The Yiddish Gangster's Daughter (A Becks Ruchinsky Mystery Book 1) by Joan Cochran (popular books of all time .txt) 📗

I groan and drag my arm from across my eyes. I couldn’t have slept more than an hour or two. Esther perches at the edge of my bed holding out a cup of coffee. I shimmy up against my pillows and accept it. She’s already dressed in a soft pink skirt made of tee shirt fabric and a matching top. She smiles but her face is pale. Today’s the big day, I realize with a pang of anxiety. We need to be at the hospital by seven.

Last night before bed, Esther told me the surgeon assured her the lumpectomy would be a brief, outpatient procedure, but that she might be at the hospital all day waiting to come out of anesthesia. Dr. Simon would take lymph nodes from under her arm during the surgery to make sure the cancer hadn’t spread. She’ll have to take it easy for a few weeks to heal from surgery before going on to chemo or radiation therapy. We’ll know more about her options after the pathology reports come back.

I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed and my sister returns downstairs. I’ve showered and am in the closet reaching for jeans when it strikes me that I should dress a little nicer. Despite my insistence I’ll be fine, Daniel is adamant about staying with me while Esther’s in the operating room.

I throw on a comfortable paisley knit dress and dab on foundation and lipstick. I tell myself it’s not for Daniel, that I always make an effort to look good when I visit the hospital. But there’s more to it. I know it’s terribly superficial but half the people on staff at the hospital doubtless know about Daniel’s affair. I don’t want to be pitied as the aggrieved wife of Dr. Ruchinsky. And that means looking attractive and confident.

When Esther and I arrive at the surgical waiting room, a nurse ushers us back to the pre-op holding area. Despite the nurse’s warmth and reassurances, the place unnerves me. It’s a large open space with black linoleum flooring, a speckled, acoustical-tiled ceiling and six curtained bays behind which patients chat with family members. Daniel is at a desk reading charts when we get there. He says he went in early this morning to round on patients and doesn’t have office hours until two. I feel awkward, yet relieved. The constant beeping of heart monitors unnerves me and the oxygen tank and blood pressure machine in Esther’s bay remind me that all surgery is risky. I stand by Daniel’s desk in uncomfortable silence while Esther goes behind the curtain to put on her hospital gown. We’re both a little too eager to join her when she announces she’s changed.

In a few minutes, Dr. Simon stops by to chat with Esther. He’s followed by an anesthesiologist. Esther will be unconscious for the entire procedure and may have some soreness in her arm for a few days after. With each doctor’s visit, the cramping in my stomach worsens. What if the cancer has spread? Will they remove her entire breast? I keep my questions to myself. When the orderly comes for her, I grab Daniel’s arm. His muscles tense beneath my hand, then relax. Once the double doors to the surgical suite swing shut behind her, I let go.

There’s a lot to be said for being married to a doctor. The hours are lousy and you’re always playing second fiddle to your spouse’s patients. But when your husband or wife is a doctor, you can count on him or her to help you and friends and family navigate the daunting universe of medical care. It’s at times like this—when I face a frightening medical situation—that I most appreciate Daniel.

My husband may have cheated on me and caused more pain than I imagined possible. But he’s a good doctor and has never lied to me about a family member’s prognosis. So when he tells me Esther will be fine, I believe him.

Daniel suggests we wait for Esther in the hospital coffee shop. Dr. Simon has promised to call once surgery’s over. Neither of us are hungry so, after the waitress brings coffee, Daniel returns to his paperwork and I read the novel I’ve brought along.

It’s hard to concentrate as I imagine Esther on an operating table, vulnerable and alone. Every now and then, Daniel risks a glance my way which I’m careful to avoid. After a half hour, he taps my hand.

“Becks, shouldn’t we . . .”

I stop him with a shake of my head. “Not now.”

The wait seems endless. I jump each time a pager beeps or a phone rings. It always belongs to another doctor. An hour after we enter the shop, Daniel’s phone rings. I don’t understand most of the medical terms he uses and the call is brief. When he smiles and hangs up, I release my breath.

“It looks good,” he says, rising. “We can see her in ten minutes.”

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28

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The earthy orange scent of turmeric greets me as I step off the elevator to my father’s floor at the Schmuel Bernstein. I haven’t seen Tootsie in over a month and wonder if a new resident, maybe an Arabic Jew, has moved in and is toiling over exotic stews in her kitchen. I picture a tiny woman with raven black hair and wrinkled hands pinching and rolling out dough and sautéing eggplant for mouthwatering bourekas. The cilia in my nose quiver as I pass the door before the old man’s. I slow down and take a deep breath, savoring the musky aroma and willing it to calm my nerves.

I’m still appalled by my father’s story and haven’t come to terms with the claim he and Uncle Moe had no choice but to murder Fat Louie. And although Esther’s lumpectomy went well and the doctors said her lymph nodes were clear, her health has been uppermost on my mind. She is back in