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Why (as in yaverbaum)
January 29
So it was that on Saturday, January 29, 1983, Phyllis and I went to ser- vices, were joined by Harry and Sylvia and Laura, enjoyed the mini-buffet, talked to Rabbi Turetsky, saw Harry, Sylvia, and Laura off, went home for a light bite and rest, and then had our Sabbath shattered and our lives irrevocably changed when Harry came crashing through the front door.
At first, I could not understand what Harry was saying as he was stumbling forward; I caught him to break his fall, and then I could make out that he was gasping, “She’s gone, she’s gone.” What he was saying soon became all too clear.
I looked up to see that Laura was walking in behind him, dazed. Behind her was a uniformed New York State trooper. The trooper did the talking, and it was only then that I (and Phyllis, who had come half- way down the stairs to the first floor) could hear and start to understand the horrific circumstances that led to Harry’s hysterical entrance: Laura had ridden in Sylvia’s car north on Interstate 684 toward the Rebells’ country home. Harry’s car followed directly behind them. Right after the Bedford exit (exit 4), Harry watched in helpless horror as Sylvia’s Cadillac, near no other car, started moving erratically and veering to the left, out of control. He saw the Cadillac hit the dividing rail in the center of the highway and then veer back to the right where it hit—but this time went through—the other guardrail. It then vanished.
The land to the east of the highway fell off precipitously for quite a distance. The car had rolled—and Sylvia was not wearing a seatbelt. Laura, presumably asleep in the backseat, was wearing a seatbelt; she was untouched and remembered nothing. But Sylvia was gone. The autopsy, which Arthur authorized, did not show a heart attack. We were sure, however, that Sylvia was unconscious even before the car hit the left guardrail. My father believed that she must have been unconscious due to a TIA (transitory ischemic attack, akin to a small stroke), and he
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