The Yiddish Gangster's Daughter (A Becks Ruchinsky Mystery Book 1) by Joan Cochran (best authors to read .TXT) 📕

“Why don’t the two of you come back now?” he says.

Esther rises.

“I’ll wait here,” I manage to whisper. I don’t know if I’m capable of standing. “When the exam’s over, call me in.”

They leave the waiting area, Daniel’s hand across the small of Esther’s back.

I’m hiding behind the Southern Living magazine I left in the office months earlier, trying to conceal my reddened face, when the older of the two elderly women in the waiting room reaches for her companion’s hand. The two appear well-heeled, with short, blunt-cut, silver-gray hair and beautifully tailored pantsuits. They look so much alike that I wonder if they’re sisters.

“You’re going to like Dr. Ruchinsky. He’s the finest oncologist in Palm Beach County,” the older one whispers to her companion. “And he’s so kind. I don’t know how I could’ve gotten through this without him.”

I keep my eyes glued to the page, but turn my head slightly to better hear what they’re saying.

“When I found out about Joseph’s cancer, I was devastated. Dr. Ruchinsky spent as much time comforting and explaining things to me as he spent on Joseph’s medical care. He did everything he could.” She touches a manicured pinkie to her cheek and wipes a tear.

I catch her eye and look away. She leans toward her friend and takes the woman’s other hand. “I promise. You’re going to get the best care. Everything will be fine.”

The women continue speaking but drop their voices to a range I can’t hear. Their conversation reminds me of how I felt when Daniel broke away from his old partners to start his practice. When I’d run into doctors at the gym or grocery store, they’d reassure me he’d do fine, that he was a terrific doctor and they’d send their patients to him. I felt proud of being married to such a well-regarded man. Now I wonder how such a kind and gentle person could have treated me so poorly. What happened to the Daniel I knew? I loved being “Dr. Ruchinsky’s wife”—not just because he was a successful and well-respected physician, but because he sincerely cared about his patients and wasn’t afraid to show it.

“Dr. Ruchinsky asked if you’d come back to his office.”

I look up from my magazine and check my watch. Has it really been twenty minutes? Mary stands at the open door, smiling. I follow her down the narrow hall and past the examining rooms to Daniel’s office. When I step inside, he’s sitting behind the antique walnut desk we shipped home during a vacation in Vermont. The glassed-fronted barrister’s bookcase we picked up a year earlier is crammed with books and journals. Colorful framed photos of the boys at the beach, horseback riding at camp, and standing with Daniel and me in their high school graduation robes line the top of the bookcase. Everything’s familiar—and strange. Esther sits across from Daniel, her hands folded in her lap. Her face reveals nothing.

“I’m afraid there’s something there,” Daniel says once I’ve pulled the door shut and settled into the chair next to Esther. “I’ve gone over Esther’s scan and want to schedule a biopsy for tomorrow.”

I take my sister’s hand and give it a squeeze. It’s cold and damp. She doesn’t squeeze back.

“So the question is where do we go from there?” He nods toward Esther. “It’s your decision, of course, but I’ve been through this with many patients. Barry Simon can do the biopsy. He’s a good surgeon and I can set it up for you tomorrow if you want. Once we hear back, you can decide what to do.

“In any event, if you need radiation, chemo, surgery, whatever, we can arrange to do it in Boca. I’d also be glad to call your doctor in Greensboro if you’d rather go home. Either way, I’m here for you.”

He talks a bit longer, explaining Esther’s medical options and answering her questions. I’m surprised by how coherent she is. I’m numb and, after a few minutes, realize how deeply disappointed I feel. I was sure Daniel would announce Esther’s doctor misread the mammogram. That she was fine. I counted on him to, somehow, pull a rabbit out of his hat and make her cancer disappear. But even Daniel can’t do that.

When he stands, Esther and I rise. Daniel reaches to open the door for us and hesitates as his hand touches the knob. He looks at me, then diverts his gaze.

At the reception desk, he gives Esther a hug. I stiffen as he approaches and he steps back.

The first five minutes of the drive home, we don’t speak. Daniel’s office is fifteen minutes from the house and we return along Jog Road, passing gated communities with elaborately landscaped entrances. When we turn into my neighborhood, Esther looks at me. “I’m glad I came. It’s a relief to be with you.”

I tell her she’s welcome to stay as long as she wants, that I plan to be with her for every appointment and procedure.

“I’m sure the doctors in Greensboro are fine,” she continues, “but they’re not Daniel. He’s so reassuring. And he took the time to explain what I’ll be going through. My doctor at home usually can’t be bothered.”

I take in what she said and recall the conversation between the elderly women in Daniel’s office. Esther’s right. Despite everything, I never lost respect for Daniel’s medical skill. He’s devoted to his patients. Sometimes too much so. Any real difficulties in our marriage before the affair stemmed from the time he spent with patients and away from the family. He was, as Esther once put it, a package deal. The same qualities that I loved in him, his sensitivity and ability to tune in to people, made him a great, if overworked, doctor.

Esther seems to read my mind. “You know he still loves you.”

I give a quick nod.

She reaches across the console and puts a hand on my arm. “I can’t