by Mary Daheim
the sultry singer at the piano. Vivian, or Herself, as
SUTURE SELF
9
Judith usually called her, had shanghaied the oblivious Joe to Las Vegas and a justice of the peace. The
engagement was broken, and so was Judith’s heart.
Judith was still dwelling on the past when Joe returned to the kitchen. “She’s still alive,” he announced,
then looked more closely at his wife. “What’s wrong?
You look sort of sickly.”
“Nozzing,” Judith replied, trying to smile. “I mean,
nothing—except Mudder. Mother. It bothers me when
she’s so mean to you.”
Joe shrugged. “I’m used to it. In fact, I get kind of a
kick out of it. Face it, Jude-girl, at her age she doesn’t
have much pleasure in life. If it amuses her to needle
me, so what?”
Judith rested her head against Joe’s hip. “You’re
such a decent person, Joe. I love you.”
“The feeling is eternally mutual,” he said, hugging
her shoulders. “How many pain pills did you take?”
“Umm . . .” Judith considered fibbing. She was very
good at it. When she could think straight. “Two.”
Joe sighed. “Let’s eat. Food might straighten you
out a bit.”
“Wouldn’t you think,” Judith said halfway through the
meal when she had begun to feel more lucid, “that when
you and I finally got married after your divorce and
Dan’s death, Mother would have been happy for us?”
Joe shook his head. “Never. You’re an only child,
and your father died fairly young. You’re all your
mother has, and she’ll never completely let go. The
same’s true with Renie. Look how your Aunt Deb pulls
Renie around like she’s on a string.”
“True,” Judith allowed. “What I meant was that even
if Mother resented you at first, after I married Dan on
the rebound, and he turned out to be such a . . . flop,
10
Mary Daheim
you’d figure that Mother would be glad to see me married to somebody with a real job and a sense of responsibility and a girth considerably less than
fifty-four inches. Dan’s pants looked like the sails on
the Britannia.”
Joe grinned and the gold flecks danced in his green
eyes. “Your mother didn’t want a replacement or an
improvement. She wanted you, back home, under her
wing.”
“She got it,” Judith said with a rueful laugh. “After
Dan died, Mike and I couldn’t go on living in that
rental dump out on Thurlow Street. The rats were so
big they were setting traps for us.”
It was only a slight exaggeration. After losing one
house to the IRS for back taxes, defaulting on another,
and getting evicted twice, Judith, Dan, and Mike had
ended up, as Grandpa Grover would have put it, “in
Queer Street.” Dan had stopped working altogether by
then, and Judith’s two jobs barely paid for the basics.
The Thurlow rental was a wreck, the neighborhood
disreputable. After Dan died, Judith and her only son
moved back into the family home on Heraldsgate Hill.
Her mother had protested at first when Judith came up
with her scheme to turn the big house into a B&B.
Eventually, Gertrude had given in, if only because she
and Judith and Mike had to eat. But when Joe reappeared in Judith’s life during the homicide investigation of a guest, the old lady had balked. If Judith
married Joe, Gertrude announced, she wouldn’t live
under the same roof with him. Thus, the toolshed had
been converted into a small apartment, and Gertrude
took her belongings and her umbrage out to the backyard.
She complained constantly, but refused to budge.
SUTURE SELF
11
Judith pictured her mother in the old brown mohair
chair, eating her “supper,” watching TV, and cursing
Joe Flynn. Gertrude would never change her mind
about her son-in-law, not even now in her dotage. But
at least some sort of truce was in effect, which made
life a little easier at Hillside Manor.
Shortly after seven, Judith called Renie back to get
the details on her cousin’s surgery. Neither of them
knew exactly what time their operations would be
scheduled and wouldn’t find out until Friday afternoon. Judith hunkered down and tried to be patient. It
wasn’t easy: Even in the wheelchair, she experienced a
considerable amount of pain and, due to the recent
news reports, it was accompanied by an unexpected
apprehension. Still, Judith could do little more than
wait.
The tedium was broken Friday morning when Mike
called from his current posting as a forest ranger up on the
close-in mountain pass.
“Guess what,” he said in his most cheerful voice.
“What?” Judith asked.
“Guess.”
The first thing that came to mind was that Mike had
been promoted. Which, she thought with plunging
spirits, might mean a transfer to anywhere in the fifty
states.
“Don’t keep me in suspense,” Judith said. “I’m an
invalid, remember?”
“Mom . . .” Mike chuckled. “It’s only temporary.
Which is good, because you’re going to have to be up
and running by the time your next grandchild gets here
around the Fourth of July.”
“Oh!” Judith’s smile was huge and satisfying.
“That’s terrific! How is Kristin feeling?”
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Mary Daheim
“Great,” Mike replied. “You know my girl, she’s a
hardy honey.”
“Hardy” wasn’t quite the word Judith would have
chosen. “Robust,” perhaps, or even “brawny.” Kristin
McMonigle was a Viking, or maybe a Valkyrie. Mike’s
wife was big, blonde, and beautiful. She was also constrained, conscientious, and capable. Almost too capable, it seemed to Judith. Kristin could repair a
transmission, build a cabinet, bake a Viennese torte,
shingle a roof, and balance a checkbook to the penny.
Indeed, Judith sometimes found her daughter-in-law
intimidating.
“I’m so thrilled,” Judith enthused. “I can’t wait to
tell Joe. And Granny.”
“That reminds me,” Mike said, “could you call
Grandma Effie, too? I don’t like making out-of-state
calls on the phone in the office. I’d call her from the
cabin tonight, but I’m putting on a slide show for some
zoologists.”
“Of course,” Judith said with only a slight hesitation. “I’ll call right now.”
“Thanks, Mom. Got to run. By the way, good luck
Monday if I don’t talk to you before you go to the hospital.”
Judith clicked the phone off and reached for her address book on the kitchen counter. She ought to know
Effie McMonigle’s number by heart, but she didn’t.
Ever since Dan’s death eleven years earlier, Judith had
called his mother once a month. But somehow the
number wouldn’t stick in her brain. Maybe it was like
Gertrude not speaking directly to Joe; maybe Judith
hoped that if she kept forgetting Effie’s number, her
former mother-in-law would go away, too, and take all
the unhappy memories of Dan with her.
SUTURE SELF
13
Effie was home. She usually was. A nurse by profession, she resided in a retirement community outside
Phoenix. In the nineteen years that Judith and Dan had
been married, Effie had visited only three times—once
for the wedding, once when Mike was born, and once
for Dan’s funeral. Effie was a sun-worshiper. She
couldn’t stand the Pacific Northwest’s gray skies and
rainy days. She claimed to become depressed. But Judith felt Effie was always depressed—and depressing.
Sunshine didn’t seem to improve her pessimistic
attitude.
“Another baby?” Effie exclaimed when Judith relayed the news. “So soon? Oh, what bad planning!”
“But Mac will be two in June,” Judith put in. “The
children will be close enough in age to be playmates
and companions.”
“They’ll fight,” Effie declared in her mournful
voice. “Especially if it’s another boy.”
“Siblings always fight,” Judith countered. “I guess.”
She had to admit to herself that she really didn’t know.
Judith and Renie had both been only children, and
while they occasionally quarreled in their youth, they
had grown to be as close, if not closer, than sisters.
“When are they coming to see me?” Effie demanded. “Mike and Kristy have only been here twice
since Mac was born.”
“It’s Kristin,” Judith said wearily. “I’m not sure
when they’ll be able to travel. With the new baby on
the way, they’ll probably wait.”
“Oh, sure.” Effie emitted a sour snort. “I haven’t had
a new picture of Mac in ages. I’m not even sure what
he looks like these days.”
“I thought Mike and Kristin sent you a picture of the
whole family at Christmastime.”
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Mary Daheim
“They did?” Effie paused. “Oh, that picture. It
wasn’t very good of any of them. I can’t see the slightest resemblance to my darling Dan in either Mike or
Mac. If they both didn’t have my red hair, I’d have to
wonder.”
As well you might, Judith thought, and was ashamed
of the spite she felt inside. “Mac doesn’t look like me,
either,” she said in an attempt to make amends.
“When are you coming down to see me?” Effie
queried.
“Not for a while,” Judith admitted. Indeed, she was
ashamed of herself for not having paid Effie a visit
since the year after Dan died. “It’s so hard for me to get
away with the B&B, and now I’m facing surgery Monday.”
“For what?” Effie sounded very cross.
“A hip replacement,” Judith said, gritting her teeth.
“I told you about it on the phone a couple of weeks
ago. I wrote it in my Christmas letter. I think I mentioned it in my Thanksgiving card.”
“Oh, that hip replacement,” Effie sniffed. “I thought
you’d already had it. What’s taking you so long?”
“It’s the surgery scheduling,” Judith responded patiently. “They have to book so far ahead. You know
how it is. You used to work in a hospital.”
“Hunh. It was different then. Doctors didn’t try to
squeeze in so many procedures or squeeze so much
money out of their patients,” Effie asserted. “Medical
practice today is a scandal. You’ll be lucky if you get
out alive.”
Judith glanced at the morning paper on the kitchen
table. It contained a brief item about an autopsy being
performed on Joan Fremont. In the sports section,
there was a story about possible trades to replace the
SUTURE SELF
15
Seafarers’ ace pitcher, Joaquin Somosa. At last Effie
McMonigle had said something that Judith didn’t feel
like contradicting.
Some people weren’t lucky. They didn’t get out of
the hospital alive.
All Judith could hope was that she and Renie
wouldn’t be among the unlucky ones.
TWO
JUDITH’S SURGERY WAS scheduled for eight-thirty on
Monday. Renie’s was set for nine-fifteen. Joe and
Bill delivered their wives to admitting at the same
time. The cousins had worn out the phone lines over
the weekend encouraging each other and trying to
make light of any potential dangers.
Their husbands chimed in. “Hey, Bill,” Joe said,
“we could have hurried this up by driving together
and dumping the old, crippled broads from a speeding car.”
“You already called the girls?” Bill said with a
straight face.
“You bet,” Joe replied. “Chesty and Miss Bottoms. They’re rarin’ to go.”
“Not funny,” Judith muttered.
“Nothing’s funny this early in the morning,”
snarled Renie, who usually didn’t get up until ten
o’clock.
Nor did Good Cheer Hospital’s forbidding exterior live up to its name. Built shortly after the turn
of the last century, the large, dark redbrick edifice
with its looming dome and wrought-iron fences
looked more like a medieval castle than a haven for
healing. Judith half expected to wait for a draw-SUTURE SELF
17
bridge to come down before driving over a moat into
the patient drop-off area.
Renie, who was bundled up in a purple hooded coat,
shuddered as she got out of the Joneses’ Toyota Camry.
“Why couldn’t we go to our HMO’s hospital? This
place looks like a morgue.”
“Don’t say that,” Judith retorted as Joe helped her into
the wheelchair. To make matters worse, it was a damp,
dark morning with the rain coming down in straight,
steady sheets. “You know why we’re here. Our HMO
doesn’t do orthopedic surgeries anymore. All the hospitals are consolidating their services to save money.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Renie said with an ominous glance at
the double doors that automatically opened upon their
approach. “It just looks so gloomy. And bleak.”
“It’s still a Catholic hospital,” Bill Jones pointed out
as he helped Renie through the entrance. “That should
be some consolation.”
“Why?” Renie shot back. “The pope’s not going to
operate on my shoulder.”
Bill wore his familiar beleaguered expression when
dealing with his sometimes unreasonable wife, but
said nothing as they waited for Joe to wheel Judith inside. The hospital’s interior looked almost as old as its
exterior. Over the years, the Sisters of Good Cheer had
put all their money into equipment and staff. As long
as the building was structurally sound and hygienically
safe, the nuns saw no reason to waste funds on cosmetic improvements. Thus, great lengths of pipes were
exposed, door frames were the original solid stained
wood, and though the walls had been repainted many
times, the color remained the same institutional shade
of bilious green that long-dead patients and sta
ff had
endured almost a hundred years before.
18
Mary Daheim
There was no one around to meet the Flynns and the
Joneses. A wooden sign with flaking gold lettering and
an arrow pointed to admitting, on their right. They
turned the corner and almost collided with a robot that
was sending off loud beeping signals.
“That’s new,” Judith remarked. “I wonder what it does.”
“My name is Robbie,” the robot said in a mechanical voice. One metal arm reached out as if to snatch
Renie’s big black handbag.
“Watch it, Robbie, or I’ll FedEx you to the scrap
heap,” Renie threatened.
“My name is Robbie,” the robot repeated. The steel
creature kept moving, giving and asking no quarter.
“I hope he’s not one of the surgeons,” Judith said.
“We should ask if he’s covered for malpractice,” Joe
said as they approached the admitting desk.
A nurse in traditional uniform and white cap sat next
to a nun in a modified habit that consisted of a navy
blue suit, white blouse, and navy and white veil and
coif. The Sisters of Good Cheer were relatively conservative in their attitude toward apparel. As long as
they wore habits, the nurses who worked for them
would wear uniforms. “May we help you?” the nurse
inquired with a strained smile.
“Let’s hope so,” Joe replied. “We’re checking our
wives in.” He gestured at Judith and Renie.
“Jones,” said Bill. “Serena. Rotator cuff surgery.”
He pointed to the carefully lettered yellow Post-it note
on Renie’s sweater. Overcautious as ever, Bill had
written, “Serena Jones, right shoulder, allergic to nuts,
peanuts, and morphine, inclined to complain.”
“Flynn,” said Joe. “Judith. Right-hip replacement.”
He cast a worried look at Judith’s side. Maybe, she
thought, he was wishing he’d stuck a note on her, too.
SUTURE SELF
19
Renie nudged Judith. “I guess we checked our
voices at the door.”
The nun looked at a computer screen. “They’re
right,” she said to the nurse. “Jones and Flynn, Drs.
Ming and Alfonso.”
“Whew,” Renie said facetiously. “I’m sure glad
we’re the right people.”
Bill poked her in the ribs. “Don’t say anything. Let
them do their jobs.”
Renie scowled at Bill. “I was only trying to lighten
the—”
Bill poked her again, and Renie shut up.