorry, Pauline. We can go to temple when I’m there. And I’ll light the candle for Josh tonight. So he’ll have one burning in both his homes. San Francisco and Chicago. I’ll take a picture of the service and send it to you.” I don’t even know if that’s allowed in a synagogue, but somehow I’ll make it happen.
“That sounds very nice. Did you hear that, Saul? Rachel is going to light a candle for Josh in San Francisco.” Saul says something in the background that I can’t make out. “Tell your mother she’s in our thoughts and prayers, and we’re hoping for a quick recovery.”
“I will. And I’ll let you know as soon as I can come.”
When I get back in my mother’s room, there’s a medical staff person in scrubs preparing to wheel her to radiology.
“Should one of us go with her?” I ask, directing the question at Hannah because Adam is pretty much useless in situations like this.
“I’ll go,” Hannah says, but the radiology guy stops her.
“We’re good on our own, aren’t we, Shana?”
My mother nods and graces the technician or whatever he is with a beatific smile. He just happens to be really nice looking, and Mommie Dearest is a born flirt.
“Don’t worry about me.” My mother holds out her hand and wiggles her fingers, showing off a French manicure.
While she’s gone, Josie shows up with sandwiches. Adam grabs the pastrami and appears unaware that Josie and Hannah are an item. I haven’t told anyone, as it’s not my story to tell.
“What did the Ackermanns say?” Adam asks around a bite of his sandwich.
“I told them I’d do the yahrtzeit here and send them pictures of the service. Am I even allowed to do that?”
Adam shrugs.
“I doubt it,” Hannah says.
“I’m pretty sure you can at my parents’ temple,” Josie says. “I know people have videotaped bar and bat mitzvahs. Why not a yahrtzeit? I can have my mom ask. You want to do it there?”
The Blums belong to the same synagogue as Dianne Feinstein. I think members of the Haas (aka Levi Strauss) family also go there. It’s more than a bit swanky for the Golds, and even the Ackermanns for that matter. But since I don’t belong to a temple, beggars can’t be choosers.
