Suture Self

by Mary Daheim

  “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?”

  “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, replacing 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 Lean-Brodie 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 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 with 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.

  “…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.”

  The camera angle expanded to include Mavis. “Thanks, Paul,” she said with a grim smile. “I guess I’ll think twice before I get those bone spurs removed.” Paul dutifully chuckled. Mavis announced they were cutting to a commercial break.

  “Face-lift,” Renie said. “She’s had two already. Pretty soon her ears are going to be sticking out from the top of her head.”

  “The hospital had to expect some bad publicity,” Judith remarked, ignoring Renie’s comment and muting the TV again. “I’m surprised there hasn’t been more about it in the newspapers.”

  “So am I,” Renie said, dumping her entire tray in the wastebasket beside her bed. “I wonder if the Times has muzzled Addison Kirby. You know, Joan Fremont’s husband who covers city hall.”

  “You think so?” Judith remarked, then realized that Renie had hung up the phone without speaking to Bill. “Hey, what about your Chinese order?”

  Renie let out an exasperated little sigh. “The anesthesia must have affected my brain. I’m told it can, especially your memory. I forgot that Bill never answers the phone, especially around the dinner hour. Why don’t you call Joe?”

  Judith hesitated. Joe had plenty of responsibilities on his shoulders now that Judith was completely incapacitated. “I kind of hate to. We don’t live as close to Art Huey’s as you and Bill do.”

  “Okay.” Renie picked up the phone again. “Art Huey’s Restaurant,” she said. “Yes, you can dial it for me.”

  “You’re going to have them deliver our dinner?” Judith asked, taken aback. “Is that allowed?”

  “Who knows? Who cares? I’m paying for it. Yes, this is Mrs. Jones, and I’d like to order the prawn chow yuk, the wonton soup, the…” Renie listed another half-dozen items, then gave some special instructions: “Tell the people at the front desk you’re visiting Mrs. Jones. Put the stuff in a plain cardboard box and throw one of those plastic geraniums on top. There’s a big tip in it for you if the food arrives hot.”

  “If the food arrives at all,�
� Judith remarked as Renie hung up. “Do you think whoever brings it can get past the desk?”

  “Yes,” Renie declared, clicking on the old-fashioned gooseneck lamp next to the bed. “Now dump that crap off your tray and settle back. I should have ordered a couple of drinks while I was at it.”

  “We can’t drink,” Judith said, taking yet another sip from her plastic water glass, “except for stuff like this. We’re on pain medication.”

  “We are?” Renie harrumphed. “You couldn’t prove it by me.”

  The food did indeed arrive, along with Joe, Bill, and the delivery boy. Renie had already managed to get out her checkbook, though it was a struggle to write with her left hand.

  “Let me,” Bill sighed, tearing up the check. “This looks as if you’d written it with your lips.”

  “I should try that,” Renie murmured, struggling to open the cartons. “Here, pass some of this to my roommate.”

  Joe and Bill had come to the hospital together. The guests were settled in, Carl and Arlene had things well in hand, and Gertrude was spending the evening inside Hillside Manor playing three-handed pinochle with Judith’s stand-ins.

  “They’re so good to her,” Judith said, referring to the Rankerses. “I try to ignore Arlene’s threats to move. I couldn’t bear it if they weren’t next door.”

  Taking a bite of Judith’s marinated steak, Joe agreed. “By the way, I’ve accepted a new case.”

  “You have?” Judith was surprised. “But you’re already overloaded.”

  “I’m okay, I got most of the loose ends tied up before your surgery,” Joe said, sampling a sweet-and-sour prawn. “But this is one I don’t feel I can refuse. There was a call from FOPP waiting for me when I got home from the hospital this afternoon.”

  Judith’s forehead wrinkled. “FOPP? What’s that?”

  “Friends of Powerless People, advocates for the homeless,” Joe replied, eyeing another of Judith’s prawns. “It seems that a couple of street residents have been killed in the last month. Not that it’s unusual in itself, but these weren’t the typical murders. You know, a couple of the poor devils get into it, one brains the other with an empty bottle of Old Horsecollar. Or smart-ass kids hassle the homeless until it gets out of hand. According to Steve Moeller at FOPP, the two most recent killings appeared to be deliberate and were committed out of sight. Both stabbings, maybe by the same knife. I’ll get more details tomorrow.”

  “What about the police?” Judith inquired. “Aren’t they trying to find the killers?”

  Joe gave a slight shrug. “Sure, but you know how it is. Even when I was still on the job, if Woody and I got a case that was more high-profile, then our homeless homicide got put at the bottom of the pile. That’s why FOPP has decided to hire a private investigator.”

  Judith frowned. She’d always had a sense of security during the years that Woodrow Wilson Price had been Joe’s partner. A solid man of African-American descent with a walrus mustache and deceptively soulful eyes that could wring a confession out of the most hardened criminals, Woody had never let Joe down. And vice versa. But that was then and this was now. “It sounds dangerous. Furthermore, you don’t have Woody for a partner anymore.”

  Joe shook his head and grinned. “I’ll manage. The worst of it is trying to make sense of what the witnesses will say. If I can find any witnesses.”

  “Take someone with you,” Judith urged. “Bill, for instance. He can tell who’s crazy and who isn’t.”

  Joe made a face at Judith. “Bill has plenty to do, too. He still sees some of his private patients and consults at the university. Besides, on these investigations, I like to work solo.”

  Judith started to argue, but she was too worn out and knew she’d lose. At the other bedside, the Joneses were arguing, something about the assignments of their three children while Renie was in the hospital.

  “Why,” Renie was demanding, “should Tom wash the windows in January? He needs time to work on his Ph.D. thesis.”

  “That doesn’t mean the windows aren’t dirty,” Bill pointed out. “Besides, he’s been in graduate school for eight years. I don’t see that he’s in any rush.”

  “He has deadlines,” Renie countered. “You know that, you’ve been through it.”

  “Not in Babylonian history,” Bill pointed out, his voice growing more heated. “What’s he going to do with that degree when he gets it? How many recruiters are out there looking for an expert on the Mushkenu social class?”

  “He can teach,” Renie retorted.

  “He doesn’t want to teach,” Bill asserted. “He wants to stay in graduate school, live in our house, eat our food, and wait until we’re carried out feetfirst, just like his brother and his sister are doing.”

  Joe, who had been fidgeting, stood up. “Hey, Bill, maybe we should head on out. It may snow tonight.”

  Bill all but flew out of his visitor’s chair. “Good idea. Heraldsgate Hill has some pretty mean streets in bad weather.”

  Joe and Bill kissed their wives and fled.

  “Do you really think they have girls lined up?” Judith asked.

  “No,” Renie answered. “They have basketball games, though. Pro and college. Besides, we’re boring.”

  “Joe ate half my dinner,” Judith said in dismay.

  “Bill didn’t try to touch any of mine,” Renie said. “He knows better.”

  Judith checked her watch, which was lying on the bedside stand. “It’s almost eight. I could use some more painkillers.”

  “Me, too,” said Renie. “You buzz. They hate me.”

  Judith pushed the button. “I have to admit, they aren’t exactly killing us with kindness. Excuse the phrase.”

  But Heather Chinn appeared almost immediately. “Sorry,” she apologized. “It’s been so busy on this floor tonight. I’m behind in taking vitals.”

  “How about victuals?” Renie said, indicating the empty white boxes on her tray. “Could you get rid of these for us?”

  Heather hadn’t noticed the small cartons. “Oh, dear! Did you two…? Really, that’s not allowed. Lately, our patients seem to think they can consume just about anything they like. That’s not so. You have to keep to a hospital diet while you’re with us. If we hadn’t been so caught up with other patients, we’d never have permitted this.”

  “Those aren’t ours,” Renie said, feigning shock. “Our husbands brought their own dinner. We’ll both speak severely to them about doing it again.”

  Frowning, Heather removed the boxes, then began taking Judith’s pulse and temperature. “What happened with Jim Randall?” Judith inquired after the paper thermometer had been removed.

  “Oh,” Heather said, wrapping the blood pressure cuff around Judith’s arm, “he went home. I guess he was upset about his brother.”

  “Mr. Bob’s recovering nicely?” Judith asked.

  Heather didn’t answer right away. She was listening to the stethoscope and looking at the gauge attached to the cuff. “Yes,” she finally said as she made entries on Judith’s chart, “he’s doing fine, though I don’t think he’ll like being on a walker and then a cane for some time. He strikes me as a very active person.” Heather moved to Renie’s bed. “Here, Mrs. Jones, let’s see how you’re getting along.”

  “I could have eaten more fried wontons,” Renie said. “I think they shorted us on the sweet-and-sour prawns.”

  Heather shook her head in a disapproving manner, then became involved in taking Renie’s vital signs. Judith watched until a wispy figure appeared in the doorway. It was Mrs. Randall, looking morose.

  “Nurse Chinn?” she called in a soft, tentative voice. “I’m leaving now, but I’ll be on duty at nine tomorrow.”

  Heather Chinn finished taking Renie’s pulse, then turned to the newcomer. “That’s fine, Mrs. Randall. You must be very pleased with your husband’s successful surgery.”

  Margie Randall hung her head. “Dr. Van Boeck says I should be, but you never know. All sorts of things can happen—pneu
monia, a blood clot, an aneurysm. I’ve seen it before, here in this very hospital, and recently, too. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight.”

  “You need your rest,” Heather said, now working with the blood pressure cuff on Renie. “You put in such long days volunteering for us.”

  “It’s such a source of comfort for me,” Margie sighed, though she looked quite desolate. “It’s such a blessing to be able to offer consolation to patients and their families. Why, this very morning, while Bob was in surgery, I counseled a family who had just lost an elderly father. They’d been practically immobilized with grief until I began telling them how soon any one of them could be called to join him. A brief, deadly illness. An auto accident. Getting caught in the gunfire of a drive-by shooting. They suddenly became energized and all but ran out of the hospital.”

  “Lovely,” Heather said absently. “Good night, Mrs. Randall.”

  Margie Randall drifted away. Judith leaned slightly toward the nurse. “I was wondering, who operated on Joaquin Somosa and Joan Fremont? Do you recall?”

  Heather removed the blood pressure cuff from Renie’s arm and looked at Judith. “It was Dr. Garnett, the same surgeon who performed Mr. Randall’s surgery. I remember, because it’s sort of unusual. Surgeons specialize, like Dr. Alfonso for hips and Dr. Ming for shoulders. But Dr. Garnett is the second in command at Good Cheer, under Dr. Van Boeck, and he likes to stay diversified.”

  “I see,” said Judith, who wasn’t exactly sure what Heather meant in terms of medical skill, hospital privilege, or professional hierarchy.

  “The good stuff,” Renie put in, using her left elbow to point to the IV. “Make me feel good. Or at least tolerable.”

  Heather finished dispensing medication, a short, stout woman with a blonde Dutch-boy bob drew their blood, and, finally, the priest Judith had seen that morning came by to visit.

  “I’m Father McConnaught,” he said in a voice that indicated he wasn’t quite sure. “God bless you, Mrs. Flynn. An Irish lass, perhaps?”