by A W Hartoin
“Yeah, it’ll be at the desk when you’re ready.”
“Right.” I took Dixie’s arm and walked her out of Room 6. We kept going until we left the ER and entered the main body of the hospital. People hurried by, not giving us a second glance. They seemed happy compared to the way I felt, but they couldn’t be. Hospitals weren’t filled with happy people, unless you counted obstetrics. It was a different world up there.
We sat down on a fat sofa across from the information desk. I looked at Dixie and she at me. I marveled at how normal she looked. Aside from her red eyes, she looked like the same old Dixie I’d known forever. She was dressed in a silk blouse and pants set. The burgundy color set off her pale skin and dark eyes. There was a certain air about her that spoke of forties movie stars and elegance. It didn’t matter if she achieved it with makeup and scalpels. I looked at her and thought of Gavin lying on the cold table in Room 6. It seemed no more likely Gavin could’ve left Dixie than he should’ve had her in the first place.
Gavin was big, gruff, with hair everywhere but the top of his head. His language made men blush and if I ever saw him in a clean shirt, one without drips of ketchup, grease or ink stains, I don’t know when that was. Somehow he’d managed to marry Dixie. How was a mystery to me, and I’m not the only one who was puzzled about it. Dixie was the woman other women aspire to be. She sat beside me looking perfect, as she always did, and I wondered what it would be like to be elegant and serene. Sure, I stopped traffic, but next to Dixie I was showy and garish. I wanted to be classy like her. With a look like mine, it wasn’t going to happen.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” I said.
“Sweetie, I don’t know. I went out for my walk this morning and he was fine. When I came back he was passed out in his office. When the EMTs got there, they said his heart was beating, but then it just stopped.”
“I thought he had everything under control?”
Dixie clasped her shaking hands together. “He did. I thought he did. We did every single thing Dr. Kahn told us to do. The diet, exercise, medication, everything. You saw him. He lost forty pounds. His last checkup was wonderful. They lowered his meds, he was doing so well.”
“When was that?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Dixie pulled her iPhone out of her bag and punched a few buttons. “Three weeks ago on Friday.”
“And everything was good? Did they do an echo, stress test?”
“They did the full series. Dr. Kahn was very pleased, especially with the weight loss.”
“We’ll figure it out,” I said.
“Will we?” she said, brushing a fresh tear off her face.
“Definitely. I’ll take care of it. Do you want to go home now?”
“Home? What for?”
“Well, you could lie down for awhile or something.” I really didn’t know what to do. Dixie waited for me to decide, to tell her what was next, and I hadn’t a clue. I’d comforted people plenty of times before, but it was a short-lived operation. The bad news was broken, backs patted, calls made, coffee given, and they went on their way. I’d no idea what happened after they left the hospital. It wasn’t my business to know. Mom should’ve been there. She’d know what to say, what funeral home to call, everything. But Mom was incommunicado and I was on my own.
“Can I get you something, coffee or tea?” I sounded lame, even to myself.
“Tea,” she said.
I think she wanted to give me something to do, or maybe she wanted to be alone. I went to the staff lounge and rooted through the cabinets till I came up with some chamomile and lemon zest. I didn’t know which Dixie would want. I made the chamomile because that’s what Dad drinks after a bad day.
I returned, measuring my strides, not anxious to get back. A group of nuns crossed my path and I felt the warmth of the tea comforting me through the cup as I waited. Hot drinks did it for me. Whether it was a hot chocolate, mulled wine, or one of Dad’s yummy hot toddies, I felt better the moment the cup hit my hands. Then a feather-light touch on my shoulder brought me out of my revelry.
“Mercy?”
I looked up into the ancient face of Sister Francis. I wondered how long she’d been standing there. She touched my shoulder again and said, “Are you alright, dear?”
I choked on the word yes. My throat was too hot and tight for words. I wished she hadn’t asked. Her asking made me feel worse.
“Come sit down with me,” she said.
I shook my head and said, “No.” It came out more like a croak, but Sister understood.
“Please, dear. You don’t look well.” She took me by the elbow and guided me to the waiting room. She was strong for the world’s oldest nun. I made the punch for her ninety-fourth birthday party last year. She was also the tallest, maybe six two in bare feet. My great aunt Miriam once told me Sister Francis joined the order because she was too tall to get married. Aunt Miriam and Sister Francis weren’t the best of friends.
Great Aunt Miriam. I don’t know why I didn’t think of her before. She would know what to do. Shit. I was stupid. It was her job. She was a Sister of Mercy, too.
“Aunt Miriam,” I said.
Sister Francis started and said, “Miriam? Has something happened to Miriam?”
“No. Sorry. I just realized I need to talk to her. Do you know where she is today?”
Her face hardened, then she said, “I wouldn’t know. I believe she has a cellular phone.”
Sister Francis didn’t believe in cell phones. She thought they made a person too self-important. She was probably right, but then again Sister Francis didn’t believe in microwaves either.
“Thanks, Sister. I have to go.”
“What’s wrong? What’s happened?”
“Family friend died. I have to call Aunt Miriam.”
I found Dixie and gave her the tea. “I’ll be right back.”
Dixie probably had her cell phone on her, but it didn’t seem polite to ask. I, of course, had a dead cell phone. It spent at least fifty percent of the time dead. Long battery life, my ass. Lucky for me none of the hospital volunteers were on duty at the information desk and I didn’t have to explain using the phone. Those ladies in pink were surprisingly territorial about their phone. I’d been told off more than once.
I did have my little address book that Mom insisted I carry because technology can’t be counted on. I hated it when she was right. I dialed Aunt Miriam’s number and waited. Aunt Miriam was notorious for being unable to find the on button on her phone. Her service invariably picked up. Once I called back four times before she figured it out. Aunt Miriam isn’t as old as Sister Francis, but she’s getting up there.
“Hello.” It was a miracle, only two tries.
“Aunt Miriam, it’s Mercy. Are you busy?”
“It’s Tuesday. You know I’m at the council meeting and they’re waiting,” she said.
I didn’t know. Why would she assume I kept up with her schedule?
“This is important,” I said.
“I’m sure it is.” Aunt Miriam sniffed.
“Gavin Flouder died. I’m at the hospital with Dixie.”
“I’ll be right there.” She hung up without ceremony and my chest flooded with relief. Aunt Miriam would take over and I was off the hook.
Chapter Two
BEFORE I KNEW it, I was staring at Aunt Miriam’s shoes instead of the stained bit of carpet I’d been eying. My eyes went up from her black gum-soled shoes, past her compression hose, her dove gray A-line skirt with matching sweater to her wrinkled, thin face crowned by her veil. For me, her face wore an expression of critical appraisal. When she looked to Dixie, it softened to gentle concern. I wouldn’t get that expression unless critically injured. Aunt Miriam sat down between us, put her arms around Dixie and gathered her into her bony chest. Dixie took a huge breath and her body began to rock with the slow rhythm of grief.
“I need to speak to the doc,” I whispered to Aunt Miriam. She nodded in reply and I left.
“Excuse me, Dr. Guest?”
He looked up, sucked in his belly, and smoothed his comb-over.
“Yes, I’m Dr. Guest.” Emphasis on the doctor.
“Hi, I’m Mercy Watts, a friend of Gavin Flouder. I need to talk to you about his case?”
“I’m afraid that wouldn’t be appropriate. You know you look a lot like…”
“Yeah, I know,” I said, crossing my arms.
He stared at me. I expected him to start rocking like a hypnotized cobra.
“So…Dr. Sanderson will vouch for me. I was PRN here last night.” I flashed him my hospital badge and hooked it to my waistband.
He looked at my badge and smiled in recognition. “What do you want to know?”
“Are you sure it was an MI? He was following a regime and was on meds.”
“That’s why I’m sure. These things happen and all the drugs and all the workout plans in the world can’t stop them.”
Not exactly the reassurance one wants from a doctor. Maybe that explained the candy.
“I understand that, but his wife would feel better if she knew what went wrong. He was pretty young. Were his drug levels adequate?”
“They were, but we don’t know to what extent his heart was already damaged.”
“Will you recommend a full autopsy?”
“No. Cause of death is apparent.”
“But they’ll do one if the family makes the request, right?” I asked.
“Of course. What do you suspect?”
“Not a thing. I think his wife wants to know it was unavoidable. Do you think you could write her a script for Ativan? She’s pretty freaked out.”
Dr. Guest gave me an evaluating look, pulled out a prescription pad. “What’s her name?”
“Sharon Flouder.”
“I’m only giving you two doses. If she needs more, she’ll have to go to her family doctor.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it,” I said.
“No problem. Have time for a cup of coffee?”
“Some other time. The wife’s waiting. Thanks again.”
The diagnosis was exactly what I expected to hear, but I didn’t like it. Gavin did everything right, and he was still dead as hell. I wished he’d spent his last year eating Ho Ho’s and lying around, instead of eating salads and working out. He would’ve been happier, even if Dixie wasn’t.
I ran next door to the pharmacy, got Dixie’s Ativan, collected Gavin’s paperwork, and went back to the sofa. Dixie wasn’t crying anymore. She sat with a dazed expression on her face, looking at her hands. I showed her where to sign the forms and asked her if she wanted an autopsy.
“I don’t know.” Dixie looked at me like she wasn’t sure what I was asking.
“Why don’t we leave it for now? I’ll ask for a full chart review,” I said.
Dixie nodded. I took care of the paperwork and review request. Then I went back to the sofa, feeling drained and very young. Maybe that’s what it feels like when you lose someone for the first time. I went back to feeling like a child in a big world without a compass.
I dropped onto the seat next to Aunt Miriam and she said to Dixie, “Who would you like us to call?”
“I don’t want to talk to anyone,” said Dixie.
“We’ll do it.”
I hoped by ‘we’ she didn’t mean me. Gavin and Dixie didn’t have children, but they were very close to his brothers. I couldn’t imagine telling them their little brother died. It’d be a nightmare. I’d have to tell Mom and Dad. That was bad enough.
Dixie gave Aunt Miriam her phone and I edged away, hiding my hands under my butt, so Aunt Miriam wouldn’t give it to me. Lame, but it was the only way I could think of to protect myself from that awful duty.
Aunt Miriam put the phone in her little grey purse and said, “I think it’s time to go now, Mercy.”
“Where are we going?”
“Home, naturally,” she replied.
“I don’t want to go home,” said Dixie as she looked from Aunt Miriam to me and then back.
“Let’s go to Mom and Dad’s,” I said. “Mom’ll be pissed if I don’t water the plants and feed the cats.”
“That’ll be fine,” Dixie said.
Aunt Miriam gave me a rare smile, and we left. The traffic was vicious, and it took us forty-five minutes. The drive gave Dixie some time to collect herself, and her eyes were clearer when we got there. We sat Dixie down in Mom’s big kitchen and Aunt Miriam put the kettle on. I went into the butler’s pantry to find more tea and some hot cocoa for me.
Hmmm, Ghirardelli.
Nothing like chocolate for cold or heartbreak. I’d had enough of both to know. Mom served it up with little marshmallows and Dad with a splash of peppermint schnapps. Dad forbade me to tell Mom about the schnapps, but I suspect she knew.
Dixie, being a sensible woman, chose the Ghirardelli. I pulled out the prescription bottle and placed it on the table.
“What’s that?” Aunt Miriam asked.
“Ativan. Dr. Guest gave me a script for Dixie in case she has trouble sleeping.”
“You think I need Ativan.” Dixie looked at the prescription bottle like she’d never seen one before.
“No, but I thought you might want it. It was just a thought,” I said.
Dixie looked into her mug and then to Aunt Miriam.
“Take some if you care to. Everyone needs help now and again,” Aunt Miriam said.
I doubted very seriously that Aunt Miriam ever needed help of any kind. She never took so much as an aspirin. At least she didn’t tell me what to do with my little pills. She would’ve if she felt it was a bad idea.
Dixie read the label and took two small white pills. While they dissolved into her system, I made sandwiches, we ate and talked about the weather, the Blues hockey team and topics that didn’t matter one bit. After an hour Dixie’s eyelids drooped and I took her upstairs to The Oasis. I slipped her shoes off and tucked her in with a glass of water on the side table. She was asleep before I left the room.
Aunt Miriam was standing in the kitchen with her arms crossed when I got back.
“What?” I said.
“What did that doctor say?”
“Not much. Just that he didn’t know how much heart damage Gavin had before he started taking care of himself.”
“And?” Her fists went to her hips, not that they had much to rest on.
“And what? The man had a heart condition.”
“He was doing extremely well. He nearly got a clean bill of health at his last checkup. Dixie is very concerned.”
“What’s she concerned about? It’s over and done with now.” I sat down and picked up my mug. What was Aunt Miriam trying to say? It wasn’t my fault Gavin died. Hell, I wasn’t even there.
“She’s concerned that he didn’t receive adequate care, and this could’ve been avoided. Now what are you going to do about it?”
“Me?”
“Of course you. Your father isn’t here.” She sounded like she resented Dad’s vacation. Maybe she did. She didn’t take vacations, outside of her retreats with the church ministry.
“Well, I guess I could take a look at the pathologist’s report. That should clear a few things up. I’ll call Mom and Dad.”
“Yes, do that. I’ll call Straatman Funeral Home. They’re the best.” Aunt Miriam’s expression went all flinty and cold like a raptor. Straatman’s were known for putting on a great memorial and, also and less flattering, predatory practices in the funeral biz. But they hadn’t experienced Aunt Miriam yet. I almost felt sorry for the chiseling bastards.
“How long will Dixie sleep?” asked Aunt Miriam.
“Probably all night,” I said.
Aunt Miriam stood, straightened her veil and tucked a few faded ginger hairs in. She gave me a hard look and left through the back door. I got up,
made some more cocoa, and called Ellen. She cried and then had to go because her two-year-old, Sophie, found the house keys and was trying to escape out the back door. I liked to think that little blond devil took after me. Ellen was at her wit’s end most of the time.
I settled in and turned on the TV. The news was on and, for some reason, I expected Gavin’s death to be reported. Something like “Celebrated St. Louis police detective dies at age 55”, but, of course, there was nothing like that. The talk was of our beautiful June weather and a couple of ghastly murders that I tuned out. Gavin was more than enough death to think about.
After a couple of fortifying cups of cocoa, I went upstairs to my father’s office. His whole life was in his room, books, files, photo albums, and, most important, his desk. The desk was a veteran of his police career. He took the beast with him when he retired and, boy, was it ugly despite the coat of paint Mom insisted upon. Dad likes to say there’s a dent for every case he worked on and he was a police detective for twenty years. The beast resembled a pale gray boulder with legs. The drawers didn’t open anymore. Every once in a while Dad enlists my help to try and get them open. About once a year he gets it into his head that vital information is contained within them. We’ve never succeeded, so who knows.
I sank down into Dad’s deluxe, black leather massage chair. I flipped the switch and let the magic fingers go to work on my butt. After a few minutes of sublime pleasure I looked over the desktop. Mom had told me she left their travel itinerary on Dad’s blotter. I called the number for the cruise line and proceeded to get the runaround for a half hour. I lied and said it was a family emergency, but it didn’t help much. But if I’d said Gavin wasn’t a blood relative, they would’ve hung up, so much for customer service. After a few well-placed threats, I got a call put through. My parents didn’t answer their phone or their page. My head was down on the boulder and I was about to start banging. They were probably sitting in a Jacuzzi tub sipping margaritas, looking at the Mediterranean sea. I hated to ruin it. But still, they had to be told. The cruise was three weeks long and they were five days out. By the time they got back, Gavin would be buried, and I’d never be forgiven. I left a message and went to check on Dixie.