Rip Your Heart Out

by Jeanne Glidewell

  "That's not the point!"

  "Then what is your point?" Sydney hollered. She appeared startled by her own vehemence. She froze as her gaze scanned the area, suddenly aware that two of her fellow nurses, the silver-haired patient in the hallway—who, along with his walker, had come to a standstill—and I were all captivated by the heated exchange. It was as if all four of us were hanging on the sisters' every word. Lowering her voice substantially, she spoke directly to Adelaide. "Get out of here, Addie! Go home! I have patients to tend to, and I can't discuss this with you here at the hospital. Besides, I'm not stupid, you know. I know the reason you've come here is to try and–"

  I couldn't make out the rest of the nurse's comment. I couldn't tread any slower without walking backwards, and Sydney had finished her statement in a whisper. I nearly lost my balance trying to make out the last few words. They sounded like, "wind the wold", which made no sense to me. Nor could I make them make sense by playing with similar words in my mind.

  However, whatever she had said had clearly had a powerful effect on her sparring partner, who wadded up the envelope she'd been clutching and threw it to the ground. Adelaide then turned and stomped off toward the elevators in a red-hot fury.

  Crapola! I said to myself as I held my breath in anticipation. What the bloody hell is in that envelope? My curiosity about its contents was now so overwhelming, I had to resist the urge to snatch the legal-sized envelope up off the floor and race down the hallway to the public restroom so I could lock myself in and read it.

  But I had to accept that whatever was inside the mysterious envelope was between the sisters. And Tasman, too, of course, who I hoped had more sense and compassion than Adelaide. Just then, Sydney picked up the crumpled envelope and tucked it into a corner of the "COW" next to her.

  I watched as the crimson-faced nurse scurried down the hallway, pushing the COW, or WOW, in front of her as she headed toward the very restroom I'd wanted to lock myself in. I figured she was going to hide out in there long enough to let the built-up steam inside of her diffuse while she examined whatever was on the paper that had so intrigued me. The temperature in the tiny room would probably be a good ten degrees higher by the time the overheated nurse exited.

  As much as I wanted to see the expression on Sydney's face when she came back out of the restroom, I was even more anxious to tell Rip everything I'd witnessed and experienced since I'd last seen him.

  When I arrived at Rip's bedside, however, I discovered my parade had already been rained on. He was sitting on the side of his hospital bed, breathing harder than usual, as if he'd just returned from a lengthy walk down the hallways of the cardiac ward. Before I could even greet him, he burst my bubble.

  "On the news this morning, they reported that they're initiating an investigation into the cause of Sydney's great-aunt's death. They have reason to suspect there was more to it than initially met the eye. They kind of implied that malpractice by hospital staff or nursing care negligence might've been responsible. But they also said they couldn't rule out foul play by someone outside the medical field. Crazy, huh?"

  "Yeah. Crazy." My crestfallen expression and unenthusiastic response went unnoticed by my oblivious husband. I'd forgotten he'd had the TV on every waking moment during his hospital stay, and most likely when he was asleep, as well. "Did they mention what had occurred to stir up this hornet's nest?"

  "Apparently someone was upset about the medical examiner's ruling and took their concerns to the police department. Sydney doesn't seem too happy about the development. And who could blame her?" Rip said. "Knowing about my law enforcement experience, she was in here earlier asking me questions about exhuming bodies and why they might have decided an autopsy was necessary two weeks after Aunt Mabel's burial. I explained there was no statute of limitations on murder, and that if the authorities were to exhume her aunt's body twenty years from now and found evidence of foul play, the perpetrator would be brought to justice just as if he'd committed the murder that very day."

  "Why was she so upset?"

  "She said her aunt's death had been a cut-and-dried case of heart failure due to complications following her double bypass. Understandably, she doesn't want to see the hospital's reputation or her own being dragged through the mud. Again, who can blame her? She was an emotional wreck when she discussed the situation with me."

  "I suspect she's under a great deal of pressure and had a lot of angst she needed to get off her chest. I just witnessed a blowup between her and her twin sister."

  "Her twin sister? Sydney never mentioned having a twin," Rip said. He appeared genuinely surprised.

  Cool, I thought. I actually do have some interesting information to share with him. I'd assumed she'd mentioned being a twin to him in one of their many conversations and he'd just forgotten to tell me. As it turned out, Rip had no inkling about Sydney's siblings, which delighted me! I knew I had piqued his interest when he picked up the TV remote, muted the sound, and smiled. "So, tell me about Sydney's twin. I can tell you are busting at the seams to share what you've learned."

  "Yes. I am, indeed. Adelaide Combs, who's an absolute holy terror, is Sydney's identical twin. Other than their clothing, I can't tell them apart. I guarantee you, if the two were standing here naked, side-by-side, you wouldn't be able to distinguish between them, either."

  Rip raised his eyebrows. For once, I couldn't decipher his expression. Was he wondering why I was so worked up, curious about why Sydney hadn't mentioned her twin to him, or simply visualizing the two young, good-looking women naked? I decided it was the latter when he responded, "I'm not sure my initial reaction would be to try and distinguish between the two."

  I shook my head. "Dirty old man! Seriously, Rip. It's almost freaky how identical they are. Physically, anyhow. Personality-wise, there seems to be no resemblance whatsoever."

  "Really? Isn't that unusual for identical twins?"

  "Very unusual. Or so I've heard."

  "What was their spat about?" Rip asked.

  "What else? Money. Adelaide also implied that Sydney might have had a hand in their aunt's death, which is hogwash. Sydney is not only an outstanding nurse, she's one of the warmest, kindest, most caring people we've ever met. Don't you agree?"

  "Absolutely," Rip said. "But that doesn't mean there's not a side to her character we aren't privy to. We can't judge her totally by her nursing persona. She does have a controlling manner that might make it difficult to be in a close relationship with her."

  I considered Rip's remarks for a few moments. While I tend to look only at the positive side of people I'm fond of, Rip delves deeper into their character. His career in law enforcement forced him to interact with people from all walks of life. During his tenure on the force, he'd dealt with the best of folks for certain. But he'd also come face-to-face with just the opposite: the worst of humanity, the scum of the earth, the dregs of society, and downright evil sociopaths who have no consciences whatsoever. Knowing what makes a person tick and, more importantly, what might make them come unglued to the point they might be dangerous, was crucial to how he approached any given situation. I trusted his instincts.

  "You're right, honey. I just feel bad for Sydney. Particularly if she's done nothing more than try to fulfill Aunt Mabel's final wishes and do what she thinks is best for everyone involved. Adelaide indicated Mabel might have owned something of value, but Sydney sounded skeptical about that. I can't see her trying to screw her sister and brother out of a single dime, can you?"

  "No, Rapella, I can't." Rip had heard me use a zillion clichés over the years, and he employed one of my most oft-used ones then to make his point. "Remember, you can't judge a nurse by her scrubs any more than you can judge a book by its cover. I could never have predicted that a male Olympic decathlon gold medalist would one day transition into becoming a woman, for example. And I'm not saying I have a problem with the Olympian's choice. Live and let live, as far as I'm concerned. I'm only saying things happen every single day that surp
rise and even shock me. Things I never could have imagined occurring, do occur, and on an incredibly frequent basis. There are a lot of people in the world who are remarkably skilled at putting on a front. In other words, there's only so much credit you can put into a gut feeling you have about someone. You always have to be prepared for the unexpected."

  "Yeah, I know. I just don't want to see such a sweet gal adversely affected if this whole thing blows up in her face."

  "Neither do I, honey. But if Cindy has nothing to hide–"

  "Good grief, Rip. Her name's Sydney."

  "What's the difference?"

  "The first syllable is pronounced 'sid', not 'sin'." I tried to think of a way to help Rip remember the nurse's name and decided applying his bucket list to the equation might do the trick. "You know how you're always saying you want to visit Australia before you croak? If we were there on vacation, would we be more apt to visit the town of Sydney or the town of Cindy?"

  "Well, Sydney, of course. But what's that got to do with anything?"

  "Never mind." Maybe, I thought, I should ask Dr. Murillo if he's sure he'd performed a triple-bypass operation on Rip and not a partial lobotomy. But then I recalled that Rip had had difficulty remembering names even before the cardiac surgery. If you were to ask him about the tools in his tool box, without a second's pause, he'd tell you he had thirteen screwdrivers, eleven kinds of pliers, three hammers, and twenty-seven wrenches, each with their own specific function—which he'd be delighted to elaborate on if you'd only inquire. He could also remember every phone number he'd dialed in the last ten years and who'd won the Superbowl for the last twenty. But ask him the names of his two grandchildren, and he'd have to think about it. Not remembering names was just one of his quirks, I guess. Lord knows I have a quirk or two myself. "Go on with what you were saying, Rip."

  "Now that you've interrupted and corrected me, I don't remember what I was saying."

  "You said, 'If Cindy has nothing to hide' before I broke in to gently remind you the nurse's name is Sydney," I said to prompt Rip's recollection.

  "Oh, yeah. That's right," Rip said. I wanted to smack the remote control out of his hand when he came out with his next remark. "So, anyway, if Cindy has nothing to hide, and doesn't deserve to have the truth behind her aunt's death blow up in her face, she should come out of this situation just fine. One way or another, it will work itself out."

  Rip wrapped his arms around my waist and gave me a warm embrace. As he hugged me, he simultaneously cranked up the volume on his television, and said, "Look how young Al Pacino was in this movie."

  I knew Rip's abrupt change of topic was designed to take my mind off an issue that was bothering me. And on a day like today, I welcomed the distraction.

  However, once the distraction had worn off, the niggling notion would rear its ugly head again. I knew it, and so did Rip. The idea I might be able to spare Sydney some unjustifiable grief would pop up in my mind—right out of the blue—numerous times in the next couple of days. Niggling notions had a way of doing that, you know.

  Chapter 13

  I returned to the Heart Shack and spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning. I was hungry and sore from hours of toiling, and looking forward to returning to the Chartreuse Caboose for a tequila sunrise, a bowl of chili, and some rest. And in precisely that order, I might add. On my way back to the RV park, I stopped at the cardiac center to make a brief visit with Rip. After a short chat, I walked out of his hospital room and nearly ran right into Sydney, who'd just exited the next room down the hall. I heard her say as she walked out the door, "Be right back. I need to go start an IV on a new patient."

  I smiled at Sydney. She nodded in response, clearly preoccupied. As I passed the room she'd just exited, I looked in and saw she'd left her computer-on-wheels behind. I could see the top of the envelope Adelaide had crumpled and thrown on the floor sticking up from behind the computer screen. Knowing Sydney would be busy with the IV insertion for a few minutes, I knew I'd have time to look at the contents of the envelope. But with two patients occupying the room, I'd have to look as if I was supposed to be there and had every right to mess around with items in and around the computer.

  Despite knowing I was putting myself at risk of being caught red-handed by pretending to be a cardiac center physician, it was the best idea I could come up with on short notice. I'd seen a hamper next to a room marked "soiled laundry".

  I walked briskly down the hallway to the over-flowing hamper and sorted through its contents until I found a plain white jacket that looked like the one several of the doctors who'd visited Rip's room had been wearing. It was too large for me, but it'd have to do.

  I told myself I'd have to remember to take a long shower when I returned to the trailer that evening to make sure I removed any trace of bacteria or fungi from my body after pawing through all of the dirty sheets, towels, and gowns. Back at the room where Sydney had left her COW, I noticed her stethoscope hanging from a hook right inside the door. I wrapped it around my neck and breezed into the room as if I was the director of the entire hospital. I'd seen the patients' names on a dry-erase board mounted on the wall just outside the room, so I turned to the patient in the first bed and said, "Good afternoon, Mrs. Quigley. How are you feeling today?"

  Stupid question to ask, I soon discovered. I should have said absolutely nothing and acted as if I was in deep thought, concentrating on a critical matter that could only be addressed from Sydney's rolling computer cart.

  "We're the Biggs. Mrs. Quigley's in the other bed. Who are you?" Mr. Biggs asked, speaking for his recuperating spouse. "I don't believe we've met before."

  "I'm Doctor, um, well, Dolittle. Dr. Dolittle." I was afraid they'd recognize the name Ripple from the dry-erase board outside Rip's room, and I hadn't taken the time to come up with a fictional name, so I'd said the first thing that came to mind. Past experience has taught me that's a dangerous thing for me to do.

  "Dr. Dolittle?" The man asked. "Your name is actually Dr. Dolittle, as in the movie where the doctor can communicate with animals?"

  "Yes. Ironic, huh?" Not only is it ironic, I wanted to say to Mr. Biggs, but it's appropriate, too, because I planned to do as little as possible while impersonating a physician. Would you have been less inquisitive had I'd chosen the second name that came to mind—Dr. Pepper? I laughed, and added in a joking manner, "And, I really do have a fascinating chat with my cat every day."

  After a polite chuckle, the man said, "Well, Dr. Dolittle, my wife seems to be having trouble breathing. What should we do?"

  "Well, uh, Mr. Biggs, if I were you, I'd call a nurse. On second thought, I'll go get one for you as soon as I finish my current task. It will only be a minute or so."

  "Didn't you say you were a doctor?"

  "Yes. But I didn't say I was a good one." I meant this to come off humorously, but the couple both looked at me as if wondering if they should call security, or pull on the cord that told the nurse station that a patient needs urgent attention. So, I quickly continued. "Just kidding, folks. Nurse Combs will be right back to assist you. I'll let her help you since you're her responsibility and I don't want to step on anyone's toes around here. You know how territorial these nurses can be."

  "Well, all right. I guess we'll just have to wait for her."

  "It shouldn't take long."

  I was relieved to see Mr. Biggs was content with my response. Mrs. Biggs wasn't saying anything, but that might have been because she wasn't getting enough oxygen to her brain.

  I pulled the envelope from beside the computer and withdrew the paper inside. I'd intended to scan the document, return it to the envelope quickly, and dart right back out of the room. I hadn't expected to have any interaction with either patient or their spouses. I should have realized that was nothing but a pipe dream. After waiting hours to speak to a doctor when he made his rounds, I knew from personal experience that the first thing you do when one finally enters your room is to start shooting questions at him.
r />   "Is my wife still scheduled for a chest x-ray this afternoon?" Mr. Biggs asked.

  Before I could think of a response, a male voice shouted from behind the curtain dividing the two beds. He'd obviously been listening in on my exchange with the Biggs couple. "Dr. Dolittle! Come quickly. My wife needs help getting up to go to the restroom."

  Oh boy! I thought. If I help the recent heart surgery patient shuffle across the room to the john, at a likely "glacier-melting" speed, I'll never get out of this room before Sydney returns. But what else could I do? Once again, before I could come up with a response, Mr. Quigley spoke again.

  "Too late. Clara just soiled herself. Oh, good Lord," Mr. Quigley said. He sounded as if he was trying not to gag. "It's all over her and the bed."

  My first thought was not something I'd want to repeat, but the four-letter "s" word would have been quite appropriate. Then I realized the patient losing control of her bowels was actually a stroke of luck because now Mrs. Quigley wouldn't need assistance getting to the restroom. That smelly ship had already sailed. So I did the only thing I could at that point. I said, "I'll send a nurse in right away to clean up the mess and put fresh linens on the bed. She can also tell you, Mr. Biggs, what time your wife's x-ray is scheduled."

  And then I bolted as if I'd just discovered a suicide bomber in bed two. I re-hung the stethoscope on the hook on my way out, and then ripped off my jacket and tossed it into the hamper as I tore up the hallway. I darted into Rip's room just as Sydney walked out of a patient's room three doors down.

  "I thought you left," Rip said.

  "I did, but then I saw the envelope I told you about on Sydney's COW and I brought it in here to read." He didn't need to know the details of my acquisition. He was recovering from major surgery and should be under as little stress as possible.

  "You took the envelope off her cart? Don't you think that's kind of an invasion of her privacy, Rapella?"

  "Yes, of course it is, dear. And I'm not proud of myself for doing it. But what's done is done. Now hush up for a moment so I can scan through it quickly." As I spoke, Rip looked at me like I'd just stolen the crown jewels from the Tower of London.