Joshua: A Brooklyn Tale Part 30

Stumbling in the bathroom.

"Esther!" Pounding on the door. "Esther, open the door!"

Nothing.

He pressed his weight against the door and pushed, but not enough. Again, harder, all his strength. The door flew open.

In front of him, on the floor, she lay, half conscious, eyes open but glazed. A retched stench permeated the air. He looked at her face, the corners of her mouth, the floor, the toilet. Vomit all over.

He bent down, helped her to a sitting position, grabbed a towel off the rack, and began to wipe her chin. "Are you sick?"

She struggled to answer. "I think so."

"I'll call a doctor."

"No! Please, no doctor."

"But Esther, you're sick. You need a doctor."

"No doctor, please."

He looked at her, concerned. "Come, you'll lie down." He helped her up and walked her to the bedroom, frightened by how unsteadily she moved.

"I'll be okay," she said. "It's probably a virus."

"Maybe it's something you ate?"

"I don't think so, otherwise you'd have it too."

She was making sense, sounding a little stronger. Good signs, he thought. "You sure you don't want a doctor?"

"Positive."

"You should stay here tonight."

"I can't. I have to go home."

"But how can you possibly get home in this condition?"

"I have to."

"Then I'll take you."

"That's not a good idea."

Stephen knew all about Esther's family, and the fact that she was keeping him a secret until the "right" time. He didn't completely understand; after all, he was Jewish, he had often reminded her. There was much he didn't grasp about Hasidic life.

"If you won't see a doctor, you won't stay here, and you won't let me take you home, then what?" He was losing patience.

"I can go home myself."

"I don't think so."

"I can," she said, struggling off the bed. She stood up and started walking toward the door. Faltering and wobbly. He grabbed her before she fell, and helped her back to the bed.

"Now what?" he asked.

She couldn't answer right away.

"Esther, we have to do something."

She thought about it for a few seconds. Then: "Okay, I have an idea. My friend Rachel, her number is 555-8974. Call her, she'll know what to do; she'll come and take me home."

Rachel was lying in bed when the phone rang. Binny had helped her clean up after dinner, and had just left for the yes.h.i.+va when she decided to steal some well needed rest. It had been over a year since the miscarriage, and two and a half months ago she'd finally gotten pregnant again. She and Binny had reacted soberly and cautiously to the news. He'd begun helping out around the house, enabling her to take it easy.

Rachel answered the phone thinking it was the usual evening call from her mother to check on things. "Everything's fine, Mama," she said as she picked up the receiver.

"Pardon me," an unfamiliar voice said on the other end.

"I'm sorry," Rachel offered, slightly abashed. "Who's calling?" she asked, thinking it was probably for Binny.

"Is this Rachel?"

"Yes, who is this?"

"My name is Stephen Butler."

Rachel recognized the name. "Oh yes, you're Esther's..."

"Yes, I am." Stephen explained why he was calling. He rea.s.sured Rachel that Esther was okay, only that she needed someone to come and get her. A slight contradiction, Rachel noted nervously.

She hung up the phone, called a car service, got dressed, and left a note for Binny in case he came home before her. It said: "Had to go out to get something. Don't worry. Be home soon." She couldn't come up with anything else to write at the moment. She would explain later.

On the way to Manhattan, she thought about what Stephen had said on the phone. Vomiting immediately after dinner, weakness, stumbling, no fever. It didn't take much for her to make the connection. Esther had steadily been losing weight since she'd met Stephen, claiming she'd been dieting, yet Rachel hadn't noticed any changes in her friend's eating habits. On reflection, Esther still ate lots of sweets, junk food, and almost nauseating portions at meals. There had been stories in high school about girls who threw up. It certainly wasn't unheard of, even in their insulated corner of the world. Esther was perfect prey for this sort of thing.

Rachel felt a sudden surge of guilt, accusing herself, once again, of being consumed with her own problems to the point of obliviousness to those she loved.

Stephen Butler answered the door and instantly understood why Esther had never mentioned Rachel before this evening. Even in theatre circles, he'd rarely seen someone so captivating. For a split second, he'd almost forgotten why she was there.

Rachel, of course, wasn't surprised in the least by Stephen's appearance. Esther had described him to a tee, sparing not a luscious detail. "Hi, I'm Rachel," she said.

"I'm Stephen," he responded. He showed her in, without offering to shake her hand. Esther had forewarned him that Hasidic women didn't shake hands with men.

He escorted Rachel into the bedroom. Esther was lying on the bed, though more alert than earlier. "I just don't know what happened," Stephen said.

Esther looked at Rachel, and knew immediately that her friend had figured out her secret. Her expression said, don't you dare say a word! Her voice said, "It's probably a stomach flu or something."

"Probably." Rachel felt Esther's forehead. "I think you might even be a little warm." Good act.

"I feel like I am," Esther confirmed.

"I couldn't tell, I'm hot myself," Stephen added.

"Well, we best get you home. The car service is waiting downstairs," Rachel said.

Esther sat up on the bed, and slowly got to her feet. "I feel a bit better," she said as she started walking. Rachel moved to help, but Esther waved her off.

"Are you sure you don't need me to go with you?" Stephen asked.

"Positive," Esther responded.

"Don't worry," Rachel said to Stephen, "everything's going to be fine."

They left Stephen's building and got into the car. For the first few minutes, neither spoke. The silence was finally broken by Esther. "So I guess you know what's going on."

"I think so."

"No, you know."

"Okay, I know." Rachel tried not to seem annoyed, but couldn't help it.

"It's really not that bad. I'm not going to do it anymore."

"Is it that simple?"

"Yes, it is. It's quite simple, so you can stop worrying."

"Okay," Rachel responded, though she didn't believe it. She had heard too much about bulimia over the years, and had even seen a few cases when she had worked in the hospital. It was an awful addiction, and she knew that Esther wasn't just going to stop, not without help.

Rachel searched for something profound to say, something that would make a difference, but her mind was blank. Confounded, she sat in silence. Esther began to cry. Rachel moved over to put her arm around her friend.

"I feel so sick about it," Esther confessed. "Each time I do it, I feel sicker, then I promise myself not to do it again, but I just keep doing it." More tears. "I don't want to do it anymore, I really don't."

"I know."

"I've tried so hard to stop."

"Do you really think you can?"

"I don't know."

"Maybe we can find you some help?"

"Where?"

"Doctor Schiffman might know."

"I'm not sure if that's what I want. I'm embarra.s.sed about the whole thing."

"I know."

"Maybe I should try by myself. If it doesn't work, I'll call Schiffman."

"Esther, I don't think it's a good idea to go it alone. You're already weak, and who knows what's going on with your body. You really should get checked out right away."

"You mean tonight?"

"I'll settle for tomorrow."

Esther thought for a minute. "Okay, tomorrow."

"Good, I'll come by for you in the morning."

"You're coming?"

"Yes, I am, and I don't want to hear any more about it."

"Okay," Esther said, realizing she had no choice.

They rode the rest of the way quietly, both staring out at the pa.s.sing city streets. The time pa.s.sed slowly. The Manhattan Bridge, Flatbush Avenue, Eastern Parkway. Familiar territory. The cab finally stopped in front of Esther's house.

"I guess I'll see you tomorrow," Esther said as she opened the door.

"Tomorrow it is."

"By the way, I almost forgot, how's the baby?" She reached over and touched Rachel's stomach as she asked.

"Baruch Hashem, Thank G.o.d. So far, so good."

Esther kissed Rachel on the cheek. "Thanks."

Rachel watched as Esther got out of the cab, walked to the house, and went in. She fought back her tears. She would figure out what to tell Binny about where she'd been, but-for the life of her-she had no idea what to do about Esther. Between the bulimia and Stephen Butler, she was at a loss as to where to start.

The next morning Rachel picked Esther up and escorted her to Doctor Schiffman's office in the hospital. Esther had told her mother that she was accompanying Rachel to the obstetrician. Rachel had told Binny that she had gone out the night before because Esther had been alone at home and had gotten sick. As they sat in the waiting room, reflecting on their respective fabrications, it occurred to them that, in some ways, they were still those rebellious little girls in the park.

Doctor Schiffman wore an ominous expression as she examined Esther. She took a cardiogram, drew blood, and used terms like "dehydration" and "electrolyte imbalance." Her first suggestion to Esther was to consult a psychiatrist, though she knew that was unlikely to happen. She also wrote out a specific diet, and recommended supplements to replenish Esther's system. Lastly, she lectured Esther on the dangers of bulimia.

That was it; there wasn't much more the doctor could do. The rest was up to Esther. If Schiffman was trying to scare Esther, it seemed she had achieved some success.

Schiffman turned to Rachel and asked about the pregnancy.

"Thank G.o.d. So far, so good," Rachel answered, choosing the same words she'd used with Esther the night before.

For a long while after the miscarriage, Rachel had been angry with G.o.d. But finally, with this pregnancy, came a renewal of her spirit. She began to pray again, to thank G.o.d for each day that pa.s.sed with her baby still strong, to appeal for more such days, and to erase the trepidations that accompanied every minor ache and discomfort.

Rachel looked at Esther. She wished for her friend to rediscover the very same faith, but knew it wouldn't be. Esther needed liberation-from her home, her family, and her G.o.d. The only thing Rachel could reasonably hope for was that Doctor Schiffman's fear tactic would have some impact. In the end, however, none of it made much of a difference. Rachel suffered yet another miscarriage within two weeks, and Esther was back in the bathroom, purging her guts out in less time than that.

BOOK IV.