We Never Told Read online

  “But she could die! She could die!”

  The switchboard buzzed. Kyle put a phone plug in the hole where the light was blinking and said, “Yes, Mr. Tepper. How can I help you?”

  I ran to the elevator, pushed the up button, pushed it again and again. It came at last. Joan was kneeling next to Ruby patting Ruby’s lips with a washcloth because more liquid was coming out. I yanked up the phone receiver, dialed the operator, said, “Get me the police,” a line I’d heard in a movie.

  “Is this an emergency?”

  “Yes. Please get the police. Or tell me their telephone number. Oh, wait. It’s here on the cover of the yellow pages. Wait. Here it is.” I was so relieved to see the number that I almost burst into tears, but I steeled myself and dialed the Scarsdale Police Department. In a rush of words, I told the man my name, address, and that Ruby had collapsed.

  “How old are you, Miss Adler?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Put your mother on the phone.”

  “She’s not here.”

  “When will Mother be home?”

  “She’s not coming home. Please come. Please come. We don’t know what to do.”

  “Can you put your father on the phone, Sonya?”

  “No. He’s not here.”

  “When will Father be home?”

  “He doesn’t live here. Please come. Please come now.”

  “Here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to send a patrol car. Now I want you to calm down, and I want you to call whoever is in charge of you. Aunt, uncle, cousin. There must be someone. Will you do that?”

  “Okay, okay.” I hung up.

  Joan was picking up the pieces of broken plates. “I’m calling Daddy.”

  “Daddy? No!”

  “We have to. Ruby could die.”

  “You can’t call Daddy.”

  “But we have to. Look at her.”

  “You can’t, Joan. You can’t call Daddy. What would you tell him? What would you say about Mommy?”

  “I don’t know but I’m doing it.” She picked up the phone and dialed his number.

  “Don’t do that, Joan! Don’t you understand? They’ll say she’s unfit. They’ll say she abandoned us. They’ll make us go live with him.”

  “Sonya, shut up. Ruby could die. So just shut up.” Seymour’s phone rang and rang in his empty house. We hurried to our rooms and got out of our pajamas so we’d be ready when help arrived. Joan peeled the patches off her face. Sitting on chairs in the kitchen next to Ruby, we waited without talking and at last there was serious banging on the front door. Two large men wearing white shirts with badges on the sleeve stood next to a rolling stretcher in the hall. “In here, in here,” I said and they pushed past me into the kitchen where one of them bent way down to listen to Ruby’s heart with his ear. “She’s got a pulse,” he said. They maneuvered the gurney into the kitchen where they lifted Ruby up, straightened her uniform so she’d be decent and put a white sheet over her body. At the elevator one of the men said, “Who’s in charge here?”

  “What’s the matter with her?” Joan said. “What’s the matter with her?”

  “How long has she been like this?”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know,” Joan said.

  The other man said, “Who’s in charge here?”

  “Ruby,” Joan said.

  “Who’s Ruby?”

  “Her,” Joan said.

  “Do you know her last name?” the medic said.

  “Myers.”

  “She lives here?”

  “Not all the time.” The elevator arrived, the men maneuvered the gurney in and we squeezed ourselves around it. “What’s the matter with her?” Joan said.

  One of the medics said, “Is your mother alive?” We didn’t reply. “Where is she?”

  Joan’s chin started to tremble. I said to the medics, “She’s out of town right now.”

  “She didn’t leave a number?” When neither Joan nor I answered, the medic whispered to the other man, “What the hell’s going on here?”

  The ambulance was idling in front of the building, a red light on top whirring round and round with no sound. This was us. We were now people who had called an ambulance. The medics opened the back of the van and pushed the gurney up inside. As one of them got out of the back and went around to sit behind the wheel, the other one stuck a needle in Ruby’s arm and hung a plastic bag of liquid next to her. Then he tapped on the interior window and the ambulance headed off with its siren screaming. The medic next to Ruby spoke into a pager and the reply was words coated in static. I had never been in an ambulance before.

  At White Plains Hospital, Ruby was wheeled away in one direction and we were told to go in another direction to a waiting room where there were rows and rows of chairs. Injured people were rushed through the Emergency Room doors on stretchers, some of them bloody, some of them moaning. The metallic sound of female voices paging doctors came from loud speakers. Sitting across from Joan and me was a family, three adults and a boy about eleven. A man holding paper cups of coffee came into the waiting room, brought the cups to the adults, then sat down with them to wait. They were dazed. We waited and they waited. We were in the same boat, but I felt no connection to them. Nor to any of the other people in the waiting room, an elderly man with a patch over one eye, a woman with her head back sleeping.

  We sat and sat, our posture slowly wilting. “Suppose she dies?” Joan said.

  “Do you think we should call Frau Waldman?” I said.

  “Probably.”

  “Are they supposed to take us home? What time is it?”

  “Maybe Daddy’s home now.”

  “Joan. We promised. You can’t call Daddy.”

  “Then who’s going to take us home?”

  We sat without talking for a while. Then I said, “Did we do something to her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  A woman dressed in a blue suit with a hospital badge hanging like a necklace approached and pulled up a chair in front of us. She wore glamorous eyeglasses with cat-eye frames studded with tiny diamonds. “Girls, I’m Miss Lorenzo, the staff social worker. I’m required to ask you some questions.” She looked at us in a steady way that lasted a bit longer than was comfortable. She settled her clipboard on her lap and held a pen poised above it. Name, age, phone, address. Easy. “And your mother? What is your mother’s name?” When we didn’t answer, she said, “What is your relation to the patient Ruby Myers?”

  “She’s taking care of us,” I said. “While our mother’s away.”

  “Is your mother on vacation?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “She’s in the Caribbean.”

  “When will she return?”

  “In a few weeks.”

  “What’s the best number for contacting her?”

  “What?”

  “What’s the name of her hotel?”

  “She’s staying with friends,” I said. “In a beautiful villa.”

  “Do you have the telephone number for that beautiful villa?” When we said nothing, the social worker said, “It’s my understanding that Ruby Myers works for your mother. Is that correct?”

  “Is she going to die?” Joan said.

  The social worker said, “Girls. Come with me. We’ll go to some place more private.” We followed her down a long corridor and into an office where she sat behind a desk and motioned for Joan and me to sit in the two chairs that faced her desk.

  “Joan,” Miss Lorenzo said. “Am I right? You’re Joan? You’re the older sister, am I right?” Joan nodded. “Tell me Joan, where is your mother? The medics said that you told them she is alive.” Joan nodded. “What is her name?”

  “Violet.”

  “Is her last name the same as yours? Is it Violet Adler?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does she have a middle name?”

  “Greenstone.”

  “Violet Greenstone Adler. Is that correct?” Joan nodded. “Is your father alive? W
hat is his name?” Joan told her. “Where is he tonight?” We shook our heads because we didn’t know. “Do you live with him?” We shook our heads. “Are your parents separated?”

  “No. Divorced.”

  “So I assume, and please correct me if I’m mistaken, that it would be your mother who is the responsible party in this situation? Am I correct that your mother has custody?” We nodded. “Let me ask you. Do either of you know where Ruby Myers lives when she is not with you? Do you know her address?”

  “No.”

  “Would your mother know Miss Ruby Myer’s address?” We hunched our shoulders. “Do you know if Ruby Myers is married?” We shook our heads. “Girls, I’m going to have to insist that you tell me where your mother is. Even if it’s difficult to say, I’m going to have to insist. Miss Myers probably has family somewhere. We need to know who to contact. You understand that.”

  “We don’t know where she is,” Joan said.

  “You don’t know where your mother is?”

  “No.”

  “And your father? Where does he live?” She sighed in an exasperated way. “Does your father know where your mother is?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have any other relative we might call?”

  “No.”

  “No grandparents?”

  “No.”

  “Would you like to phone your father to see if he can come pick you up?” How would we explain this to him? He’d ask why Ruby was staying with us. He’d accuse Violet of negligence, make us appear in children’s court, pounce on her at the hospital where doctors were examining her tumor and announce that he was awarded custody of us. “What is his telephone number?” We said nothing. “Girls. We must notify an adult. Do you understand that?” She held her pen poised above her clipboard.

  “What happened to her?”

  “They think it was a heart attack,” Miss Lorenzo said. “I’m sure her family, if she has one, would like to know.”

  “Her mother’s in Alabama.” I remembered my mother telling me Ruby sent money home to her sick mother.

  “Do you know where in Alabama?” We shook our heads. The social worker stood up, looked at us for an uncomfortable amount of time then said, “There’s nothing more to be done here.” She went out, leaving us to ourselves in the cluttered office with a diploma framed on the wall.

  “We have to call Frau Waldman,” I said. “She has to call Mommy and tell her what happened.”

  “You think she knows the name of the hospital?”

  “She must. She’s forwarding the mail.”

  “Why don’t we just tell Daddy that Mommy has a tumor? Why is that such a big secret?”

  “Because we promised we wouldn’t. And they’ll make us go live with him. They’ll say she’s an unfit mother. Do you want to go live with Annabelle?”

  Just then the door opened and a policeman came in. He pulled the chair behind the desk around in front of the desk so he could sit closer to us. “My name is Sergeant Copp,” he said. Another instance of an apt name, like Seymour’s tailor Mr. Taylor. The policeman handed us each a Snickers bar and when we didn’t unwrap them he said, “Go on, go on. Enjoy.” We whispered thank you then peeled the wrapping off and ate the candy, first licking off the chocolate then sucking on the caramel. The officer lit a cigarette, inhaled, and sat there watching us. He said, “Young ladies. Are you aware that the hospital isn’t free?” This was news to me. I thought hospitals were supported by taxes, like schools. “Someone has to pay the medical bills. In your case, who will that be?” We both shook our heads. “Let me be blunt. We are not going to release you until you tell us who to contact. Do you want to sit here all night? Aren’t you getting tired? Don’t you have school tomorrow?” The words in my head were, you can’t make me talk. You can’t make me talk. My eyes prickled from tiredness. Sergeant Copp reached behind him, grabbed the phone from the desk, and handed it to Joan. “Call someone,” he said standing up. “First dial nine then dial the number.” He went out of the room. Joan started crying. I dialed information. Luckily there was only one Waldman on Main Street.

  Frau Waldman picked up on the first ring. I told her what happened, asked if she could contact Mrs. Adler. “I vill.” she said.

  “Could we call her?”

  “No.”

  “Did she give you any information about Ruby? Where she lives or anything like that?”

  “Yah. Hold on.” She ruffled some papers. “You call her husband.” She told me a number then said, “I call your mudder now.” She hung up.

  I dialed the number and a man picked up. “Hello is this Ruby’s husband?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Sonya Adler. The girl … ”

  “Has something happened, Sonya?”

  “Yes.” The calm inside of me threatened to melt and I had to speak to it sternly, tell it everything depended upon it’s staying in place. “Ruby … ”

  “Go on.”

  “Ruby … ”

  “Where are you?”

  “At the White Plains hospital. Ruby’s had a heart attack I think.”

  “I will be there in twenty minutes.” I recognized him right away. He was the man who had come to the door that time but wouldn’t come inside the apartment. The social worker with her clip board and a doctor in green scrubs intercepted him on his way toward us and lead him away to a far corner where he received the news. Then the three of them went out of the room. Sergeant Copp came to tell us we were no longer needed at the hospital. “Is Ruby going to die?”

  “No. She’s resting comfortably. I’m sure she’ll be very happy to see her husband.” He spoke into a walkie talkie and soon another policeman arrived. We sat in the back seat of his cruiser as if we were crooks. Now and then, I saw him check on us in the rearview mirror. He drove us to Scarsdale.

  I didn’t want to sleep alone in my room and was grateful to Joan for letting me sleep on her other twin bed. She helped me put on sheets and blankets, and that made me think maybe she was glad I’d be with her in the dark. As a safety precaution, we took a kitchen chair and jammed it up under the front door knob, a ploy we’d seen in a movie. We had no faith in the doorman Kyle as a protector. None of the other three apartments on our floor had been sold yet. There was no one on the eighth floor except us.

  Because we weren’t relatives, the hospital would give us no news of Ruby when we phoned. Joan and I drove there after school, saw Ruby hooked up to tubes in her bed. It surprised and troubled both Joan and me how uncomfortable it was to visit Ruby, especially when her husband was there. If we showed up while they were chatting, he in a chair next to her bed inclined toward her so he could hear her every word, her hand limp on the sheet, his large hand over hers, the flow between them congealed. He sat up at attention and spoke in a formal way to Joan and me. Ruby kept apologizing to us, and we had to keep reassuring her that we didn’t mind staying with our father (a lie meant to release her from obligation), that we understood she was too ill to fulfill the agreement she’d made with our mother. Yes of course we’d explain to Mrs. Adler, of course she wouldn’t blame Ruby. Sometimes when we arrived there were four or five black people there, men and women from Ruby’s church. They were overly polite to us, offered us the candy they’d brought for Ruby, asked us about school. I didn’t know if we brought tension into the room because we were white or because we were the daughters of Ruby’s employer or because we were teenagers, or because we had nothing in common with the others. Whatever the reason, we were relieved when we heard that Ruby went home to Mount Vernon where she lived with her husband.

  Joan and I felt like lost lambs alone in our apartment, and we felt like grownup women alone in our apartment. Ours was not a mother who believed money should be a problem for children. Joan and I both had charge cards for the major department stores and were allowed to sign for goods at the local grocer, dry cleaner, hardware store, and pharmacy. It wouldn’t have occurred to us to abuse Mother’s trust. We bought what we needed, m
ostly prepared food that didn’t need cooking. We took for granted that I’d sleep in Joan’s room rather than in my own. After finishing the last TV show of the evening, I went to the bathroom at my end of the apartment then returned to her end and got into the “guest” bed in her room. She complained that I made noise moving around and I complained that she made noise sniffling. “Will you lie still!” she scolded. I’d try. Then I’d drift off and be pulled awake by sniff! Sniff! “Stop sniffling!” But neither of us suggested that we sleep in separate rooms.

  One day, there was a fat letter in the box addressed to Joan. She had been accepted at Carnegie Tech. That was her first choice so we shrieked and jumped around the lobby together. We carried the mail upstairs and sorted through the catalogues and flyers. There was a letter addressed to us in Mother’s almost illegible handwriting. “Darlings, I return Saturday, May 16, at 3:00 p.m.” She wrote the flight details. “Pick me up at La Guardia. I can’t wait to see you both. Love, love, love you tons, Mommy.” We had been living alone for two weeks.

  Why wasn’t I glad she was returning? Joan rattled the letter as if shaking a child. “How am I supposed to know how to get to La Guardia?” I wondered the same thing. “The day after tomorrow?” Joan said giving the letter a dirty look. “No way. I’m supposed to go to the Cloisters with Tommy.” She went to the refrigerator, peered inside, and said, “Did you finish the barbecued chicken?” I nodded. “There’s nothing to eat in here,” she said. Then she leaned in closer. “Oh, good. There’s still some potato salad.” Eating from the cardboard container, she said, “Let her take a taxi.”

  Joan had no experience driving on highways. The demand that she ratchet up her driving nerve was an example of my mother’s philosophy of child rearing. Her goal, she often said, was to make us independent. Joan was to get in the car, steer it onto the highway, follow the signs, and get to Queens. How could she ever learn to drive on highways if she didn’t drive on highways? She stayed way over to the right almost hugging the railing and barked, “Oh, shut up stupid!” to all the cars that honked at her.

  We missed the parking lot and had to exit the airport. “You were supposed to be watching!”