The doctors said it was something called commotio cordis, a direct blow to the heart between beats. It was instant, a fluke, and deadly.
Still, for several hours afterward, she continued to hear the noise, the wails, the cold robotic voice of the white coat telling her nothing could be done. It was only afterward that she noticed Zalman, his red face awash in tears, standing by her side, holding her hand tenderly. Was it tenderly? Was that the word she would have used to describe it? She could not describe anything, for in effect she was numb, unfeeling, immune. It was only later that she realized Jacob was nowhere to be found. When had she seen him last? Kneeling on the ground? In the ambulance with its siren drowning out their screams? Were they still screaming, or had a shocked silence replaced the sound? Or, as they stood, not really listening, as the white coat explained so serenely that their only child was gone? But what did it matter? She didn’t care. Not about Jacob. Not about anything. The only thing she could see were snapshots of Gary that floated now like a dream into her mind. Gary as a curly-haired baby. Gary climbing onto her knee, sitting playing the keys of the oversize piano, flipping adeptly through his baseball cards. Gary, eyes wide open, a dried slash of jelly, prophetic, still marked across his forehead. Instinctively, she moved her hand as if to wipe it off. But it was gone now. Gary was gone. She clenched her fist tightly, digging her nails into the palm of her hand.
The days that followed were a blur seen only through the constant veil of tears that accompanied Esther during mornings when she mechanically assumed the role of grieving parent, and nights when sleep eluded her as images of her only child clouded her mind. In spite of the phone calls, the bountiful meals, the hard-boiled eggs, peeled, a reminder of the circle of life (Does life go on, does it really?), bagels of every sort, an assortment of cheeses for breakfast, and roast chicken and kishka, a stuffed derma, and corned beef and kugels—mostly orchestrated by Florrie—much of the food remained untouched. Jacob had, for the most part, disappeared into their bedroom, and when he was present, the person before them had been replaced by a ghost, at least that was the way it appeared to Esther.
As for herself, her lamentations could not be quelled, her tears could not be stopped. Never had she known such sadness, never even dreamed it was possible, not even after the death of her father. The loss of a parent, though sad, was the natural order of things, but a child—their child—in a simple wooden coffin? The sight of it was so against the mandate of what it meant to be alive, something that she eventually had to concede was beyond comprehension. So she no longer tried to understand it but let the feelings wash over her as she went through the motions of her day. And yet, like a refrain that invaded her mind, she recalled the mere sight of the coffin, so small, as she stood before it that sunny Monday morning, draped in black between Jacob and Zalman, blocking the stream of words that flew from the rabbi’s mouth, words intended to comfort, the platitudes from family, neighbors, and friends. Her mother, Sally, afflicted now with Parkinson’s disease and whose steady flow of tears nearly matched her own, stayed home that day, and on most days afterward, unable to summon the words that could comfort her daughter. Although she would call Esther on the phone occasionally, she often said little. The skies were threatening rain, or she had a new recipe for a plum compote, or if Esther had stomach problems, advising a cup of strong tea. What could she say, really?
Even Zalman, who seemed always to be standing at Esther’s side with a plate of rugelach and a slice of sponge cake or offering a sweater as the air began to chill—not even he could penetrate the sadness, not even he could stop the endless torrent of tears. Only at night when the moon was high and the silence deep did she hear sobs coming from his room.
While Esther in those days and weeks after the funeral could not stop crying, Jacob was unable to shed a single tear. He passed through the days, a grim expression set in his face, which seemed remarkably to have aged ten years. He spoke little, asked for nothing, his grief impenetrable. Even without his saying a word, Esther knew he blamed himself for the accident. If only he had not hit the ball so hard, if only he hadn’t pushed his son to be the best, if only the two had stayed indoors that day. If only . . . Esther didn’t blame her husband; the thought hadn’t even crossed her mind. She was too preoccupied with the loss and the fear of a lifetime of days ahead that would be spent grieving, childless. And so she did not voice any objection when after the week’s period of mourning, the shiva, was over, Jacob announced he would be going back to work.