"Oh shit, Mom! What happened to you? I thought it was Daddy!" He pretty much freaked out when he saw her.
"It is Daddy. She's going to be fine," Marsha told him superciliously, right away setting the tone for an unpleasant confrontation between them. "Where have you been?" she demanded.
"She doesn't look fine." Teddy was not as tall as his father and was much thinner. He had never grown into his nose. He didn't work out. His shirt and pants didn't go together. Two plaids. He had a golf hat on his head, but still he was a handsome boy. Very handsome, Cassie thought. And very good at numbers.
"Hi, Teddy," she said.
He paced back and forth in front of her as if she were an inanimate object. "She looks like shit," he announced. "Mom?" He raised his voice as if she'd gone deaf.
"She's fine!" Marsha insisted.
"She doesn't look fine, Marsha. What's that thing on her head? What's going on?"
"Shut up, you idiot, I told you she's fine!"
"What do you know about it?" Teddy stared angrily at his sister.
"I'm fine," Cassie said weakly. "Don't fight."
"I demand to know what's going on. What's wrong with her? She looks like an Arab," Teddy spoke to his sister.
"Mom was in a car accident," Marsha said quickly.
"No shit!" Teddy moved in for a closer look. "In Dad's Mercedes?" His voice was hushed.
"No."
"In the Volvo?"
"Yes, the Volvo."
"How is it? Is it totaled?"
Marsha rolled her eyes. She didn't, after all, think very much of her brother.
CHAPTER 5
THE KIDS WERE STILL BICKERING twenty minutes later when three doctors hustled imp ortantly into the lounge. The family internist was the one in charge. Dr. Cohen had taken care of both Cassie and Mitch for twenty years. They'd had dinners together many times. His cellar was stocked with their very good wines, nothing less than $140 to $200 a bottle. He had about a thousand-bottle cellar and could afford it. He was a short, wide, completely bald man with a round, usually smiling face like the happy stickers the kids used to get on their papers when they were small. He wasn't smiling now.
"Cassie!" Unprepared for the black eyes and bruised jawline, he stopped short. Truly shocked, he turned to Marsha for an explanation.
Marsha, however, missed his distress. She had caught sight of something she liked and had put three fingers to her forehead as if to keep her head on during a religious experience. The object of her attention was a thin, stern-looking, white-coated young man, about five feet nine, totally unremarkable, and a complete opposite of the long-haired, tattooed biker-types that usually caused her seizures.
"Uhhh, hhhhh." A third doctor, whose tag readNESSIM SALIM, coughed delicately. This one looked as exotic as his name sounded.
"Ah, Dr. Salim is a neurosurgeon. This is Mrs. Sales, Marsha, Teddy," Dr. Cohen introduced them, bowing slightly. He straightened up and smoothed his bald head as if he still missed his hair. "Cassie, what happened…?" The question hung in the air.
"It's nothing at all." Cassie waved her hand at him impatiently.
"Ah. Unfortunate timing, then," he murmured with full understanding. "This is Dr. Wellfleet. He's our best young neurologist."
Dr. Wellfleet nodded solemnly. He must have thought so, too.
A fourth man, this one dressed in a black suit, hurried officiously in, his jacket flapping in his haste. "Sorry to keep you waiting, Mrs. Sales, I'm so sorry." He put his hand on Cassie's arm to comfort her and pulled her scarf off. Now everyone saw the black stitches around her ears and the change of hair color her surgeon had suggested to distract people from the changes in her face. Her hair was no longer the light silvery brown of the last decade. It was now a shocking daffodil yellow.
"Mom!" Teddy screamed.
Marsha gasped and dove for the scarf as it slipped to the floor.
"Uh uh uh." The man coughed to cover his dismay.
"Um, um. This is Reverend Ballister. He's the chaplain here at the hospital. We thought it would be a good idea to have him here with us." Dr. Cohen only choked a little on the awkwardness and the public revelation: Old Cassie had done some restoration work and dyed her hair an awful color.
"Mrs. Sales. I'm so sorry," the reverend intoned again.
Marsha rearranged the sparkling evening scarf over Cassie's head and blue blazer as if she were a mannequin in a store window, while Cassie wished she'd gone over the banister and broken her neck.
"My husband is not a believer," she said to the minister with as much dignity as she could muster. Never mind that the appalling man had humiliated her. Never mind her ridiculous blond hair and black eyes. This was something Mitch would not tolerate. This God thing she had to nip in the bud.
"Perhaps you'd prefer a priest or a rabbi." This from Dr. Salim. "We have both nearby, practically on the premises," he said, eager to please.
"My husband is not a believer in any God," Cassie replied firmly. "He's not a religious man. He's against organized religion of any kind. He specifically doesn't want special prayers…" Her voice failed her. Her hands flew to her face. It occurred to her that Mitch really was dead, and that that was the reason they had all come together. The last family members brought to this room had lost their little girl. Mitch was gone. She stared at the four of them, her hands fluttering helplessly. She'd been waiting for him all these years, and now he'd left her for good. The future flashed dangerously in front of her. What would she and the children do? Teddy couldn't run a sophisticated business. He might be able to add, but he could barely dress himself. Marsha didn't care about money. She was in the helping profession. And Cassie herself didn't know a thing about the finances. Mitch had taught her how to stock a cellar and what to serve with what, but yelled at her if she sampled the merchandise or wrote a check.
"It doesn't matter if your husband is not a religious man. I'm here for you, for the family, to help you through this," the chaplain went on as if he hadn't heard her.
Luckily, Cassie didn't have a gun handy. She would have shot him on the spot.
"Is Daddy dead?" Teddy, still in shock over the yellow hair and stitches, was the one to blurt out the question.
Marsha elbowed him. "Shut up, Teddy."
"What's wrong with that? He's being audited. I need to know." Teddy was offended.
"Shut up, you idiot. Don't you have any sensitivity at all?"
"Fuck you, I'm not an idiot." Teddy balled up his fists for a fight.