Joshua: A Brooklyn Tale Part 49

"Yes," Chava said hesitantly, "I will."

Rachel walked behind the counter and Chava continued perusing the dresses. The silence was cold, broken only by the screeching of hangers against the metal racks, as Chava moved the dresses, and by the turning of pages as Rachel thumbed through the inventory book. Rachel looked at the clock. About five minutes until the others were to return from lunch-an eternity.

"You're Rachel Weissman, aren't you?" Chava said from across the store.

"Yes, I am. How did you know?"

"Oh, I've seen you around," Chava answered, her eyes on the dresses. "Your father, may his soul rest in peace, was a pious man. It's hard having a father like that and not having people know who you are."

"I guess so," Rachel responded, observing Chava, as if challenging her to reveal the purpose of her visit.

"Do you know who I am?"

"I think I do. Your husband is Pinchas Sims?"

"Yes. I'm Chava." Hesitation. "You know Pinchas?"

"I remember him from years ago. He used to come to our home for Shabbos."

Chava contemplated what to say next. Nothing was coming to her. "Well, I don't think I've found anything here."

"I'm sorry. We're getting in a s.h.i.+pment of summer dresses in about a week. Why don't you check back then?"

"I suppose I might." Chava moved toward the door. "It was nice meeting you."

"Yes, same here."

"I'll send Pinchas your regards."

"Please do."

The door closed behind Chava. Rachel shuddered, and couldn't recall the last time she'd been so unnerved. She was completely puzzled, wondering what it was that Chava could possibly have wanted. The sound of the bell distracted her; Mrs. Rosenberg was back. It was time for her lunch break, only she wasn't very hungry.

Chava Sims walked up the block, feeling like she had made a fool of herself, and regretting having ever set foot in the store. She hadn't found Rachel distasteful in any way; on the contrary, she'd found her rather pleasant in both appearance and manner, the kind of woman for whom most men would probably do anything. Chava didn't see herself as that kind of woman; it was hard for her to feel anything positive about herself during times such as these.

The day pa.s.sed quickly, something Rachel usually resented. Since her illness, she coveted every minute, but this day had been one she would just as soon forget. She was still shaken by its events. She would be okay, she knew, especially since tonight was one of those nights for escaping and forgetting the world. It was what she had come to call a "Joshua-night."

She tidied up the store, tallied the cash register, and was on her way out, when she felt a sharp pain in her back. Her legs weakened and she needed to find a seat. Mrs. Rosenberg noticed and came to her a.s.sistance.

"Are you okay, dear?" Mrs. Rosenberg asked.

"I think so. It's just my back; a spasm, I suppose. I've been taking medication, but it doesn't seem to be working so well right now."

Mrs. Rosenberg could see that Rachel was still uncomfortable in the chair. "Come, let me help you to the back room, you can lie down on the couch there."

Rachel got up slowly and, with the woman's a.s.sistance, managed to make it to the couch.

"I think I'll call your mother," Mrs. Rosenberg said.

"No!" Rachel said. "I don't want to worry her. It's only a backache; it will pa.s.s."

"My dear, you can't even walk. How are we going to get you home?"

Rachel thought for a moment. She couldn't ask Mrs. Rosenberg to call Joshua. "Call me a cab. The driver will help me home."

Paul Sims observed the sights of black children playing on the sidewalks, as he drove down Eastern Parkway, recalling his own childhood in Hewlett Harbor, when summer was a time for camp or the beach club. What he now saw-the stark reality of life in these parts-saddened him. Camps and beach clubs didn't exist for these kids, only the street.

His mind turned to the task at hand. He and Yossie had recently been invited to join the Rebbe's motorcade, a weekly entourage to the graves of the Rebbe's wife and father-in-law in the Old Montefiore cemetery in Springfield Gardens, Queens. It was a great honor to escort the Rebbe, a reward for their dedicated service in the citizens' patrol.

It was a modest motorcade, usually three or four vehicles led by a police car. Not quite the retinue for a head of state, but the Rebbe didn't require grand displays of his importance, for in the eyes of his followers he was more than a mortal leader. To them, he was the messiah, the savior of humankind. And Paul, for one, was absolutely certain of this. The Rebbe would bring peace to the world, and elevate the Jewish people to their rightful position of prominence. It would happen soon, any day.

Once in the taxi, Rachel instructed the driver to take her to Joshua's office. "But Ma'am," the driver said, "the lady gave me this address." He showed her the paper in his hand.

"I just need to make one quick stop on the way," she said. It was difficult for her to talk. She thought about taking another pill, but she had taken the prescribed dose about an hour earlier.

The ride went quickly. The cab pulled up in front of Joshua's office. Rachel tried to get out on her own, but couldn't. The driver came around to help her.

Joshua was in his office and heard the bell as the front door opened. He looked at his watch. Knowing it was Rachel, he quickly straightened his tie. He came out to greet her and was shocked when he saw the driver holding her up.

"Rachel," he exclaimed as he rushed to her side.

The two men sat her in a chair. The pain was so excruciating, she was finding it hard to breath.

"I think we should go to the hospital," Joshua said reluctantly.

"No. Please, no hospitals. It's just a back spasm."

"But you can't walk! You can't even sit!"

"Maybe I just need to take another pill."

She took her pills out from her bag, and Joshua got her some water. The driver stood by, waiting for instructions.

"We're going to take you home," Joshua said.

She didn't argue.

"Have you been having any other symptoms?" Schiffman asked. "Any numbing, tingling, or weakness in your arms or hands? Pain any other place?"

Rachel shook her head.

"How about your vision? Headaches? Memory loss? Bowel problems? Stomach problems?"

Rachel thought for a second. "Not really," she said tentatively.

Schiffman looked at her. "What do you mean?"

"Well, yesterday morning I forgot where I had put the inventory book at work. But people always forget things like that."

"Do you always forget things like that?" the doctor asked, already knowing the answer.

"No." Rachel moved uncomfortably in her chair.

Schiffman ordered a bone scan and a CAT scan of the entire body, as well as mammography of the remaining breast. Both scans revealed the presence of metastases to the brain and spine, and the mammogram revealed metastases to the right breast, which had been undetected on routine examination. Rachel was hospitalized that same day, and started on an immediate and aggressive course of chemotherapy. Joshua and Hannah spent the night at her bedside. Schiffman described the prognosis as "guarded."

The "medicine" made Rachel sicker than the disease. She was in and out of the hospital for the next three months; a week of treatment, three weeks home recuperating, then back to the hospital for another dose. A grueling cycle of unrelenting torture.

By mid-August, she had endured four treatments. She was tired, close to giving up, yet something kept her going. Perhaps it was her faith, the very same faith that had sustained her through all else. Or maybe it was her stubbornness.

Joshua stood aside as Hannah helped Rachel get dressed to go home. Schiffman came through the door, a dreary expression on her face. Rachel noticed, and asked, "What? What is it?"

Schiffman looked at Hannah, then at Joshua. To Rachel: "Your tests are back. The news isn't great."

Silence.

Schiffman continued, "It seems the cancer is still growing. Last month the results were inconclusive, but the recent scans and blood work are fairly clear."

Hannah sat down on the bed. Joshua felt a surge of dread in his stomach. Only Rachel remained calm.

"What does that mean?" Rachel asked.

Schiffman: "We're not sure. All we know at this point is that the chemo isn't stopping the cancer completely. What we don't know is whether it's slowing the growth, or if it's totally ineffective."

Rachel: "How do we find out?"

Schiffman: "We continue with a few more treatments, and hope for the best."

"That doesn't sound too promising," Hannah interjected.

"It's the best we can do," Schiffman answered.

Joshua looked at Rachel, knowing she wasn't finished with her questions. "What if it doesn't work?" Rachel asked, almost impa.s.sively.

Schiffman: "Why don't we worry about that later..."

"No! I want to know now," Rachel reacted.

"Rachel," Schiffman said softly, "we don't have anything else to offer you."

"So I'm going to die."

"I didn't say that."

"But I am, aren't I?"

Joshua was wordless, paralyzed.

"Stop it!" Hannah yelled.

"No Mama, I can't stop it. I'm going to die, and I know it!"

Schiffman: "With a few more treatments..."

"What?" Rachel interrupted. "What, with a few more treatments? I'll get even sicker than I am now from that poison you're giving me, if that's even possible, and then what? I'm going to die anyway!"

Joshua reached out for Rachel, but she threw her arms up to stop him. "Don't!" she ordered. "Please, I don't want to be touched."

Hannah began crying hysterically.

"Rachel," Joshua said, "Let's go home now. We can talk about this later."

"Talk about what, Joshua? I'm going to die, that's it, isn't it?" She looked at Schiffman, who didn't respond.

"Isn't it?" she repeated.

"We need to try a few more treatments," Schiffman a.s.serted.

"No! No more treatments! I've had enough of your poison, enough nausea, enough aches all over my body. Look at me! I'm almost dead now, why not just get it over with."

"Please stop!" Hannah shouted. "Just stop!"

Rachel's outburst suddenly abated. She walked back to her bed and fell into a sitting position. "I'm tired now," she said. "I want to go home."

Schiffman simply looked at Rachel, tears welling in her eyes, then turned away and left the room without a word.

"I want to go home," Rachel repeated.

CHAPTER 63.

Paul Sims marveled at the voice of Hasidic music's great superstar, Mordechai Ben David, and sang along while he followed the Rebbe's motorcade. The stereo in the new Lincoln made the music seem live. Paul was proud of the car. His father had always driven Lincolns, and now he had one. He drove at a good speed, keeping pace with the entourage, lost in the melodies, and in his elation from being among the chosen.

Yossie, as usual, fixated on his book. He was exhausted and anxious to get home to his family. They had spent the entire afternoon at the cemetery, frying under the torrid August sun, while the Rebbe prayed for his beloved wife and father-in-law. For Yossie, being among the chosen was more a burden than anything else.

It was about eight-twenty in the evening. They were the fourth and last car in the motorcade, immediately behind a 1984 Mercury Grand Marquis station wagon carrying some of the Rebbe's secretaries and other dignitaries. The station wagon followed directly behind the Rebbe's car, which in turn was led by a police car from the 71st precinct.

Paul followed the cars in front of him, turning from Eastern Parkway onto Rochester Avenue, and then right onto President Street, continuing west at a speed set by the police car. They were just a few blocks from home.

Suddenly, as they approached the intersection at President Street and Utica Avenue, Paul and Yossie watched as a 1981 Chevrolet Malibu, traveling north, somehow entered the intersection and crashed with the station wagon in front of them. "Oh G.o.d!" Paul exclaimed, jamming on the brakes. Luckily, the Lincoln stopped without incident. Things were not so fortunate for the station wagon.

They sat helpless, horrified at the sight of the station wagon veering out of control as it spun onto the northwest sidewalk and struck what appeared to be two black children. Neither was certain of what they had seen; it had all happened in a flash. The Malibu also spun around, but came to rest on the street, without hitting any pedestrians.

"Let's go," Yossie screamed, as he sprang from the car. But Paul was paralyzed, afraid to move. "Come on, let's go," Yossie yelled, pointing to the crowd forming around the station wagon. "We have to help."