nurse. So soothing, that nursely touch, those pearly nails. What's the matter, dear?
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Well, nurse, I suffer from jealousy so severe it's warped my liver. My husband is in love with a girl named Dawn. I am dying from Dawnorrhea.
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The charge nurse, a blonde with great skin welcomes them with a pair of yellow nametags. After "Hi, my name is," Mary Ellen pauses for a moment then writes "Murray." The nurse peers at the tags stuck just above their breasts and says, "Who do we have here? Dawn ... and Murray."
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"It's her mother's maiden name," says Dawn quickly.
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Mary Ellen gives the nurse a rueful smile. Dawn is smarter than her feathery hairstyle lets on. Mary Ellen wonders how much her smarts show up with Frank. He liked to be the one in charge of knowing. But maybe that has changed. Maybe love has made him a better person.
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For the next few hours, it's everything from separations of the shoulder to dogs turned vicious on a master's hand. Mary Ellen remembers the stars of healed bites on Frank's palms. He treated the punctures himself, swearing and splotching his fingers with iodine. But mostly, she and Dawn see broken bones. The nurses and doctors handle the bad ankles and wrists as if they weren't quite attached to the rest of a body. "Look at this," they say and lay the injured part back down. Then there's an invitation to look at someone's cervix. Mary Ellen declines.
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In the staff room, fingers laced around a cup of black coffee, Mary Ellen plans her next move. She'll lure Dawn to the house, load the box of Frank's possessions into Sven and deliver the old goods and the new girlfriend in one fine ironic swoop. In a mood of utter cool, with a slightly tilted smile, she'll appear on his doorstep, the flaps of the box neatly tucked in, and say, "Well, Frank, here are the last remains." Louise would approve. It's very Bette Davis.
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"You're in luck," says a nurse. "We've got a code coming in."
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