by Mary Daheim
for eleven minutes nonstop. Nobody came. I think I’ll
set fire to the bed.”
“Coz—” Judith began to plead, but was interrupted
by a tall, handsome nun in an exceptionally well-tailored
modified habit.
“Mrs. Jones? Mrs. Flynn?” the nun said, standing on
SUTURE SELF
29
the threshold. “Which of you has been requesting
help?”
If not embarrassed, Renie at least had the grace to
look slightly abashed. “Yes . . . that would be me.” She
offered the nun a toothy smile. “I’m having quite a bit
of pain.”
You’re being quite a pain, Judith thought, but kept
silent.
The nun glanced at the IV. “I’ll see what I can do,”
she said in her crisp, no-nonsense voice. “By the way,
I’m Sister Jacqueline, the hospital administrator. I
should point out that our staff is extremely busy this
week. The surgery floor is full, and as usual, we’re a
bit shorthanded. The economics of medicine aren’t
what they used to be.” She gave the cousins a tight little smile.
“I understand,” Judith said. “It’s a terrible problem
that nobody seems able to solve.”
“It’s those damned insurance companies,” Renie asserted, lifting her head a few inches from the pillow.
“Let’s not even talk about the greedy jackasses who
run the pharmaceutical industry. What about the patient? I’m lying here in misery and half starved while
a bunch of bumbling morons in Washington, D.C., try
to figure out whether their pants get pulled up over
their fat butts or go down over their empty heads. Or
maybe they aren’t wearing any pants at all. Furthermore, if anybody had an ounce of—”
Sister Jacqueline cleared her throat rather loudly.
“Mrs. Jones. Ranting will do you no good. I suggest
that you exercise the virtue of patience instead.”
“I am the freaking patient!” Renie cried. “And I’m
not a patient patient.”
“I gather not,” Sister Jacqueline said mildly, then
30
Mary Daheim
turned to Judith and spoke almost in a whisper. “If
someone is discharged tomorrow, we might be able to
move you to a different room.”
Judith tried to smile. “It’s fine, Sister. Honestly. I’m
used to her. She’s my cousin.”
The nun drew back as if Judith had poked her.
“Really!” She glanced from Judith to Renie and back
again. “Then patience must be one of your outstanding
virtues.”
Judith looked sheepish. “Well . . . Many things in
life have taught me patience. In fact, my cousin really
doesn’t—”
A tall, thin middle-aged man who looked vaguely
familiar tapped diffidently on the open door. “Sister?”
he said in an uncertain voice.
The nun stepped away from Judith’s bed. “Yes?”
“I’m worried,” the man said, removing his thick
glasses and putting them back on in a nervous manner.
“My brother isn’t getting any rest. There are way too
many visitors and deliveries and I don’t know what all.
I thought since Margie volunteers at the hospital, she’d
keep things under control.”
“I haven’t seen Mrs. Randall since Mr. Randall was
in the recovery room,” Sister Jacqueline replied. “Even
though the post-op news was very good, she seemed
downcast. Perhaps she went home to rest.”
“I hope not.” The man who appeared to be Bob Randall’s brother gave a shake of his head. “There’s supposed to be a big snowstorm moving in. She might get
stuck at the house.” He uttered a heavy sigh. “Poor
Margie. She’s always downcast. I guess it’s just her nature.”
The nun turned back to Judith, but avoided looking
at Renie, who wore a mutinous expression. “Excuse
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31
me, I must get things straightened out. Keep drinking
those liquids, both of you. Come along, Mr. Randall.
Jim, is it?” She put a firm hand on Jim Randall’s elbow
and steered him out into the hall. “I agree, too much
excitement isn’t good for . . .”
Her voice faded as they moved down the hall. Renie
picked up a tiny digital clock from her nightstand. “It’s
going on five. I haven’t eaten since last night. When do
they serve around here?”
“I thought you hurt so much,” Judith remarked,
plucking listlessly at the white linen sheet. “Good
Cheer Hospital” had been stitched in blue on the hem,
but the letters had worn away to leave only “Goo . .
h . er Ho . p . . .”
“I do,” Renie said, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t be
hungry.”
Before Judith could respond, Dr. Alfonso reappeared, now dressed in blue jeans, a denim shirt, and a
black leather jacket. “You’re looking a bit brighter,
Mrs. Flynn,” he said, though his own voice was weary.
“Let’s take a peek at that dressing.”
“When do we eat?” Renie asked in a petulant tone.
“After a bit,” the surgeon replied without taking his
eyes off the loose bandage. “We’ll get the nurse to
change that. How’s the pain?”
“Awful,” Renie broke in. “Whatever happened to
Demerol?”
“It’s bearable,” Judith responded bravely. “Though
it hurts quite a bit to make even the slightest move.”
“We’ll take care of that, too,” Dr. Alfonso said with
a tired smile. “Now let’s talk about your rehab—”
“How can a person rehab,” Renie demanded, “when
his or her arm feels like it fell off? In fact, I think it did.
Do you want to check the floor for me?”
32
Mary Daheim
“We’ll have you try to sit up tomorrow,” the doctor
said to Judith. “Maybe later in the day, we’ll see if you
can take a few steps.”
“That sounds next to impossible right now,” Judith
said, though her weak smile tried to convey courage.
“I’ll do my best.”
“I’ll do my worst if somebody doesn’t put something besides corn syrup in this IV,” Renie snarled.
With shoulders slumped, Dr. Alfonso started to turn
away from Judith. “I’ll be by in the morning to—”
His words were cut short by screams and a large
thud from nearby. Judith stiffened in the narrow bed
and Renie’s expression went from grumpy to curious.
Dr. Alfonso picked up his step, but was met by a petite
Asian nurse in a fresh white uniform and cap.
“Come, please, Doctor,” the nurse urged in an anxious voice. “Something’s happened to Mr. Randall.”
“Randall?” Dr. Alfonso echoed, following the nurse
out into the hall. “Dr. Garnett’s patient?”
Judith’s jaw dropped. Surely not another local
celebrity had succumbed at Good Cheer Hospital. She
pricked up her ears, trying to catch the nurse’s fading
reply.
“Not Bob Randall,” she said. “It’s his brother, Jim.
He suddenly collapsed and is
unconscious.”
Renie made an airy gesture of dismissal with her left
hand. “Maybe he’s dead. Can anybody around here tell
the difference?”
Judith stared incredulously at her cousin. “That’s
not funny.”
Renie’s face fell as she realized the enormity of
what she had just said. “No,” she agreed, a hand to her
head. “It’s not.”
THREE
IT WAS ALMOST a quarter of an hour before the
cousins learned what had happened to Jim Randall.
A simple faint, it seemed, according to the Asian
nurse, whose name tag identified her as “Chinn,
Heather, R.N.”
“He’s so different from his brother, the football
player,” Heather Chinn said as she adjusted Renie’s
IV. “They look alike, sort of, but they don’t act like
brothers, let alone twins.”
“Twins?” Judith said, comparing the gaunt, pale
Jim Randall with the robust, suntanned Bob. “As in
identical?”
Heather shrugged and smiled. She had matching
dimples in a perfect heart-shaped face. “I don’t
know about that. Their mannerisms are really at opposite ends, too. Mr. Jim is so shy and doesn’t seem
to have much self-esteem. Mr. Bob is full of life and
confidence. He’ll be out of here in no time.”
“What made Mr. Jim pass out?” Judith inquired
as the nurse added more painkiller to her IV.
Heather shrugged again. “Stress, maybe. Worrying about his brother. Though I don’t think Mr. Jim
is very well. He’s had several tests to determine
what’s wrong, but . . .” She finished with the IV and
34
Mary Daheim
grimaced. “I shouldn’t gossip like that. It’s unprofessional, and I’m merely speculating.”
The pain was beginning to ebb. Judith moved in the
bed, her gaze following Heather Chinn as she tried to
make Renie more comfortable.
“You’d have more room,” Heather said in a pleasant,
reasonable voice, “if you’d put some of these . . . items
in the drawers of your nightstand.” Her slim fingers
pointed to the paperback book, two magazines, pack of
gum, roll of breath mints, several spring fashion catalogues, and a small grinning doll with an equally small
suitcase.
“Don’t touch Archie,” Renie warned as Heather
started to move the doll. “He stays with me. My husband got him as a good luck charm. Archie loves hospitals.” Renie grasped Archie’s tiny hand. “Don’t you,
Archie? See how cheerful he is? Archie always looks
cheerful.”
While Judith was accustomed to Renie and Bill’s
proclivity for talking to inanimate objects, including
their car, Heather Chinn wasn’t. The nurse looked
askance.
Judith decided to intervene before Heather recommended committing Renie to the mental health wing.
“I don’t suppose,” Judith said in a manner that only
suggested a question, “you had either Joan Fremont or
Joaquin Somosa as patients.”
“The actress?” Heather responded, looking at Judith
over Renie’s tousled head. “No. But the other one—
was he some kind of ballplayer, too? I was on duty
when he flat-lined.”
Renie jerked around to look at the monitor beside
her bed. “Flat-lined? Is that what you call it? All those
funny squiggly marks are good, then?”
SUTURE SELF
35
“Yes.” Heather smiled, revealing her dimples.
“You’re doing fine, Mrs. Jones. In fact, we’ve noticed
that you’re unusually . . . resilient.”
Loud, Judith figured was what Nurse Heather
meant. And maybe nuts. “Mr. Somosa . . . flat-lined for
no apparent reason?”
“Not at the time,” Heather replied, checking Renie’s
IV. “I believe there was something in the postmortem
that indicated otherwise.”
“Drugs?” Renie put in. “I heard that might have
been the case with Joan Fremont.”
“I really can’t discuss it,” Heather asserted, the dimples now invisible and the brown eyes on the silent TV
set. “Would you like to watch the news? There’s a button on each of your beds.”
“No,” Renie said.
“Yes,” Judith replied. “I never get to see the early
news at home. I’m always working.”
“I almost never watch the news,” Renie said crossly,
“unless it’s sports.” She pulled herself up in the bed
and addressed Heather Chinn. “Are you saying Somosa did drugs? I don’t believe it. For one thing, the
Seafarers have a tough stand on drugs. So does major
league baseball in general. Not only that, but until he
blew out his elbow, Somosa had a 2.4 ERA and averaged ten strikeouts a game. How do you explain that?”
“I can’t,” Heather replied with the ghost of a smile.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t follow sports. I only know about Mr. Randall—Mr.
Bob—because somebody said he’d played professional football.”
“Hunh,” snorted Renie, and fell back against the pillows.
Heather had refilled the cousins’ water carafes, re-36
Mary Daheim
placing them on the old wooden bedside stands that
matched the room’s much-varnished door and window
frames. “Remember to keep drinking fluids. Dinner
will be along shortly,” she added as she exited the
room.
“It better be,” Renie muttered after taking a big sip
of fresh water. “Really, coz, I doubt that Somosa did
drugs. Or Joan Fremont, either. They didn’t call her the
First Lady of the local theater for nothing. She was a
lady, in every way.”
“Good Cheer is undoubtedly dodging a couple of
huge malpractice suits,” Judith said, clicking on the
TV. “Can you imagine? Not only the survivors, but
maybe Le Repertoire Theatre and the Seafarers’ ownership.”
Renie was silent for a moment as KINE-TV’s anchorpersons radiated their own type of good cheer by
rehashing humankind’s latest tragedies. “At least turn
down the sound,” she said crossly. “It’s Mavis LeanBrodie doing the news and she’s never liked me.”
Years ago, Mavis had been involved in a homicide
that had occurred in Judith’s dining room. Since then,
Judith had encountered her a few times, including a recent run-in during a murder investigation at an apartment house on Heraldsgate Hill. Mavis had featured
Judith in a well-intentioned TV interview that had
come off as awkward and inaccurate. Still, Judith held
no grudge.
“Mavis is okay,” Judith allowed, hitting the mute
button as the screen switched to a close-up of the governor in front of the state capitol. “She’s just aggressive. It comes with the job description.”
Dinner was brought in by a solemn young orderly.
Wordlessly, he set up Judith’s tray first. There were
SUTURE SELF
37
two covered dishes, a plastic container, a plastic cup,
packets of salt and pepper, silverware, and a napkin. A
whole-wheat roll wrapped in plastic rested on a plate
wit
h a butter pat.
The orderly moved to Renie’s bed. “What the hell is
this crap?” she yelled, removing the metal cover from
the larger of the two dishes. “It looks like cat spit!”
The orderly, who sported a mustache, a shaved head,
and a gold stud in one ear, didn’t respond. Without
speaking, he left the room.
“I think,” Judith said warily, “it’s mutton.”
Renie’s brown eyes widened in horror. “No Grover
since our grandfather has ever eaten mutton, and he
only did it because he was English. I think I’m going
to be sick.”
“It’s not very good,” Judith allowed. “In fact, it’s
tasteless. I tried salting the gravy, but that doesn’t help
much. There’s a green salad, though.” She searched
around on the tray. “It’s under the other covered dish,
but I don’t see any dressing.”
“Rice,” Renie said, holding her head. “How can you
ruin rice? And why is it sort of beige?”
“Brown rice?” Judith suggested, taking a bite. “No,
maybe not.”
“This isn’t even wholesome,” Renie complained.
“Mutton is fatty. I’m going to call Bill.”
“What for?” Judith asked. “He’s not with the Department of Health.”
“No, but he can swing by Art Huey’s and pick us up
some Chinese. What do you want?”
Judith’s attention, however, had been caught by the
TV screen. Sister Jacqueline was in living color,
speaking in front of Good Cheer Hospital. Judith
turned the sound back on.
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Mary Daheim
“. . . to clear our reputation,” Sister Jacqueline was
saying. “The general public doesn’t realize that every
time a person goes into surgery under a general anesthetic, they risk death. It’s simply a fact, which is why
hospitals require signed waivers before any procedure.
Sometimes, of course, there are extenuating circumstances.”
Mavis’s male coanchor reappeared, looking solemn.
“Statistically, the number of otherwise healthy patients
who die within a week of a surgical procedure is very
small. Good Cheer Hospital’s most recent deaths have
been local celebrities, thus bringing the long-time institution under scrutiny. It should also be pointed out
that Good Cheer is the only local hospital where orthopedic surgeries are performed. As chief of surgery
Dr. Peter Garnett said earlier, the statistics are bound
to be skewed when each hospital has its own specialties.”