The Murderer's Daughters Part 12

"Family takes care of family." Daddy crossed his arms.

Doctor Cohen looked as though he'd just licked a lemon slice. I knew what he was thinking. Daddy knew what he was thinking.

"You think I'm a monster, Doc. Maybe I was." Daddy paused. "Yeah, I guess I was the worst kind of monster. But I was drunk and heartbroken. You think that doesn't excuse me, but I'm paying my dues."

Doctor Cohen leaned in and spoke quietly. "It seems your girls are paying those dues as much as you."

"I guess it looks that way to someone like you, but from where I'm sitting, it looks like they're doing okay. They have you, right? From what Merry writes, your wife is a real doll." My father took off his gla.s.ses. His eyes reminded me of Grandma's. "The girls are getting good marks in school. Lulu is going to college."

"But they don't have parents, do they?" Doctor Cohen said. "Nothing makes up for losing a mother."

I couldn't think of what to do to stop this.

"My girls have me. Their father."

"Hardly," Doctor Cohen said.

"I love my girls." Daddy's eyes narrowed. "And Merry looks out for me. She always will. Right, Merry?"

I held my breath and closed my eyes, wishing I were far away. Then I opened them. "Right, Daddy."

Part 2.

13.

Lulu.

1982.

Anatomy cla.s.s began today. In half an hour, I'd be facing a room of draped cadavers. I couldn't get down more than a cup of coffee for breakfast that morning.

Despite autumn being just weeks away, Boston still looked like summer. This city seemed positively bucolic. Even the crummiest neighborhoods had breathing s.p.a.ce compared to New York City.

I walked down Commonwealth Avenue, reveling in the wide sidewalks and the gra.s.sy mall parting the road like a green river. In a few months, magical white Christmas lights strung up for blocks and blocks would decorate the trees. Even when Comm Ave-as the locals called the street-became ordinary, turning from Back Bay brownstones to student-ridden Kenmore Square lined with dorms, cheap delis, and Burger Kings, I loved it, because no matter what, I wasn't in New York City.

This was my first year at Cabot Medical School, the only place I'd applied. Cabot was in Boston, my birthplace of freedom, where I'd gone to college. In Boston, I'd started over. In Boston, no one knew me. In Boston, I'd killed Murder Girl.

During college, no one thought of me as anyone but the quiet girl who spent all her time studying. As far as everyone but my roommate could tell, I lived in the library, and for as much as I talked to her, I might as well have slept in a library carrel. By my second year, I'd rented an apartment so small and unwanted that between a dribble of Cohen money and what I earned working part-time in the State Medical Lab, I could afford it.

The only way I'd felt safe in college was by keeping my own counsel. Only solitude gave me peace. Loneliness had seemed a small price for four years of relaxed obscurity after my life at Duffy and at the Cohens'. I supposed it would be a long time before the enforced mean togetherness I'd endured at Duffy and the impenetrable guard I'd worn at the Cohens' wore off. The cover story I'd invented during high school had come at the price of constant vigilance.

Sometimes I remembered my brief flush of excitement at thinking I could become part of the Sachs family, when I'd dreamed myself into becoming Hillary's adopted sister. I'd wonder if they'd felt my hunger for their lives and if it had scared them away. Maybe that's why Hillary had disappeared after she'd brought me to her house. I imagined her mother and father warning her away from me. Find another place to volunteer, dear, they'd said in my scenario. That girl is too needy. My humiliating visit with the Sachses taught me to give nothing away.

Now, when I joined the line of young men and women walking up the steps of Cabot, I didn't recognize anyone, not one person to whom I could say h.e.l.lo or give a friendly nod. Since beginning my medical school studies, just as in college, and high school, I'd concentrated on books and made no real friends; today I wished I'd been friendlier. You wanted someone to have your back when you met a roomful of dead people.

Inside, I ran down the flight of steps to the bas.e.m.e.nt and entered the anatomy lab. Formaldehyde, fresh paint, and the smell of fear surrounded me. Everyone stood frozen, waiting for our professor to speak.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'm Doctor Eli Haslett. Welcome to death." His gentle smile showed he wasn't out to hurt us, but his words made me shiver. His white coat was stiff and clean. His clear, pink complexion belied his graying hair. He had the face of a guilt-free man, a man with no reason to fear the dead.

"Please approach your tables," he said. "Take note that the table number correlates to your group number."

Doctor Haslett's fatherly voice seemed designed to help scared students slice a corpse. He nodded with approval as we made our way down the line of blue-sheeted bodies lying on surgically clean metal tables.

Most of us clutched yellow papers, our introductory instructions from Doctor Haslett to Gross Anatomy, Section 1. Mine read: "Group Five: Ronald Young, Henry Yee, Marta Zayas, and Louise Zachariah."

"Personal Suggestions" were underneath. Doctor Haslett's wisdom included what to wear: clothes suitable for trashing later; and the best way to remove the stink of formaldehyde: lemon Joy dishwashing soap. He gave hints for emotions and feelings: Nauseated? Use Vicks. Feeling faint? Put your head between your knees. Horrified? Time heals. For emotional or spiritual crises, he suggested we speak to our clergy, our friends, our family, all of which left me swinging in the breeze.

When I reached table five, my shoulders stiffened.

A sheet hinted at the faint outline of a human body. My donor seemed tiny. Good G.o.d, they didn't give out children, did they? Henry Yee-we all had small name tags pinned to our short white coats-claimed the place by the cadaver's right shoulder. Did the body offer better and worse places to stand? I took our donor's left shoulder, sure that Henry, Chinese, wearing a crisp blue shirt and standing at attention, knew something I didn't.

Marta Zayas and Ronald Young joined us. Ronald put out his hand. "Ron."

"Lulu," I said without thinking.

"Family nickname?" Ron asked. LOUISE was printed on my badge.

I shook my head and claimed Lulu as one of those affected m.u.f.fy, Kiki, Puffy prep names. "School name."

Ron nodded knowingly and exchanged a quick glance with Marta, bonding, black man and Latina woman against the ent.i.tled European woman. Table five was the United Nations of anatomy cla.s.s, and I was going to represent privilege. Marta gave me a warm smile, and I let a tiny chip of ice drop off my shoulder.

I shivered. The room was chilly and windowless. Pungent particles of formaldehyde seeped into my skin, lined my nostrils. I briefly brought my arm up to my nose, sniffing the Vicks VapoRub I'd dotted on my wrist like perfume that morning.

Ron, Marta, Henry, and I looked at each other.

After you, after you.

Steeling myself, I reached out and took hold of the edge of the cold sheet. Slowly, I uncovered the facedown body. I reminded myself to breathe. Thin white gauze wrapped our cadaver's head. My knuckles brushed against cold skin that reminded me of a plastic doll. The b.u.mps of her spine-I could see now the body was female-were visible as strung pearls.

How had this woman died? Had she died alone? Like Mama? I bit my tongue to chase away the stab of pain in my gut. My mother's blood had been Crayola red. No blood ran from this body. I pushed away memories of Mama, refusing to think she might have lived if I'd run faster, gotten Teenie quicker. I refused to think of her as ashy bones.

"Take turns marching your fingers up the spine," Dr. Haslett told us. "Don't forget to include your thumbs."

Henry threw his arm on the body, blocking me. His turn. I'd already drawn down the drape. He walked his thumb up and down the spine three times.

"Hey, Henry, give a brother a chance," Ron finally said.

Henry drew back, and Ron's long, articulated fingers replaced Henry's chunky ones. Ron had surgeon hands. I looked down at mine. A washerwoman's fingers. Short, blunt nails. Broad hands, like Grandma Zelda's.

Marta's nails were sh.e.l.l pink. She had a nun's hands, a saint's fingers. Marta gently ran her fingers up and down our woman's spine, feeling each vertebra. Marta's hands were those I'd want touching me if I were dead.

My mother had had delicate hands. Her rings would be too small for me.

Had Aunt Cilla taken Mama's sliver of diamond engagement ring? Her thick, gold wedding band, the amethyst Mimi Rubee gave Mama on Mama's sixteenth birthday-did Aunt Cilla have everything?

"Lulu?" Marta said. "Your turn again."

My hand shook as I touched the dead skin. I flexed my fingers. If I'd been quicker, smarter, if I'd never opened the door, Mama would be alive. I knew that much was true.

"You okay?" Henry asked.

"Fine." I put my hand flat on her back. Had she been religious? Jewish? Christian? Buddhist? Fast, so no one could notice, I traced a tiny cross on her back, then a Star of David, wishing I knew more symbols.

Four months later, Anne Cohen died.

I was on my way to sit shivah, having missed the funeral. Observant Jews bury their dead fast, and then mourn them for seven days. Doctor Cohen insisted on following the letter of Jewish law and buried Anne the day after she died, giving me permission not to attend. He said he didn't want me to miss any cla.s.ses. That was the day we were to be dissecting human hearts. Doctor Cohen said he knew how important the heart was.

Anne had died early Monday morning. Today was Sunday, the last day the family would sit shivah. I'd get to New York City in time to catch the final hours of official mourning, and then tomorrow I'd take the bus back to Boston.

The Greyhound bus sped down the highway. December slush covered the gra.s.s at the side of the road. I'd dreaded this ride, but resigned myself to it. Bus rides I didn't need, but sleep I could use, desperately.

Hours of brain-numbing cla.s.ses followed by hours of studying, day after day, month after month, had left me exhausted. Weekends were spent in the library with my study group. Henry, Ron, Marta, and I were now close as family, if one considered family synonymous with close.

Awake despite my profound fatigue, I numbly watched the pa.s.sing view. We rode along a stretch of Connecticut road bordering the ocean, and I pictured myself drifting off to someplace new and free.

Mrs. Cohen had died just after Merry's seventeenth birthday. I'd meant to go home for the celebration dinner. The Cohens had been planning to take Merry and me to Windows on the World, where Merry had always wanted to go. Apparently, our father had described it from some magazine he read. Gourmet? New York? What magazines did they carry in a prison library?

Merry wanted to watch the world light up just as our father had described. Doctor Cohen planned for us to eat at sunset, but I ended up having too much schoolwork and didn't go. Three days after Merry's birthday dinner, a stroke killed Anne.

I closed my eyes, trying to drag sleep to me. I wanted to be sadder. Mrs. Cohen had been good to us. She'd tried to mother me, but each time she hugged me, I became anesthetized. Hugging her back took all my willpower.

I remember Merry asking why I hated Mrs. Cohen. They think G.o.d patted them on the head the day they took us in, I'd said. I'd told her how phony Mrs. Cohen was, a real Lady Bountiful all puffed up with n.o.blesse oblige. It was as though I resented Mrs. Cohen for helping us after I'd spent so much time plotting to get her help. Jesus, I'd practically pimped out poor Merry to be cute enough to engender Mrs. Cohen's care.

Once I got us there, and Merry was taken care of, I think I took a breath for the first time since Daddy killed Mama. I off-loaded Merry to Anne. I off-loaded our father by making us orphans. And when Anne tried to be my mother, I off-loaded her.

Maybe Anne's incredibly patient niceness brought out my meanness toward her. Maybe she made me feel safe enough to act angry, but how horrible that I chose to lash out at her. I counted headlights to calm down. I scratched out a silent apology to Anne.

Maybe I owed myself an apology also. Anne had been my last and only chance to be mothered, and I'd thrown it away.

Doctor Cohen, Saul, Amy, and Eleanor sat on wooden boxes sunk into the deep Cohen carpet. Vague memories surfaced from Mama's unveiling.

Doctor Cohen rose and took my hands. "Lulu. Thank you for coming."

"I'm so sorry I wasn't here for the funeral."

He dismissed my concern with a wave. "This place was filled until yesterday. Be happy you're here when it's peaceful, just family."

I looked around for Merry.

"Your sister's in her room watching the children," he said as if he'd read my mind. "She's been a G.o.dsend."

I nodded, kissed him perfunctorily on the cheek. Saul-the-surgeon-son rose from his seat and hugged me. Had we ever touched before? "I'm sorry about your mother. She was a good woman," I said.

"She was an angel." Eleanor struggled to her feet. The Cohens' daughter looked to be in the fourth or fifth month of another pregnancy. "Who'd know that as well as you and your sister?" She shook her head. "An angel."

Saul's wife Amy's tears wet my cheek as she put her face to mine. "We missed you at the funeral."

"Lulu couldn't leave school." Eleanor's tone left no doubt that I'd shown my true colors.

The apartment seemed devoid of oxygen, a vacuumlike warren of rooms overstuffed with expensive furniture. The same couches and chairs from when we'd moved in. I'd been shocked when my childish plan to get Mrs. Cohen to take us had worked. Of course, I was grateful. I'd have been insane not to want to escape the misery of the Duffy-Parkman Home for Girls. Another wave of shame, even stronger than on the bus, overcame me. I wished my grat.i.tude had morphed into the love for which Anne Cohen had seemed so hungry. I wished I'd told her how much I loved the room she'd set up for me. I wished I'd shaken the feeling of being Project Lulu-an ident.i.ty I hated as much as that of the murderer's daughter.

Merry and I had little privacy until we took a walk the next morning. People raced down Broadway with copies of the Sunday New York Times tucked under their arms, rushing to get home before the arctic air froze the fresh, warm bagels they carried like edible treasures.

"You left me alone. It was horrible being at the funeral without you," Merry said.

"Doctor Cohen said it was important I stay for cla.s.ses." I turned my head, daring Merry to challenge me. She stared back, her purple-and-black-lined eyes saying bulls.h.i.t. She shook her hair off her face. Merry looked shockingly different from the last time I'd been home, back in August. Silky, dark waves had been replaced by blond-streaked, ironed-straight hair. A shredded satin blouse fell off her shoulder. She looked like she'd stolen the outfit from the GoGo's last concert. Had Mrs. Cohen let Merry out of the house like this on a regular basis? Was s.l.u.tty now the look for high school seniors?

"Right," Merry said. "You couldn't leave school for your foster mother's funeral."

"You don't know what medical school is like, Merry."

"You don't know what it's like for me here." She grabbed my arm. "What am I going to do? What will I do this summer? What about college? Where will I go on breaks?"

"Calm down, Mer. Do you think he's going to throw you out? Not pay for your college?"

"Do you think I can live alone with him? G.o.d, how creepy can you get?"

Despite her ratty hair, Merry looked like a kid. Tears clung to her lashes, and mascara dirtied her pink cheeks.

"Why? What's wrong?" I asked.

"Can you imagine being in that house without Anne? He never wanted us in the first place, you know that."

"It'll only be a few months. After that, I'll come back for the summer. You'll have me with you, I promise." Even as I spoke, the world darkened.

"You need to come home every weekend," Merry said. "Otherwise, I swear, I'll go crazy. I could barely stand one week alone with him. At night, when people left after sitting shivah, it was like living in a monastery with vows of silence. I'll run away. I'll find someone to live with. I met some guys from Columbia and NYU at a party last month."

"Hold it right there." I held up a hand. I hurried ahead and walked into a coffee shop, Merry following. I fell hard on a stool at the counter. I grabbed Merry's arm and pulled her down next to me.

"Stop pushing me around," she said. Hail hit the coffee shop windows with icy pops.

"You're not moving in with anyone." I held her arm. "Are you seeing someone?"

"I see lots of guys."

"You know what I mean. Are you sleeping with anyone?"

Merry picked up a sugar packet from the metal rectangle holding a neat pile. The counterman came over and wiped the area next to Merry's elbow with a dirty rag. "Hey, you girls ordering anything or just using this for your coffee klatch?" he asked. "This isn't a living room."

"Two coffees." The place reminded me of Harry's back in Brooklyn. Two malteds, I wanted to say, one vanilla, one chocolate.