Suture Self

by Mary Daheim

  “Of course,” Judith responded. “Mrs. Randall? We’re very sorry for your loss.”

  Margie slid her hands up her sleeves and hugged herself. “Oh, so am I! How will I manage without darling Bob?”

  “I was widowed when I was about your age,” Judith said kindly. My grief was only for the waste that had been Dan’s life, not for me. “Somehow I managed.” Much better, after he was gone. “I had to learn to stand on my own two feet.” Instead of letting Dan’s four hundred plus pounds lean on me until I was about to collapse from worry and exhaustion.

  “Easy to say.” Margie sighed, taking small, unsteady steps into the room. “I feel as if my whole world has fallen apart.”

  “You’re working today?” Renie asked, her tone slightly incredulous.

  Slowly, Margie turned to look at Renie, who hadn’t quite managed to tame her wayward hair. Several strands were standing up, out, and every which way. She looked like a doll that had been in a cedar chest too long.

  “Yes,” Margie replied softly. “We couldn’t make the funeral arrangements until this afternoon because of the autopsy, so I felt obligated to come in today. I can’t let my patients and their families down. So many need cheering. How are you feeling? I wasn’t able to visit with you yesterday because of…” She burst into tears and struggled to find a Kleenex in her jacket pockets.

  “We’re okay,” Renie said in a chipper voice.

  “Is there anything we can do for you?” Judith inquired with concern.

  Margie shook her head. “N-n-no. I’ll be fine.” She dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose. “Please tell me if you’re comfortable, if there’s anything you need.” She gazed at Judith with red-rimmed eyes. “Hip replacement surgery, I believe? Oh, dear, that can be so dangerous! I can’t tell you how many patients dislocate within a short time of being sent home. It’s terribly painful, worse than childbirth.”

  “Really?” Judith’s dark eyes were wide.

  Margie turned back to Renie. “Shoulder?” She nodded several times. “You never really recover from rotator cuff surgery. Oh, they tell you, ninety, even ninety-five percent, but it’s nowhere near that high, especially if you’re past a Certain Age. You’ll be fortunate if you can ever raise your arm past your waist.”

  “Gee, thanks,” said Renie in a bleak voice. “I feel so much better since you came to see us.”

  “Good,” Margie said, dabbing again at her eyes. “Anything I can do to cheer you, just let me—” She stopped and turned as two young people stood at the door. “Oh! My children! How sad!”

  Mother, daughter, and son embraced in a three-way wallowing of hugs. Margie’s tears ran afresh. “Let me introduce you,” she blubbered to the cousins. “This is Nancy, and this is Bob Jr., my poor semiorphans!”

  Nancy Randall was a pale, gaunt younger version of her mother except that her hair hung below her shoulders. Bob Jr. was thin, with rimless glasses, scanty blond hair, and sunken cheeks. They both waved listlessly at Judith and Renie, who waved back. Neither of the Randall offspring spoke.

  “They’re numb with grief,” Margie lamented, a hand on each of her children’s arms. “Come, darlings, let me get you some nice Moonbeam’s coffee from the staff room. Then we can talk about the funeral. We’ll make some wonderful plans.” With a surprisingly energetic wave, Margie Randall left the cousins in peace.

  “Jeez,” Renie shuddered, “she’s a real crepe pants, as my mother would say.”

  “Those poor kids,” Judith said. “They look awful. It can’t be just grief—they look like they’ve been drawn through a knothole—as my mother would say.”

  Renie nodded. “Bill was right. Something’s wrong with them. I mean, really wrong.” She got out of bed and gazed through the window. “It’s stopped snowing. I’ll bet we got at least a foot. It’s beautiful out there.”

  “Maybe I can walk far enough to look outside later today,” Judith said, digging into her purse. “Maybe I won’t pass out if I try.”

  “What’re you doing?” Renie asked as Judith began dumping items onto the bed.

  “I’m looking for something bigger than my little notebook to start putting together the family tree. I don’t suppose—you being an artist and all—you’d have any drawing paper with you?”

  “I do, actually,” Renie replied, going to the coat closet. “I’ve got a pad tucked away in the side of my suitcase. Hang on.”

  A moment later, Renie produced the drawing pad, but wore a puzzled expression. “That’s odd. I could have sworn I closed this suitcase. I mean, I know I did, or the lid would have opened and everything would’ve fallen out.”

  “Has somebody been snooping?” Judith asked in apprehension.

  Renie was going through the small suitcase. “I guess so. My makeup bag’s unzipped. I always close it when I’m finished.” She turned around to stare at Judith. “Who? When? Why?”

  Judith gave a faint shake of her head. “While we were asleep, I suppose. That’s when. But who and why are blanks I can’t fill in.”

  “Nothing’s been taken,” Renie said, going through the few belongings she’d brought along. “Of course there’s always the problem of thievery in a hospital. None of them are sacred.”

  Judith agreed. “Some people, especially borderline poverty types, can’t resist temptation.”

  “How about just plain crooks?” Renie said, now angry. She slammed the lid shut and closed the clasps with a sharp snap. “I suppose that’s who it was. It’s a damned good thing I didn’t have anything valuable in there except for a twenty-five-dollar lipstick that the would-be thief probably figured was from Woolworth’s. Let me check your train case.”

  “I locked it,” Judith said. “It’s just a habit. I used to hide any extra money I earned from tips at the Meat & Mingle in there. If I hadn’t, Dan would have spent it on Twinkies and booze.”

  Renie checked the train case to make sure. “It looks okay.” She stood up and handed over the drawing pad.

  Judith offered her cousin a grateful smile and then sighed. “I feel as if I’m about to sign my life away.”

  “Put it down on paper and see how it looks,” Renie suggested, glancing up from the newspaper. “That’s what I do with my work. If it seems okay, then it’s right, then it’s Truth.”

  “Uh-huh,” Judith responded without enthusiasm. She started with Mac and a question mark for the baby to come, then put in Mike and Kristin. Next, she wrote in her own name, Judith Anne Grover McMonigle Flynn. Then she stopped. “Here I go,” she said, and incisively lettered in Joseph Patrick Flynn above Mike’s name. “It’s official. Joe is down here in black and white as Mike’s real father.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Renie said in amazement.

  “Did you think I was a complete coward?” Judith retorted with a faintly hostile glance.

  “What?” Renie turned away from the newspaper. “I’m not talking about you. I’m referring to this brief and almost-buried article in the business section. Listen: ‘Restoration Heartware of North America yesterday reiterated its intention to expand its medical facilities beyond cardiac care. The Cleveland-based firm has shown interest in a half-dozen orthopedic facilities in the United States, including Good Cheer Hospital, which is currently owned and operated by the Sisters of Good Cheer. A spokesperson for Good Cheer stated that the religious order is not interested in any kind of merger or buyout at this time.’ Is that spokesperson Blanche Van Boeck?”

  Intrigued, Judith leaned on one elbow to face her cousin. “Who’s asking the question?”

  “Me,” Renie replied. “The article doesn’t identify the spokesperson. Maybe that’s because Blanche isn’t official. Why didn’t Dr. Van Boeck or Sister Jacqueline meet with the press? How come Blanche barged in instead? The morning paper must have gotten this from the TV news story, since KLIP seemed to be the only one asking questions out here in the hall yesterday.”

  Judith was also puzzled. “You know a lot more about the business world than I do, coz. What do
you make of all this?”

  With her disheveled hair standing on end, the big bandage on her shoulder, the blue sling on her arm, and the baggy hospital gown sagging around her figure, Renie’s boardroom face looked more like it belonged in the bathroom. Still, she approached the question with her customary professionalism.

  “There’s a conspiracy of silence about Good Cheer,” she said. “It’s not necessarily malevolent or mysterious. Any institution or business enterprise deplores speculative publicity and rumors. If a company is ripe for a takeover or a merger, they feel vulnerable, like a wounded animal. It’s a sign of weakness, particularly when stockholders are involved. The top brass go to ground to wait for the worst to blow over.”

  “Are you saying,” Judith inquired, “that Good Cheer is in financial trouble?”

  “Many hospitals are in financial trouble,” Renie answered. “In the past few years, I’ve done brochures and letterheads and other design projects for at least three hospitals, including our own HMO. All of them were very bottom-line conscious, and all of them expressed serious concerns about keeping afloat.”

  Judith nodded. “I understand that modern medicine is a mess, but it seems impossible in a country as rich and supposedly smart as the United States that we could have gotten into such a fix. No wonder Mother keeps ranting about how Harry Truman tried to get universal medical coverage legislation through Congress over fifty years ago, and how if he couldn’t do it, nobody could. And nobody has.”

  “Very sad, very shortsighted,” Renie agreed. “But in the case of Good Cheer, I get the impression that they’re simply trying to survive. Certainly the nuns would hate to give up the hospital. There may be a shortage of vocations, but certainly nursing—and administrative skills—are worthwhile in a religious community. Not to mention that they’re drawing cards for women who are contemplating a vocation. If the Sisters of Good Cheer don’t have a hospital to run and patients to care for, what will they do? Medicine is their tradition of service.”

  “It’s sad,” Judith sighed. “If it’s true.” She gazed up at the statue of Mary with the infant Jesus. The plaster was a bit cracked and the paint a trifle chipped, but the Virgin’s expression was easy to read: She looked worried, and Judith couldn’t blame her.

  “It’s the whole bigger-is-better mentality,” Renie said in disgust. “By the time our kids are our age, about four people will own everything in the world. It’ll be stifling, stupid, and I’ll be damned glad to be either dead or gaga.”

  “Don’t say that, coz,” Judith said in mild reproach. “And don’t get off on a tangent. You still haven’t explained why you think there’s a cover-up.”

  “Do I need to?” Renie snapped. “There are tons of reasons for a cover-up. Good Cheer may be losing money hand over fist. They’re certainly losing patients in a most terrible way. The hospital and the religious order have their reputations on the line. So do individuals, like Dr. Van Boeck, Dr. Garnett, Sister Jacqueline. With Blanche in their corner—or at least in the hospital’s corner—there’s enough clout to muzzle the media. Except, of course, for a rogue reporter like Addison Kirby, who’s not only something of a star in his own right, but who has a personal stake in all this because of what happened to his wife.”

  Judith paused as the mop brigade arrived. Two middle-aged women, one Pakistani and the other Southeast Asian, silently and efficiently began cleaning Judith’s half of the room. When they reached the other side where Renie had trashed her sector, they looked at each other in dismay. In her native tongue, the Pakistani rattled off a string of what, in any language, sounded like complaints. The Southeast Asian looked mystified, but responded with her own invective, jabbing a finger at Renie and scowling.

  “Hey, what did I do? I’m crippled,” Renie said, holding up her good hand. “I can’t help myself.”

  Both women directed their unintelligible, if vitriolic, comments to Renie. The Pakistani shook her finger; the Southeast Asian stamped her foot. Renie looked dazed.

  “Hey, girlfriends,” she finally said, raising her voice to be heard, “knock it off. You’re giving me a relapse.”

  The women didn’t stop. In fact, the Southeast Asian pointed to the wastebasket and glared at Renie in a warning manner. The Pakistani waved her arms at all the clutter on the nightstand, narrowing her eyes at Archie the doll, who grinned back in his eternally cheerful manner.

  “Touch Archie and prepare to be the next patient in the OR with a broken arm,” Renie warned.

  The cleaning women looked at Renie, again at Archie, and then at each other. They shook their heads. Then they shook their fingers at Renie.

  “That’s it,” Renie said. “I’m dead.” She closed her eyes and disappeared under the covers.

  The cleaning women simply stared at the mound in the bed and shook their heads. Then they resumed their work and began chattering to each other, though it was clear to Judith that neither of them understood what the other was saying. A few minutes later, they left, and Renie came up for air.

  “Finally,” she gasped. “I feel like I’ve been smothered.”

  “You can’t really blame the cleaning women,” Judith chided. “You do make a terrible mess.”

  “Nonsense,” Renie scoffed, tearing open a pack of gum and tossing the wrapper on the floor. “You know I’m a decent housekeeper.”

  “In your own house,” Judith noted, then gave her cousin a coy smile. “I wonder if Addison Kirby would like a visitor this morning.”

  “Meaning me,” Renie grumbled. “I’ll be glad when I can dump you in a wheelchair and send you off on your own.”

  “So will I,” Judith retorted. “Do you think I like lying around like a bump on a log?”

  Renie was getting out of bed. “I’m going to go wash my hair and take a shower,” she said, unhooking the IV bag and carrying it in her good hand. “I’ll visit Mr. Kirby on the way back when I’m clean and beautiful.”

  After watching her cousin traipse off to the shower area, Judith returned to the family tree with an air of resignation. Joe’s mother was already dead by the time Judith had met the family. His father, known as Jack, but named John, had been a bombastic man with a barrel chest and a booming voice. He drank too much, he worked only when he felt like it, and after his wife died, he’d let their four sons fend for themselves. That all of them had achieved a certain measure of success in life was due, Judith felt, to their own ambition and determination, along with a debt they felt they owed their mother, who had put up with a great deal before dying of cancer two days before her fortieth birthday.

  Mary Margaret Flynn had been a redhead, like Joe. Like Effie McMonigle, too. Judith considered Effie. If she found out that Dan wasn’t Mike’s father, that she wasn’t his grandmother or Little Mac’s great-grandmother—the pen dropped from Judith’s hand. It was too cruel. Effie was a selfish woman, but not without reason. Her husband, Dan’s father, had left her for another woman. She had become bitter and very protective of herself and her only child. Judith had always felt sorry for her mother-in-law. Maybe Effie would never find out the truth. Judith looked up at the statue of the Madonna and child again, and said a little prayer for her mother-in-law. Then she looked at the statue of the Sacred Heart and said a prayer for herself. Having created a monstrous deception, there seemed to be no way out of it without the risk of hurting someone. Judith wished she weren’t such a convincing liar.

  A pale blonde head edged around the doorway. “Ma’am?” said a pitiful voice.

  Judith turned away from the statues. “Yes?” she responded, then saw Nancy Randall hesitate before moving into the room.

  “Excuse me,” Nancy said. “Did my mother leave her worry beads in here?”

  “Her worry beads?” Judith responded, then added without thinking: “Does she really need them?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Nancy’s china blue eyes were wide. “Yes, they’re a great comfort to her. She used to say the rosary, but she got too depressed when she recited the fiv
e Sorrowful Mysteries.”

  “She should have concentrated on the Joyous and Glorious Mysteries,” Judith said before guilt tripped up her tongue. “I’m sorry, that was flippant. Do come in and look around. If your mother dropped her beads, I didn’t see them. But lying here in bed, I’m at a disadvantage.”

  “Yes,” Nancy said slowly, bending down to search the floor. “I don’t see them, either. Mother is at a disadvantage, too. She can’t plan my father’s funeral without those worry beads.”

  “Surely you and your brother can help her,” Judith said in a kindly voice. “What about your uncle Jim? Is he here, too?”

  “Not today,” Nancy replied, kneeling by Renie’s bed. “He’s very upset. And he’s not well, either.”

  “What’s wrong?” Judith inquired.

  Nancy, looking frustrated, stood up. “They aren’t sure. He’s had all sorts of tests. A CAT scan, an MRI, ultrasounds. Uncle Jim has never been in good health. He’s just the opposite of my father. They were mirror twins, you see.”

  “Yes,” Judith said. “Your uncle mentioned that. I’d never heard of it before.”

  “It’s fairly unusual,” Nancy said, her eyes drifting around the room. “Bobby—my brother—and I are twins, too, but not identical.”

  “Yes,” Judith replied, “I can see that.”

  “Thank you,” Nancy said, and wandered out of the room.

  “Vague,” Judith thought, “very vague.”

  She returned to the family tree, reluctantly omitting Effie McMonigle. The phone rang as she was trying to remember Kristin’s mother’s first name.

  “Jude-girl,” said Joe, sounding chipper. “We found Ernest.”

  “Ernest?” Judith frowned into the receiver. “Oh! The snake. Good. Dare I ask where he was?”

  “Well…Ha-ha!” Joe’s laugh was unnatural. “How about around your mother’s neck?”

  “That’s not funny, Joe,” Judith said in a warning voice. “Where was this horrible boa constrictor who should never have been permitted inside the B&B in the first place?”

  Joe’s tone grew serious, if not remorseful. “He was in the garbage can under the kitchen sink.”