Free Murder At The Mikvah by Sarah Segal Page B

trivializing matters with “what God does is always for the best…” At this moment, Yehuda would punch any guy, black hat or not, who offered such trite words of wisdom.
    “Rabbi Orenstein?”
    Dr. Jarvis had returned.
    Yehuda jumped. “Right here,” he said, awkwardly pushing the curtain to the side as he stepped back into the room. He squinted and covered his eyes from the sudden brightness. Dr. Jarvis didn’t even blink, carrying on as if he saw grown men pop out from behind drawn curtains every day. He handed Yehuda a cup of water and then picked up the clipboard and flipped through the forms.
    “I don’t mean to sound insensitive, Rabbi,” he said, his mouth turned downward, “but we do need these forms completed ASAP.” The doctor sighed and held up a hand. “No. Scratch that. Never mind the forms right now. So be it if the hospital administration gets on my case. It won't be the first time.” He motioned for Yehuda to sit down. “It's much more important that we talk about your wife.” He waited while Yehuda drank his entire cup of water in one swig before continuing.
    “Rabbi Orenstein, as you know, your wife endured a period of asphyxiation—lack of oxygen to the brain. I can’t tell you for sure how long she was underwater…”
    Yehuda’s eyes popped. “Hannah was underwater?”
    “Yes… the police told me,” Dr. Jarvis stammered, obviously caught off guard. “I assumed you had spoken with them.”
    “I did speak to them, but they… they didn't say anything about this!” Yehuda jumped out of his seat and began pacing, his right hand nervously adjusting his yarmulke on the top of his head. “I want to see my wife… now!”
    Dr. Jarvis held up a hand. “Rabbi, please, calm down. I understand how traumatic this all is. I assure you, I will take you up to her in a few minutes. She is still being settled in after surgery. It could be highly disruptive to her to barge in at this time. The important thing for you to know is that she is in stable condition.” He tugged on his black stethoscope, as he spoke. Yehuda wondered if he was nervous, maybe hiding something. He couldn’t believe how paranoid he had become; first the cops, now the doctors. Did he honestly believe they were intentionally withholding information from him? He sat back down and put his hands into his face. He looked up at Dr. Jarvis. “Tell me what they told you,” he said. “I want to know everything!”
     
    Ten minutes later, Yehuda and Dr. Jarvis were riding the elevator to the second floor. They wound around a series of short corridors and made their way through a domed glass skywalk connecting the two main buildings of the hospital. All the while, medical personnel in blue scrubs or white lab coats bustled past them, carrying charts and cups of coffee. Occasionally one would give an acknowledging nod to Dr. Jarvis, followed by a curious “once over” of the orthodox rabbi keeping pace beside him. Yehuda caught sight of his reflection in a large window and saw that one of his tzi tzi’s strings was hanging out of his shirt. Usually he was impeccably dressed, but tonight he was a mess. Over and over in his mind, he replayed Dr. Jarvis’s words: They found Hannah unconscious… breathing was labored… water in the lungs… bruised body… fractured skull. Then: Swelling in the frontal lobe. Surgery. He must have been mumbling out loud because Dr. Jarvis glanced at him, a concerned look on his face.
    They stopped at a circular reception desk in front of two large doors . Intensive Care read the plate affixed to the wall, General Access Prohibited. A short Indian doctor holding a clipboard was talking to one of the nurses behind the desk. When he saw the two men, he ended his conversation and approached them.
    “Rabbi Orenstein,” Dr. Jarvis said, “I’d like you to meet Dr. Patel. He’s the neurosurgeon I spoke of earlier. Dr. Patel is a pioneer in the field of TBI, traumatic brain injury. We’re