by Elaine Viets
“I’ll do it,” Helen said. She wondered what Blossom would think if she knew Arthur’s daughter was paying her to be in that room.
“Thank you so much,” Blossom said. “Do you have any questions?”
Lots, Helen thought, but she only asked one. “I thought Mr. Zerling would be on a ventilator. Did the doctor remove it?”
“No, I asked that Arthur be taken off that horrible thing,” Blossom said. “I want him to be comfortable.”
CHAPTER 7
Arthur Zerling looked like a corpse in a hospital gown. His scrawny chest barely moved. Helen thought the machines attached to him seemed more alive. They beeped softly and produced squiggly lines and colorful numbers on multiple monitors.
She was grateful he was still breathing. She had kept the final vigil by her mother’s deathbed. In a crisis, those machines would flash, screech and summon a medical army. Then Helen would be sent packing.
She could hardly believe this shriveled man had incited such strong passions. Arthur had courted death with a potent cocktail of vanity and Viagra to love his beautiful wife. Was he an old fool or a man grasping at a last chance for a full life?
His daughter, Violet, seethed with jealousy and hatred after her father’s marriage. She believed her father would get well if she took over his care. Helen didn’t. She was no expert, but Arthur looked nearly dead. She agreed with Blossom: Arthur would not recover.
And Blossom—what about her? How could a young woman have sex with this wreck? Helen thought of her own honeymoon with Phil and tried not to imagine this bag of bones in her bed. Was Blossom really attracted by Arthur’s strength and vitality—or to the possibility that she would soon be his wealthy widow?
Arthur, you are a man of mystery, Helen thought. But she was here as his minister as well as his bodyguard. She had to pray for Arthur Zerling. She paged to the back of her mother’s Catholic Bible and found the section on the seven sacraments: Baptism, Confirmation, Confession, Marriage—that one got Arthur into this mess.
She skipped over Holy Communion, averted her eyes when she saw Holy Orders and riffled through more pages until she found the Sacrament of the Sick.
“Formerly known as the Last Sacrament or Extreme Unction,” Helen read. “The priest anoints the suffering person with olive oil.”
I don’t have any olive oil, she thought. But it is a heart-healthy oil. Maybe I could find some in the hospital cafeteria. Helen derailed that train of thought, disgusted with herself. She wasn’t a priest and she sure didn’t feel like a minister. She was here to pray for the sick man. Anyone could do that. She didn’t need olive oil.
Helen read, “The Sacrament of the Sick commends those who are ill to the suffering and glorified Lord, that he may raise them up and save them.”
She took Arthur’s limp hand and tried to pray: “God, please save Arthur, if that’s possible. Or give him a peaceful death and forgive his sins, if he has any. Of course he has sins. Forgive mine, too, while you’re at it.”
That wasn’t a good prayer. It was too much about her and not enough about him. Helen tried again.
“Please let Violet, his daughter, feel her father’s love. Make the hatred that torments her go away. Comfort his wife—unless, of course, she killed him. Then give her the justice she deserves.”
Still not a satisfactory prayer, but at least it was about Arthur. What a fraud I am, Helen thought. I can’t even pray properly.
Arthur’s hand twitched and then was still. The machines continued their monotonous missions while Helen searched for a better prayer. She finally settled on the Our Father. That was comfort food for the Christian soul, she decided. She recited the timeless prayer. Duty done, she pulled an Agatha Christie paperback out of her surveillance purse to read an old favorite, The Body in the Library.
She found her own comfort in Miss Marple’s observations about the evil in everyday life. She enjoyed the old woman’s gentle rebuke to the police that most people “are far too trusting for this wicked world.”
The ding of the elevator and the hiss of the medical machinery blended into a soothing background symphony.
Just as Miss Marple was unmasking the killers at the seaside resort, Helen was startled by a loud announcement from a stern female voice. “Visiting hours will be over in five minutes at eight o’clock,” the voice said. “Please turn in your ID badges at the front desk. Good night.”
Was it really going on eight o’clock?
She stood up and stretched. The tall-backed turquoise visitor’s chair failed to give the comfort it had promised. Helen felt like she’d been sitting on a stone. And where was Blossom? She’d been gone almost three hours, long enough for a hot shower and a meal.
Helen walked to the nurses’ station. Nurse Abbott was still on duty, making notes in a thick chart. Helen studied the woman. Her short graying hair gave the nurse a mature, serious look. She had an air of competence and confidence that made Helen want to trust her. But should she? She remembered Miss Marple’s warning as if the old woman had been knitting in Arthur’s room.
Nurse Abbott reached into a box of Godiva chocolate the size of a silverware chest. Helen remembered Violet saying that Blossom had bribed the nurses with a lavish assortment. Helen estimated the box held more than a hundred pieces of light, dark and white chocolate. Her stomach growled loudly.
Nurse Abbott looked up and asked, “May I help you, Reverend?”
“Just taking a break,” Helen said. “I thought Blossom would be back by now.”
The nurse unwrapped a dark chocolate and bit into it. Helen watched the caramel ooze out. Her favorite. There was another loud rumble from Helen’s stomach.
Nurse Abbott ignored it. “That poor thing needs a little time away,” she said. “She sat with her husband for eleven hours straight. Caretakers must take care of themselves, too. If you need a short break, I’ll keep an eye on Mr. Zerling.”
“I would like a cup of coffee,” Helen said. “I’ll be back in half an hour.”
She ran down the stairs to the courtyard. The concrete was littered with cigarette butts and the air was thick with stale smoke. Most of the smokers wore hospital scrubs. Didn’t the staff know cigarettes caused cancer?
Helen fished out her cell phone and found a message from Phil. He was practically crowing. “You’re speaking to an estate manager,” he said. “Blossom hired me. It’s six thirty. I start work at nine tomorrow morning. I’ll stop for dinner before I go home. See you when I see you. I love you.”
Poor wilted Blossom went home and found enough energy to interview a new estate manager? She’d hired Phil an hour and a half ago. Helen wondered if her hot, silver-haired man had given Blossom a new interest in life—and frisky ideas.
Surely not. But where was she? Blossom had had enough time to eat, shower, even take a nap.
Helen called Phil’s cell phone. No answer. She left a message that she was still sitting with Arthur Zerling and waiting for Blossom to return to the hospital. Next she called Nancie and gave her report.
“Did the wife let you in his room?” the lawyer asked.
“Blossom couldn’t wait to get out of the ICU,” Helen said. “Not that I blame her. She’d been sitting with Arthur since six this morning. She said she needed a shower and food. She ran home and hired Phil.”
“I know,” Nancie said. “He already checked in. How does Arthur look?”
“Bad,” Helen said. “And our client didn’t tell us everything.”
“They never do,” Nancie said. “What do I need to know?”
“Violet made such a scene in the ICU that security had to escort her out. She accused Blossom of murdering her father.”
“Terrific,” Nancie said. “Blossom could sue our client for slander if she decides to go after Violet.”
“She’ll probably win,” Helen said. “Blossom has looks and charm.”
“Any more bad news?” Nancie asked.
“I’m no doctor, but Arthur looks like he hasn’t much
time left. If I hadn’t seen that photo, I wouldn’t believe it was the same man. Blossom said the doctors told her Arthur could die any time now. She had him taken off the ventilator.”
“Like I said, that’s her right as next of kin,” Nancie said.
“Arthur is still breathing on his own, but who knows how long he’ll last,” Helen said.
“I’d better tell Violet,” Nancie said. “If the wife’s not there, she might be able to get in and see her father one last time.”
“Don’t get her hopes up,” Helen said. “The nurse on duty doesn’t like Violet.”
The hospital cafeteria was closed. Helen had a cup of vending machine coffee and a sandwich made with stale bread, gray meat and soapy-tasting cheese. By eight thirty, she was back in the ICU. There was still no sign of Blossom.
“No change in Mr. Zerling,” Nurse Abbott said briskly. Helen saw a golden mound of candy wrappers by her computer. She longed for a chocolate to take away the taste of her awful meal.
Helen settled into the iron embrace of the visitor’s chair and took out her paperback. Miss Marple would have to get her through the night. At eight fifty-five, Helen heard a woman shout, “Please! You have to let me in. I must see my father before it’s too late.” She recognized Violet Zerling’s tearful plea and ran out to see her client arguing with Nurse Abbott.
The two sturdy women stood nose to nose. Violet looked like she was wearing a sackcloth pantsuit. She couldn’t get around the roadblock in scrubs.
“I have my orders, Ms. Zerling,” Nurse Abbott said. “You are not allowed to see Mr. Zerling.”
“But he’s dying,” Violet cried. “I want to see my daddy before he dies. I want to say good-bye.”
Helen stepped between them. Violet backed off. Nurse Abbott didn’t move.
“Please, Nurse, I’m asking as the family minister. Is there any way Violet can visit her father to say good-bye?”
“Orders are orders and she’s not allowed,” Nurse Abbott said. She seemed to savor her power as much as the chocolate.
“You can’t refuse this request,” Helen said.
“I can and I will,” Nurse Abbott said. “This woman disturbed the whole floor last time. She’s banned from the ICU.”
“She’s Arthur’s only child,” Helen said.
“She’s hardly a child,” Nurse Abbott said, and glared at the large woman.
“At least call Mrs. Zerling and ask if she’ll change her mind,” Helen said. “Please.” She watched the nurse punch in the number for Blossom’s cell.
“No answer,” Nurse Abbott said, not bothering to hide her triumph.
“How do I even know you called her?” Violet said.
“Then you try,” Nurse Abbott said.
Helen took out her phone, punched in Blossom’s cell number and heard, “This is Blossom Zerling. Please leave a message.”
“Voice mail,” she reported.
“This is Helen Hawthorne,” she said into her phone. “Violet is at the ICU with me and she wants to say good-bye to her father. I’ll stay with her in the room. Please, in the name of charity, let Violet say good-bye to Arthur.”
“Told you,” the nurse said, her voice triumphant. “Do you want to see Mrs. Zerling’s written orders? I have them.”
Violet opened her mouth, but Helen cut her off. “That’s not necessary.”
“None of this is necessary,” Nurse Abbott said. “I have critically ill patients to care for. I’m going to do you one more favor, Ms. Zerling. I won’t call security if you leave now.”
Violet erupted into quiet tears. Helen put her arm around the weeping woman and led her out of the ICU toward the elevator.
“I wanted to say good-bye,” Violet said, sniffling and blinking back more tears. “I wanted Daddy to know I love him.”
“He already knows,” Helen said. She pressed the elevator button for Violet. “I have to go back to the ICU. You go home and rest. I’ll keep you posted.”
Nurse Abbott tried to justify herself as Helen passed her desk. “I really couldn’t let her in,” she said, popping another chocolate into her mouth. “I’d lose my job.”
Helen didn’t answer. She sat down in the visitor’s chair and took out her book. At nine seventeen, she heard Arthur’s breathing change dramatically. First it was deeper and faster—then it stopped altogether and started up again. Helen’s mother had sounded that way before she died. Arthur’s room was alive with beeping and shrieking alarms. Helen ran for Nurse Abbott, but she’d already called “Code Blue.”
“In the hall,” she commanded, shoving Helen out of her way. Staff flooded into Arthur’s room. Someone issued terse commands. The privacy blinds on Arthur’s window snapped shut, blocking Helen’s view.
Helen called Blossom’s cell phone. Still no answer. “Your husband has taken a turn for the worse,” Helen said. “Please hurry.”
With that, Helen heard footsteps running down the hall and Blossom came flying through the ICU door.
“What’s wrong?” she said, fast and frantic. “Why aren’t you with Arthur?”
“I tried to reach you,” Helen said.
“I was caught in traffic on I-95,” Blossom said. “There was a terrible accident. What’s going on?”
“I’m afraid the news isn’t good,” Helen said, trying to prepare her.
Nurse Abbott came out of the room, looking shell-shocked. She took Blossom’s arm and started to lead her to the family lounge. “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Zerling. Your husband—”
Blossom screamed before the nurse finished her sentence.
CHAPTER 8
Blossom’s scream stopped abruptly, as if someone had hit a switch. Helen found the sudden silence shocking. Blossom swayed slightly, then suddenly pitched forward.
Nurse Abbott caught the new widow before she hit the floor and held her in a strong grip. Blossom’s head drooped and her face was lily-white.
“Nice catch,” Helen said.
“Years of practice,” the nurse said. “I’m good at spotting when they’re going to drop.”
Helen realized her comment wasn’t very clerical and tried to make amends for her insensitivity with a concerned question. “Is Blossom okay?”
“I think so. Low blood sugar and stress, most likely,” the nurse said. “I’ll check her vitals. Grab that wheelchair there and we’ll take her to the family lounge. If something’s really wrong, we can wheel her straight to the ER.”
Nurse Abbott gently lowered Blossom into the chair and rolled her toward the lounge.
Helen thought its mournful shades of mauve and gray were the perfect place to take a new widow. The blaring TV added to the depressing atmosphere. Helen found the remote and turned down the volume.
Blossom started to come around as they entered the lounge. She shook her head, then ran her fingers through her long brown hair and sighed.
“Welcome back,” Nurse Abbott said, helping her onto a mauve couch.
“I’m sorry to be so much trouble,” Blossom said. “I know you’re busy.”
“Your husband just passed away,” Nurse Abbott said. “You don’t have to apologize for being human.” She pulled a flat hospital pillow and a thin blanket from a cabinet and settled the woman comfortably on the couch. Then she checked Blossom’s pulse and blood pressure.
“Both normal,” she reported. “How do you feel now?”
“Fine,” Blossom said. “No, I’m not fine. I feel terrible. Arthur’s dead. I should have been with him when it happened.” A single tear slid down her cheek. Her face looked like it had been dusted with flour. “Because of me, my poor husband died alone.”
“He wasn’t alone,” Helen said. “I was with him. Arthur had a peaceful passing.”
She remembered Nurse Abbott pushing her out of the way and the staff running into Arthur’s room and wondered if that was true.
“He didn’t feel any pain,” Nurse Abbott said. “He wouldn’t have known if you were there.”
“But I know,” Blos
som said. “I failed my husband in his final moments.”
“Nonsense,” Nurse Abbott said. “You need some food.”
Blossom wept quietly. Helen handed her a fistful of tissues from a box on the side table, then patted Blossom’s cold hand. The silence stretched between them. Helen wished she could say something comforting but couldn’t find the right words.
She was relieved when Nurse Abbott rushed in with two packs of graham crackers and a cold container of orange juice. “Drink the orange juice,” she commanded. “It will help your blood sugar. Would you like a sandwich?”
“No, thanks,” Blossom said, and started weeping again. “I ate dinner. How could I eat when Arthur was dying?”
“You have to keep up your strength,” Nurse Abbott said. “Life goes on.”
“Can I say good-bye to Arthur now?” Blossom asked.
“We’re getting him tidied up,” Nurse Abbott said.
“Was he”—Blossom hesitated—“hurt?”
“Not at all,” Nurse Abbott said. “But we want to disconnect the IV lines and monitors and clean him up a little. As soon as he’s ready, you can be with him.”
“Thank you,” Blossom said. “You’ve been so good to me—to us.” Her voice wobbled.
“Just doing my job,” Nurse Abbott said. “Reverend, if you’ll stay with Blossom, I have to get back to my patients.”
She marched briskly out of the lounge, leaving Helen and Blossom in the gloomy room with the television. A screaming red BREAKING NEWS banner interrupted the ten o’clock local newscast. An aerial view of a massive traffic jam on I-95 appeared on the screen. An overturned tractor-trailer sprawled across the highway. Flames were devouring the cab as firefighters sprayed it.
“There it is,” Blossom said. “That’s the accident that kept me away from Arthur.”
She reached for the clicker on the coffee table and turned up the sound. The announcer said, “The driver of the truck escaped injury. But the highway remains blocked from Sunrise to Commercial Boulevard. The Broward County Sheriff’s Office urges drivers to seek another route until the highway is cleared. We’ll bring you more live updates on News Channel …”