Terminal Therapy Read online

  “I'm Paula Hirsch. Not a relative, but an interested party. Can you tell us what caused his condition?”

  “I don't understand your question. He almost drowned.”

  “No, no. I understand that. What I mean is, how did he end up in the water?” Krista's eyes widened. “Maybe there's a medical reason,” Paula continued. “How about his Myasthenia gravis?”

  I slapped my forehead. I'd forgotten that Paula had told me about his rare disease. In Myasthenia gravis antibodies block the transmission of nerve impulses to muscles. Muscle weakness results.

  “I don't see how-” Krista began.

  “Or maybe there's some other chemical in his blood,” Paula continued. “Something that might have contributed to his falling in the water. Or contributed to his coma.”

  “What are you suggesting?” She looked at me. The other four were staring at Paula.

  “I'll fill you in later,” I said. “I'm sure you'll run all the appropriate tests.”

  Krista nodded. “I see what you mean. I think.”

  “Can I see him?” Carstens asked again.

  “Of course,” Krista said. “I'll take you there. Just prepare yourself. He has IV lines, a plastic tube through his nose into his stomach, and a breathing tube down his mouth and throat.”

  When Carstens stood up Klansky did the same. “I'm coming, too.”

  “And you are?” Krista asked.

  “I'm Judith Klansky. Dr. Singer's personal assistant. I know him longer than anyone else here. His son included.”

  “I appreciate that, but-”

  “It's all right,” Mitchell said. “Judith is as close to my father as anyone. Probably closer. She's family.”

  Klansky tipped her head in acknowledgment. Her eyes were moist, to my surprise.

  “Is it all right with you, Ms. Carstens?” Krista asked.

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  “Stephanie, please!” Mitchell said.

  “Oh, very well. But remember your place, Judith. I'm his wife.”

  Klansky didn't reply. Or even move.

  “No answer?” Carstens asked. “Fine. Your loss.”

  Klansky turned toward Carstens, growled something, and turned away again. I almost told them to be civil for Jonathan Singer's sake. But he wasn't in any condition to notice. And my rebuke might unite them--against me.

  Krista ushered Carstens and Klansky into the holy of holies.

  “What about you?” I asked Mitchell.

  “Ha! I'm in no mood to stand between those two wildcats. It doesn’t sound as though anything’s imminent, so I’ll see him later.” He sighed. “It’s not like I can help him. And if they made a scene in his presence I don't think I could bear it.”

  He turned to Tracey. “I hate to say this, Tracey, but we have a conference to run. Let's get back to the hotel and re-structure the schedule. Will you do that for me? For my father?”

  I thought she hesitated during his first question, but spoke as soon as Mitchell invoked his father. “We'll all do whatever's best for Jonathan. And that includes his conference.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But you'll let us know, David. The minute you know anything.”

  “Of course, but...of course.” I was going to say that I'd be leaving shortly, too, but then decided that I'd better consult Paula first.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Tracey and Mitchell left. And then there were two. “What do you want to do next?” I asked Paula.

  She sighed. “I was going to ask you to do your doctor thing again. Find out more about Dr. Singer's condition.”

  “Krista Caldwell just briefed us,” I said.

  “You’re right. I’m just so nervous…”

  “I understand,” I said. “Anyway, it's too soon to have any but the most basic test results.”

  Paula sighed again. “You know best. You can ask her for an update tomorrow.” I followed her gaze to the clock on the wall, which read 9:45. “I'm suddenly tired,” she said. “I'll take you back to the hotel.”

  I'd traveled to the Cape by air. My plan had been to stay mostly at the hotel/conference, using Paula and my parents as use-when-necessary chauffeurs. Paula spoke without looking at me. “We have things to talk about.” Uh, oh.

  The parking lot's artificial lighting fuzzied the night sky, the cloud cover having dissipated. It was cool for me. But then again, it usually is. Paula led me to an apple green Toyota Corona Deluxe.

  “You rented?” I asked.

  “No. This is mine. Used, of course.”

  “What happened to your Chevette?” Paula's white Chevette was Paula, I thought.

  “One breakdown too many. One repair too many. It was time to move on.”

  New car, new Paula? I wondered. We spent the first two minutes of the five-minute ride in silence.

  “So are you going to help me investigate what happened to Dr. Singer?” Paula asked.

  “What happened to Dr. Singer?”

  “You know what I mean. This was no accident.” She swung her head to address me, then re-focused on the road. Her hair swished, revealing the glint of a gray hair above her right ear--the first I'd ever spotted. I wanted to take her in my arms and kiss her.

  “Well?” she persisted.

  “Listen. I know you said he's a good swimmer. But he's still an old man. A very old man. Standing at a waist-high railing, all alone, in the dark-”

  “Maybe not alone.”

  “Maybe a few drinks, a lurch of the boat-”

  “Do you remember the boat lurching?”

  “Nothing major,” I said. “Except when the Green Panthers' boat hit us. But that's not when he went overboard.”

  “Exactly.”

  “OK. But the burden of proof is still on you to prove that it wasn't an accident.”

  “Burden of proof?” Paula asked. “Are we in a court of law?”

  I shuddered. To a doctor the legal system is anathema. “No. Of course not-”

  “I have good instincts about such things,” Paula said. “And I'm sure there's something not accidental about this situation.”

  I agreed about her instincts. She continued: “How do you explain the pills being missing? Doesn't that indicate foul play?”

  Now who's using legal jargon, I thought--but wisely didn't ask. “Didn't Carstens find his pills in her bag, where they belonged?”

  “But only after they were missing all evening.”

  “Yes, but…” I stopped. Paula’s arguments were sound. But common sense told me that accident had to be more likely than murder--unless it was just my inclination against involvement rearing its head.

  Paula turned into the hotel parking lot and found a good spot.

  “If a man with Myasthenia gravis missed his medication,” I said, “he would probably be weaker than usual. Which would make it more likely for him to fall overboard. And harder for him to swim.”

  “See what I mean?”

  “Yes. But it could all still be accidental.”

  She switched off the ignition and sighed.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Nothing is overwhelming on the Cape except for the beauty of its seashore. The Four Winds Hotel is large by Cape standards, but would be barely noticeable if deposited among its big-city brethren. A painted brick affair, its bland gray color, unremarkable two-story height, and surrounding parking lots all serve to camouflage its existence. But it has all the modern amenities, and is quite comfortable for conferences.

  As Paula and I entered the hotel through its electronically-controlled sliding glass doors, I realized that my protests against investigating what had befallen Jonathan Singer were futile. I’d contested her points, but knew that she was right. I was actually arguing about getting involved, but that wasn’t really a right-or-wrong kind of issue.

  “Paula,” I began, but stopped when I saw two familiar figures at the other end of the long and narrow lobby. My mother sat on a green- and blue-colored couch, hands folded on her lap, still enough to
qualify for a meditation class. My father paced the carpeted floor in front of her, hands clasped tightly behind his back. She seemed thin--although maybe it was just the contrast to his stockiness.

  “Paula!” My father approached and hugged her. Paula hesitated before reciprocating. She prefers a hands-off style of friendliness.

  “Hi, Mom, hi, Dad,” I said. Why did they always seem to treat me as an afterthought when Paula was around? Maybe it was because they blamed me and not her for their absence of grandchildren.

  “Hi, cheri.” My mother stood up and met me halfway. We exchanged kisses in her native French style--one cheek-to-cheek, then the other.

  My father acknowledged me. “So where were you?” He looked at his watch. “We've been waiting for hours for you. We're too old to waste our time.” But not too old to act like environmental radicals, I thought.

  “Don't exaggerate, Moshe,” my mother said. “It hasn't been that long.”

  “We were at the hospital, checking on Jonathan Singer,” I said.

  “Why? What's wrong?” my father asked.

  I picked up my head, which I'd hung out of habit after his initial barb. “Are you sure you don't know?” My parents always seemed to be aware of everything that was going on. On second thought, it was really my mother who saw all and knew all. Children sometimes smush their parents into one amorphous über-parent.

  “What's that supposed to mean?” my father asked.

  “Calm down, Moshe,” my mother said. “And you, too, David.” I like my name, including the Hebrew/French pronunciation my parents use: “Dah-veed.”

  “Sorry, Dad,” I mumbled, knowing not to expect an apology from him for initiating our spat.

  My mother looked back at the couch. I detected pallor. “Let's sit down,” she said, then did so.

  I sat next to her. “Are you all right, Mom?”

  “Yes, yes.” She touched her abdomen. “Just a little stomach virus. I'll be fine.”

  “Drink plenty of fluids. That's the main thing until it passes. Is anyone else sick? Rachel?”

  “Rachel's at our cottage with Griselda,” my father said. “And they're both fine.” He pulled over a plush-covered chair to face us, and sat in it. Paula did the same. “I told her to see a doctor,” he continued.

  “I am seeing a doctor.”

  “No, Mom. This doesn't count-”

  “I know. I'll see a real doctor if I get worse. You know what I mean, cheri. But you never told us what happened to Jonathan Singer.” Typical. My mother was steering the conversation away from herself.

  Paula related what we knew. We had the lobby to ourselves until a middle-aged couple walked past us hand in hand. Paula paused to watch them. She was thinking that they were showing affection in public, so were likely to be unmarried. My guess was a satisfying seafood supper. We turned to each other and smiled.

  “So why is Dr. Singer in the hospital?” my mother asked.

  Paula answered. “He was pushed off his boat, into the water-”

  “We don't know that for sure yet,” I said.

  “-and he's still in a coma,” Paula finished.

  My mother sucked in her breath. “That's so terrible,” she said.

  “I'm very sorry to hear this news,” my father said.

  “Like both of you,” Paula said, “he lost his family in the Holocaust.”

  “We know that.” My mother looked at my father when she spoke. “I’m sure we both understood why he got upset when Bitty Smyth talked about sacrificing for the greater good.”

  My father nodded. “Even so,” he said, “a great man is still a man. He's dead wrong about the wind turbines, which makes him my enemy on this issue. But I bear him no personal animosity.”

  I didn't contradict my father, but I remembered the anger he'd directed at Singer in the scene on the boat. I noticed that my neck and shoulder muscles ached, and that my shirt had stuck to me from dried-up perspiration--all residua of the CPR I'd performed.

  The day's events and the late hour had exacerbated my chronic fatigue. Let’s get to the point, I thought. “So why were you waiting for us?” I asked.

  “Do we need a reason?” my father asked back. “We always like to see you.”

  “And?” My mother voiced my question.

  “And while we're socializing, the topic of the wind turbines might come up.”

  I couldn't restrain myself. “Might come up?”

  “David,” Paula said.

  “Is there anything wrong with that?” my father counter-punched, schoolyard-style.

  “Tell them what you had in mind, Moshe.” The two women exchanged glances, no doubt commiserating about the two men.

  “I'm sorry again, Dad. Please go ahead.” I thought of asking how they got involved with the Green Panthers, but such commitments are the norm for them.

  “Since you ask so nicely I'll tell you. You two are such good friends with Singer, I thought you could work on him. Get him to soften his opposition to the project. Now that he's so...ill, of course, that's not possible...Is it?”

  “No, Dad. It's not. And by the way, what makes you so sure I agree with your position on the wind turbines?”

  “How could any sane person be against what's good for the environment? Or have you taken a job with an oil company while we weren't looking?”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I felt anger rise into my neck, a tell-tale sign that my argument with my father was escalating out of control. How could I extricate myself without capitulating?

  I noticed that my position on the couch was lower than my father's, seated in his chair. I didn't like looking up at him while we were arguing, so I stood up. When they all stared at me I tried sitting on the couch's armrest. But that was too awkward and uncomfortable, so I slid back down into my original place on the couch. The three of them looked at each other and broke out laughing.

  “Always glad to be of service,” I grinned. Loss of dignity was a small price to pay for changing the mood. “Anyway, I won't make up my mind until I hear both sides.”

  I got a brainstorm. “What's your opinion on the wind turbines, Paula?”

  She glared at me, which I interpreted to mean that she would have preferred to stay out of the line of fire. “In spite of what you may have heard,” she said, “I’m not close with Dr. Singer. I have no influence there. But he is a great man, and I admire him greatly. I won't oppose him until I hear him out. I'm sorry if that offends you, Charlotte and Moshe.”

  “No, of course not,” they replied in unison. “We understand.”

  Why couldn't I get away with the same excuse?

  My mother stood up. “I enjoyed seeing you. But it's late, and I'm sure we're all tired. Let's get together tomorrow, under more pleasant circumstances. The Cape is too beautiful to waste on business only.”

  I kissed my parents good-night, and Paula gave them a small hand-wave. They left, but the tension remained.

  “What's the matter with you?” Paula asked me. “How can you talk to your father like that?”

  “I know, I know. We've had arguments like this a million times. He pushes my buttons and I react.”

  “Well, it's time for you to wise up. Break the cycle.”

  “I hate it when he talks to me as if I were still a child.”

  “You have a right to feel that way. But you know, you have the power to stop it.”

  “How?” I asked.

  “It's not my place to tell you. If you think about it you’ll know what it is.”

  Why do women always do that? Paula’s tone softened. “It's late, and I really wanted to talk about us. Where can we sit, in private? But preferably not in our sterile hotel rooms.”

  I looked around the lobby. She shook her head. A cup of coffee or tea would have been great, but I knew that the hotel's café was closed for the night. I felt certain that neither of us was in the mood for another car ride.

  “I know,” Paula said. She took my hand and led me out the front door. The st
arry night was so beautiful I forgot my apprehension for a moment. We walked across the drop-off/pick-up strip to a functioning stone fountain, and sat on a wooden bench facing it. The lights from the stars and parking areas were sufficient for us to see each other, but not enough to appreciate the fountain's structural intricacies. We sat in silence, as if recuperating from an hour-long hike.

  “So will you help me investigate what happened to Jonathan Singer?” Paula asked.

  “What?” Not the question I'd expected.

  “Come on. You're an experienced sleuth, with two cases under your belt. I even got to see the last one close up. Back in Centreville.”

  “Well...” I was going to advise her to rely on the police, but remembered my earlier thoughts regarding the futility of my protests.

  “Which brings me back to us,” Paula said. “You know why I invited you to the Cape. Right?”

  “Well, there's the conference, and...”

  She waited me out.

  “And you wanted us to get back together,” I added.

  “Exactly. I love you, and I wanted to start again.”

  That didn't sound so bad. But I knew a “but” was coming.

  “But now that we're here, I’m not so sure. Love isn't enough.” Yes it is, I thought. She continued: “We love each other. We have a lot in common in our backgrounds. But we're also very different.”

  “Is that so bad?”

  “Take the Singer situation, for example. I want to get involved. Do what's right. Do something. But you're content to sit passively on the sidelines.”

  “I wouldn't say content. It's just that I like to do the rational thing. There's an order here. The police should go first-”

  “I'm not going to argue. This is my point. We're different.”

  This was not going well. “Wait a minute,” I said. “We're different in this area, but we have a lot in common besides our backgrounds. We share our values to an extreme degree. And where we differ, don't you think we can help pull each other toward a reasonable middle ground?”

  “Maybe a reasonable middle ground isn't what I want.”

  Her eyes flashed, and her dark hair shone in the half-light. I tingled all over. There's another reason I want to be with you, I thought. Thunder rumbled in the distance.