Rip Your Heart Out

by Jeanne Glidewell

  "Okay, Sydney." I decided there was no sense wasting time trying to convince the no-nonsense nurse that I wasn't having visions or mental issues. "There are several things I'd like to discuss with you that have nothing to do with the man I met today or even with cleaning. For example; all of the door hinges need to be sprayed with graphite, WD-40, or something to eliminate the squeaking sound they make when opened or closed. It's like fingernails on a chalkboard and makes my teeth ache. And that's saying a lot for someone who wears a full set of dentures."

  Sydney chuckled at my remark. "I know. I hate it too. Makes the place seem a bit sinister, if you ask me."

  "A bit sinister? I'm not sure how your aunt stood it. How much did she tell you she was paying this caretaker, anyway?" I'd reverted back to the subject of the puzzling Irish gentleman because I couldn't shake the uneasy feeling I had about him.

  "She never said." Sydney suddenly looked as if she'd rather talk about rodeo clowns, tumbleweeds, or even hemorrhoid ointments than her aunt's caretaker. She clammed up and glanced around, obviously looking for an excuse to escape from my prying questions.

  "Well, I'll ask him, dear. You can be sure of that. It's a wonder your aunt didn't fall through her own front porch and break a few bones with this dude minding the store. 'Ignoring the store' is more accurate from what I've seen so far. The entire place has been woefully neglected for a long time. It's no small wonder the roof doesn't leak, like rain water passing through a sieve. The missing and loose boards on the front porch are nothing but a lawsuit waiting to happen."

  "Yes, I know." Sydney appeared embarrassed after my blathering on and on about the pitiful condition of her aunt's home.

  I instantly regretted my disparaging remarks, despite the fact I was merely stating the obvious. I hadn't considered the fact that perhaps there was a valid reason the place had not been maintained properly.

  After a moment of silence, Sydney continued, "But that's water under the bridge now. The punch list to be handled by Wiley Burke Construction includes fixing the porch and stairs, among many other things."

  "That's good."

  "Yeah." Sydney looked down at her watch. "You know, I probably should get back to work."

  I decided it best to change the subject. It was obvious the current topic was making the nurse uncomfortable, and I had another matter to discuss with her before she wandered off. "My only other concern at the moment is Goofus. He doesn't appear to care for me much."

  "Goofus doesn't care much for anyone." Sydney perked up, seemingly relieved the conversation had veered away from the condition of her aunt's home. "He's loud and obnoxious, but basically harmless."

  "So he won't bite my finger off if I open the cage to feed him? For a one-pound pet, he's very intimidating."

  "Don't worry. He's all mouth and no bite." Sydney laughed and I chuckled along, but wasn't totally convinced the easily agitated bird was harmless. Noticing my unease, the nurse added, "Try singing to Goofus while you're feeding him. It usually calms him right down."

  "Um, okay." I could barely stand to listen to myself sing. I was pretty sure Goofus wouldn't be impressed with my crooning, either. "I'm not much of a singer, Sydney. Listening to me sing might have the opposite effect on Goofus. Instead of calming him down, he might choose to use one of those sharp talons on his feet to slash his own throat. Or, worse yet, slash mine."

  "Don't be silly, Rapella. It's not like you'll be auditioning in front of Simon Cowell, you know. Goofus is not judgmental at all. He just seems soothed by the rhythmic sound of music."

  "Well, if you say so. I'm not sure anyone would describe my singing as rhythmic, or even musical, but I'll give it a whirl. Does he have a favorite song, or genre?" My entire repertoire of memorized songs included no more than about a dozen tunes, most of which came from the soundtrack of the Disney movies that played on our TV all the time when our daughter Regina was a youngster.

  "He likes pretty much all music, but for some reason he's partial to the song, 'Who Let the Dogs Out'."

  "Okay, great. I'll try that," I replied, as if it was a song I chanted regularly while I soaped up in the shower. I could recite every word of "The Bare Necessities" from Disney's The Jungle Book. But I wasn't at all familiar with "Who Let the Dogs Out". I could always Google it, though. Learning how to search the web while visiting the Alexandria Inn the previous summer had opened up a whole new world for me.

  Thinking about the inn reminded me that I needed to call Lexie Starr, who, along with her husband, owned the B & B in Rockdale, Missouri. She and Stone would want to know where we were and what was going on with regard to Rip's recent health crisis. Speaking with Lexie always raised my spirits, and my spirits were in desperate need of raising just then.

  Before returning to her duties, Sydney assured me the contractors would be starting on the needed repairs in a couple of days, if not sooner. "Hopefully the cleaning crew will be arriving this afternoon, too, or at least no later than tomorrow. Let them know if there's anything special they need to attend to that might get overlooked."

  "Will do, sweetie," I responded. There was a lot that needed to be attended to that could not be overlooked. That evening, as I sat in the trailer with a fat gray cat who'd be ignoring me like I was nothing but a month-old newspaper lying on the sofa, I was going to consider all that needed to be done at the Heart Shack. I'd make up my own punch list for the cleaning crew and another one for the construction crew. I could then pass on any concerns or suggestions when they arrived to begin work.

  I planned to make today's visit with my husband a short one. I was anxious to get started on the Heart Shack and had brought along a mop, broom, and bucket of miscellaneous cleaning supplies from the Chartreuse Caboose. What would have been a year's supply of products for our travel trailer would be lucky to last me until noon in Aunt Mabel's house. Luckily there was a dollar store just a block or so away from the house where I could replenish my supplies if needed.

  I wanted be there to oversee the cleaning crew's work. Even though I planned to help, there was a limit to what I could accomplish on my own. My first plan of attack was to fling open all the drapes and let the sun shine in. The interior of the home was dark and gloomy and more than a little spooky. Just brightening the rooms would make the place scads more appealing and, hopefully, make me less edgy.

  I'd see about having all the drapes professionally dry-cleaned, as well. There had to be at least a half-century's worth of dust, dirt, grime and spider webs embedded in the heavy fabric, probably accounting for at least a third of their weight. The dry-cleaning fee wouldn't be cheap, but it was a necessity, and it'd be at the heart center's expense. I was always a lot more liberal about spending money when the dough belonged to someone else. In fact, if I could convince the powers that be to replace the drapes with vertical blinds, that'd be even better. The place would not only look brighter, but more stylish. Drapes went out of style with olive-drab shag carpeting and linoleum flooring several decades ago. If the structure was being utilized as a museum, one would want to keep it in line with the era it'd been built. But knowing it was going to be used as temporary housing for the family of heart patients, it should be a cheerful retreat full of light, optimism, and hope.

  * * *

  My husband wasn't very pleasant company after his conversation with Dr. Murillo, who'd been making his morning rounds when he'd paused to speak with Rip. I'd heard the surgeon say, "Your lab work looks normal, which is good. However, physically, you aren't quite ready. Before I kick you out of here, I need to see more cogency, more assiduity, and a lot more sedulity on your part."

  Dr. Murillo might as well have been speaking in Mandarin Chinese for all my husband understood of what the surgeon had just told him. I was the one who enjoyed doing crossword puzzles, while Rip preferred to be watching, for the twenty-second time, as Apollo Creed got beat to death in Rocky IV.

  I'd always found it frustrating when a physician spoke to us in medical jargon instead of layman's terms
. In the same vein, there was no logical reason for using hoity-toity words when everyday language was ultimately more beneficial to the patient.

  The cardiac surgeon scurried on to evaluate his next patient. Walking beside him, I responded to Rip's questioning look as he slowly made his way around the cardiac ward, grumbling non-stop about the physical anguish he was enduring. "He said you need to get off your ass and on your feet. He wants to see more strength, endurance, and determination. Basically, he wants you to grow a backbone and show some spunk and grit. You refusing to get in as much exercise as they're recommending will only keep you here for a lot longer. And he's not going to be swayed by any begging from you, either."

  "Wow! He said all that?"

  "Yes, he did."

  "The doctor was kind of mean, wasn't he?"

  "No, he was being frank."

  "Really? Well, then, I don't much care for Frank anymore." Rip laughed at his own wisecrack, but I didn't see any humor in his stubbornness.

  "Since Dr. Murillo said you need to get with the program as far as the walking is concerned, I think from now on, whenever you're walking the halls and you feel like you can't go one more round, you should suck it up and walk another two rounds."

  "Are you trying to kill me, woman?"

  "No, I'm trying to save your life. As they say: no guts, no glory."

  "I don't want glory," he muttered, as he turned to shuffle back toward his room. He then made another attempt at levity that I didn't find funny, either. "What I want is a cheeseburger in my gut."

  "Well, you can want in one hand, and you-know-what in the other, and see which fills up first. The fear of losing you took ten years off my life. We are not going to go through all of this for you to turn right around and see how fast you can plug up your arteries again."

  "It took sixty-nine years for those arteries to plug up, and–"

  "And, it will take me about sixty-nine seconds to go speak to your nurse. I'm thinking what you need is a booster dose of Nurse Combs." I knew Rip was only joking with me. I had witnessed a new determination in his attitude after the devoted nurse had got hold of him. I'd watched her tear him a new one without ever raising her voice or losing her patience. I had silently applauded her every word.

  After listening to him complain about his "low-fat, low-sodium, zero-taste supper" the previous evening, Nurse Comb had explained, in no uncertain terms, that bypass surgery lowers the risk, but does not prevent, heart attacks. "The same waxy build-up, called plaque, that blocked blood-flow through the arteries to your heart can block the carotid arteries leading to your brain and cause a stroke. It can also block the blood flow to your legs and cause an excruciating condition called PAD, or Peripheral Artery Disease. In addition, it can block the blood flow to your kidneys, causing RAS, or Renal Artery Stenosis, and eventually renal failure."

  "Right now I'm suffering from STD. Nobody seems to care about that," Rip mumbled.

  "What?" Sydney asked, looking as befuddled as I felt. I knew if Rip had an STD, he didn't get it from me. The nurse asked, "You have a sexually transmitted disease?"

  "No, not hardly. I'm talking about STD, as in starving to death. I've noticed you medical folks prefer to speak in acronyms, so I simplified it for you." Rip was clearly amused by his pun. When neither Sydney nor I cracked a smile, Rip added, "Man, this is a tough crowd today."

  "You are not starving to death, Clyde." The nurse's use of his given name had made Rip sit up and take notice. Sydney looked over her glasses at Rip as she spoke. "If you ate what the kitchen staff brought you, you wouldn't feel hungry all of the time. I realize the meals here are not prepared by Cordon Blue chefs, but it's not as unsavory as you'd have us believe. The nourishment is critical to help rebuild your strength."

  "Yes, ma'am." It was clear Rip's stand-up routine had reached its conclusion when he responded sheepishly before the nurse continued lecturing him.

  "You would not care for thrice-weekly dialysis treatments, Mr. Ripple. You have my word on that. By making a number of healthy lifestyle changes, all of the painful and potentially fatal conditions, like the renal failure I just described, can be avoided."

  He had taken note of her warnings that previous evening and vowed to do all he could to prevent further damage to his circulatory system. It was the nurse's dire predictions of what would likely occur should he spurn the idea of exercising that finally got him up on his feet and moving. However, he still wasn't moving enough to satisfy Dr. Murillo and was discouraged by his surgeon's words of chastisement. His disappointment had him acting childishly, and I thought the threat of fetching the nurse to give him another round of reprimands might be effective. And it was.

  "Should I go fetch Sydney Combs and see what she thinks about it?" I asked my defiant husband.

  "Oh, please, no. Don't get Nurse Ratched on my case again! I will do what I'm told. I promise." He often kidded Sydney, comparing her to the wicked nurse in Ken Kasey's One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.

  I knew Rip had had high hopes of getting to go home that afternoon, and I felt sorry for him when I sensed his disappointment. Following his exchange with Dr. Murillo, I could almost see the wind being sucked out from under Rip's wings. It was like someone had stuck a hat pin into an inflated balloon. The good-natured manner he'd been displaying when I'd first arrived spewed out of him like a whoosh of helium being released. He turned and walked sullenly back to his room, and I followed quietly. He plopped himself down on the side of his bed a little more forcefully than he should have.

  "Umph," he exhaled loudly. He snatched his pillow to put pressure on his sore chest, and said, "I think no matter what I do, they'll have me chained to this bed for another–"

  Before Rip could get fully invested in his most recent pout-fest, I interrupted. "As much as I'd love to stick around and chat, darling, I need to get busy making our new accommodations ready for you. You'll be out of here in no time, as long as you are vigilant about getting up and walking the halls as often as possible. In the meantime, I want to make the Heart Shack clean and comfortable. It will help make your recovery process easier."

  "Don't you want to stick around to watch Dr. Murillo yank these drainage tubes out of my chest? He said they're coming out this afternoon. A fun time will be had by all, I'm sure."

  "As enjoyable as that sounds, Rip, I really need to get to cleaning as soon as possible."

  "Well, okay, but–"

  Not letting him voice another objection, I leaned over and kissed Rip on the mouth. "Sydney said having the tubes removed was not as bad as it sounds. Just man-up, dear. I'll be back this evening to sit with you for a while. Behave now, and do what the medical staff advises you to do. Unless, of course, you want to be chained to that bed this time next week."

  "Oh, horse feathers!" Rip's retort was loud enough to be heard at the nurse's station three doors down the hallway.

  "Shush," I said, my finger against my closed lips.

  "She's right, Sir Whines-a-Lot," Sydney said, as she dashed into the room. I swear the woman had the room bugged, the hearing of a red-tailed hawk, or possessed an extraordinarily keen sixth sense. "Keep it up, Clyde, and I will personally chain you to that bed. Turns out, police officers aren't the only people who have handcuffs. And don't bother asking me why I own a pair." She laughed, winked at me, and patted Rip's feet to let him know she was only messing with him. She'd quickly learned that using Rip's given name, which was printed on his hospital wrist band, was a reliable way of putting a peck of prickly burrs under his saddle.

  She turned and grabbed her stethoscope off the window ledge next to Rip's bed, where she'd set it after checking his blood pressure earlier, and sprinted back out of the room, all without missing a step. Obviously, she'd been in the process of taking another patient's vitals when she realized she'd left her stethoscope behind in Rip's room.

  As usual, I wanted to applaud the nurse's remarks. Knowing a clap of my hands would not sit well with my husband, I flashed a smug smile at Rip instead
, and dashed out of his room before the cranky sourpuss could utter a grumpy response. I had grimy floors to mop, daunting drapes to take down, and a dust mite killing spree to go on. And, although I didn't know it at the time, I was about to have a murderer to hunt down, as well.

  Chapter 11

  When I walked into the foyer of the Heart Shack a few minutes later, I came face-to-face with Sydney Combs. Or so I thought. We stared at each other in silence. She appeared as shocked as I felt.

  "Who are you?" The woman's voice was anything but welcoming.

  "Huh? What do you mean, who am I?" Now I was just plain dumbfounded. How could the gal not recognize me? I'd just spoken with her a few minutes ago. It was as if it were she who'd been inflicted with Alzheimer's rather than her aunt. "How in tarnation did you beat me here? You were talking to another patient when I passed by her room on my way out of the cardiac ward."

  "I think you're referring to my sister, Sydney."

  "Oh." It suddenly occurred to me then that the woman in front of me was wearing a jogging suit rather than hospital scrubs. Sydney had mentioned in passing that she had two siblings, a sister and brother, but failed to mention her sister was an identical twin. If not for the fact Sydney couldn't possibly have changed and beat me to the Heart Shack, I'd have been certain she was playing a trick on me.

  "So you and Sydney are twins, I see. How nice. If you're anything like your sister, and I assume you are, I adore you already. Sydney has made my life so much easier by getting my husband to toe the line. If not for her, I don't know what–"

  I ceased talking abruptly when I realized Sydney's twin was stoically staring at me with her hands on her hips and an impatient look on her face. I'd been rambling on to give myself a chance to recover from the shock of feeling as if the woman I was praising had magically teleported herself from the hospital to the Heart Shack's foyer.