Suture Self (16 page)

“Wow,” Judith said under her breath. “People. Places. Things.”

“We'll go down to the end of the hall,” Corinne said. “There's a big window there where you can see out. It's not snowing, but it's very cold, down around twenty, I heard. Almost all of the staff has been staying in the nurses' former residence halls. Unless you have chains and know how to drive in this stuff, it's much safer to stay put.”

Judith glanced into Mr. Mummy's room across the
hall, but he wasn't there. Then she looked into Addison Kirby's room. He was there, but was on the phone, looking frustrated. She passed three more patient rooms, each of which contained four beds. On her left, she saw the small area set into an alcove where Blanche Van Boeck had held her press conference with KLIP-TV. Then there were supply rooms and six more patient wards, and finally the staff lounge and what might have been a small kitchen, judging from the aromas that wafted out into the hall.

The snowscape made Judith catch her breath. “It's gorgeous,” she said to Corinne. “I haven't even been able to look out the window in our room.”

Judith wasn't exaggerating. The trees, the shrubs, the sweeping lawn were covered in a pristine blanket of snow. The driveway to the entrance had been shoveled, but there were only a few tire tracks and footprints in the main parking lot off to the right. Beyond, the rooftops of the surrounding residential neighborhoods looked like a Christmas card, with smoke spiraling out of chimneys and soft lights behind windows warding off the winter gloom.

“This is lovely,” Judith said. “It's the first real snow of the season. Last year we didn't get more than a couple of dustings.”

“It cuts down on our visitors,” said Renie, who had followed Judith and Corinne down the hall. “Which is good. I don't like playing hostess when I'm recovering from surgery.”

The door to the staff lounge opened and a red-faced Dr. Van Boeck came storming out. When he spotted the cousins and Corinne Appleby, he stopped in his tracks, adjusted his white coat, and forced a smile.

“Enjoying the weather?” he remarked in his deep
voice. “Very nice, as long as you're inside.” Van Boeck nodded and continued on his way.

“Is he upset?” Judith asked of Corinne.

“I couldn't say,” Corinne answered, her freckled face masking any emotion. “Doctors are always under such stress, especially these days.”

Judith didn't comment, but resumed looking out the window. As far as she could tell, there were at least a dozen or more cars in the parking lot, almost all of them buried under several inches of snow, except for an SUV that probably had four-wheel drive.

“We should head back,” Corinne said. “You don't want to sit up for too long the first time out. I'm going off duty now, but Heather will get you up again this afternoon.”

“Okay,” Judith said, feeling proud of herself for making progress. “By the way—have you had a problem with theft at Good Cheer?”

“Theft?” Corinne looked mystified. “No. The sisters are very, very careful about the people they hire. Plus, they pay better wages to the nonprofessional staff than most hospitals do. Why do you ask?”

“Oh—just curious,” Judith replied. “You hear stories about hospitals and nursing homes having problems with stealing. Plus, we were told not to bring any valuables to Good Cheer.”

“That's for insurance purposes,” Corinne responded as she turned the wheelchair around. “The only thing that goes missing around here are lunches from the staff refrigerators, occasional boxes of Band-Aids, and, lately, some of the surgical instruments. They started disappearing before Christmas, and Dr. Van Boeck said that maybe somebody wanted to use them to carve the Christmas goose.”

At that moment, Dr. Garnett came out of the staff lounge. He looked tense, Judith thought, and wondered if he and Van Boeck had had a row.

“Good morning, Doctor,” Judith said with a big smile. “How are you?”

Peter Garnett straightened his shoulders and regained his usual urbane expression. “Very well, thank you. It appears as if Dr. Alfonso has done his usual outstanding job. I see you're out and about today.”

“Yes,” Judith responded, “I'm very grateful to him. In fact, I appreciate everyone on the staff here at Good Cheer. When I get home, I'm going to write a thank you letter to the board.”

Dr. Garnett's trim mustache twitched slightly. “You are? That's very kind. Now if you'll excuse me, I must return to my office.”

“My,” Judith said as Corinne rolled her down the hall, “Dr. Garnett seemed sort of surprised that I'd write a letter of appreciation. Don't patients do that once in a while?”

“I believe they do,” Corinne replied in her noncommittal way.

“Maybe I shouldn't send it to the board,” Judith mused. “Maybe I should send it to Dr. Alfonso directly. Would it be passed on to the rest of you?”

“It might,” Corinne said, steering Judith past the luncheon carts, which had just arrived on the floor. Renie paused to examine the carts, but the sliding doors were locked.

“I'll have to think about the addressee,” Judith said. “What would you do, Nurse Appleby?”

“About what?” Corinne asked as they reached Judith and Renie's ward.

“The letter,” Judith said. “Who would you send it to?”

“That depends,” Corinne said. “Here, let's get you lined up with the bed.”

Judith figured it was useless to press the nurse with further questions. Corinne was a clam. Or, Judith considered charitably, very discreet.

Feeling more confident, if not actually stronger, she was able to get back into bed without much difficulty. Judith was surprised, however, to discover that her excursion down the hall had tired her out.

“I can't believe how weak I am,” she sighed as Corinne adjusted the IV drip.

“That's natural,” Corinne said. “That's why you have to go at it slowly but steadily.”

Ten minutes later, after Corinne had taken the cousins' vitals and gone on her way, Judith and Renie went back to their speculations.

“I thought Bob Jr.'s remark about his mother being ‘the vessel' was very interesting,” Judith said. “What do you think he meant?”

“Whatever his goofy mother meant when she told him that,” Renie replied. “I kind of think Margie Randall might enjoy being an Angel of Death.”

“I think she meant something else,” Judith countered. “I mean, what if Margie was the one who…” She stopped, her forehead furrowed in thought. “What if she was the one who had unwittingly delivered the drugs that killed Somosa and Fremont and maybe her own husband?”

Renie frowned at Judith. “You mean in Randall's Wild Turkey or something that one of the other two had brought in from outside?”

Judith nodded. “Somebody—maybe it was Heather—mentioned that other patients besides us had had food or beverages smuggled into the hospital.
Whoever got them for the patients may have conned Margie into delivering the stuff. Maybe that's where the drugs were administered, rather than in the IVs.”

“Creepy,” Renie remarked as their luncheon trays arrived.
“Creepy,”
she repeated, lifting lids and taking sniffs. “What now, plastics?”

Judith, however, usually enjoyed what looked like chicken-fried steak. She liked green noodles, too, and lima beans. “I can eat it,” she said, taking a bite of the chicken. “It's not bad.”

Renie's response was to heave her lunch, tray and all, into the wastebasket. “Berfle,” she said in disgust. “Where's Mr. Mummy?”

“Coz,” Judith said with a scowl, “you're not going to order out again, are you?”

“Why not?” Renie said, picking up the phone. “Lots of places are probably delivering today. They've chained up.”

But Renie's attempts proved futile. Even Bubba's Fried Chicken had decided to close for the duration.

“This town is full of scaredy-cats,” Renie declared. “They're too cowardly to go out in a little bit of snow.”

“You won't drive in it,” Judith noted. “You never do. Why should other people risk it?”

“Because they have hamburgers and french fries and malted milks to deliver, that's why,” Renie declared.

“Forget it,” Judith said, scooping up lima beans. “You're getting on my nerves.”

“So what am I going to eat for lunch?” Renie demanded.

“Dig some of it out of the wastebasket,” Judith said with a shrug. “It's clean.”

“I can't eat that swill,” Renie said, pouting.

“Then get something out of your goodies bag,” Ju
dith shot back. “Just put something in your mouth so you'll stop complaining.”

Renie rang her buzzer. In the five minutes that she waited for a response, she didn't say a word. Instead, she drummed her fingernails on the side of the metal bed and almost drove Judith nuts.

Heather Chinn showed up before Judith could threaten to throttle Renie. “What can we do for you?” she asked in her pert voice.

“‘We'?” Renie retorted. “I don't see anybody but you. And
you
can get me a big ham sandwich, preferably with Havarti cheese and maybe a nice sweet pickle. I don't care much for dills. They're too sour, except for the ones my sister-in-law makes.”

“Excuse me?” said Heather, her almond eyes wide. “What became of your lunch?”

Renie tapped a finger against her cheek. “What
became
of my lunch? Let me think. It
came
, but it didn't
be
a lunch. That is, it was not edible.” She pointed to the small grinning doll that rested next to the Kleenex box on the nightstand. “I wouldn't feed that swill to Archie.”

“That's a shame,” Heather said with a tilt of her head. “I see Mrs. Flynn found it edible. She's almost finished. How was the lime Jell-O, Mrs. Flynn?”

“Um…” Judith gazed at the small green puddle that was left on her plate. Lime was not her favorite flavor, but that wasn't the hospital's fault. “It was…fine.”

“Jell-O, huh?” said Renie. “I thought it was a dead frog.”

“I'm afraid you'll have to wait for the evening meal, Mrs. Jones,” Heather said, at her most pleasant. “I don't think you'll starve. Aren't you just a teensy bit squirrel-like?”

“Are you referring to my
teeth?
” Renie asked, looking outraged. “Are you making fun of my overbite because my parents couldn't afford braces?”

Heather's eyes grew even wider. “Goodness, no. I'd never do such a thing. You have very nice teeth. They're just…sizable. I meant your little stash of treats in that rather large grocery bag on the other side of the bed.”

“Oh, that.” Renie attempted to look innocent.

But Judith seized the moment. “Don't be too hard on my cousin,” she said. “She's always had a lot of allergies and is used to providing her own food. I suspect that many patients do that.”

“Well,” Heather said, “some, of course. But your cousin—all of our patients—are asked to put down any allergies when they fill out the admitting forms. That's so the dieticians can avoid foods that may cause an allergic reaction. I'm sure you both filled out those sections.” Heather cast a sly glance in Renie's direction. Renie was still pouting.

“I understand,” Judith said. “But it's a funny thing about illness. You get certain cravings. One time after I'd had the flu, I couldn't eat anything for two days except scrambled-egg sandwiches.”

Heather nodded. “That's because your system is depleted. You've lost certain vitamins and minerals.”

“One of my husband's nieces ate all the paint off her bed after she had bronchitis,” Renie said, still looking annoyed.

“That's a bit unusual,” Heather remarked, her fine eyebrows lifting.

“I assume,” Judith said before Renie could go on about Bill's nieces and nephews, who numbered more than a dozen, “that you don't really come down
too hard on patients who insist they have to have a certain item. I imagine some of them are rather amusing.”

Heather dimpled. “Oh, yes. We had an elderly man last year who insisted on eating chocolate-covered grasshoppers. I gather they're quite a delicacy in some cocktail party circles.”

“That's very different,” Judith agreed with a big smile. “Most, I suppose, are more ordinary.”

“That's true,” Heather said. “Milk shakes are very popular. So is chocolate and steak. Now while protein is necessary, post-op patients shouldn't eat steak because it's difficult to digest. Quite frankly, a hamburger is more acceptable.”

“It would be to me,” Renie said.

Judith ignored her cousin. “I heard,” she said with a straight face, “that Joan Fremont had a fondness for peppermint stick candy.”

Heather frowned. “I don't recall that. I believe she preferred Italian sodas. The ones with the vanilla syrup in the cream and club soda.”

“Was she able to sneak one in?” Judith asked innocently.

“She did,” Heather said. “I wasn't on duty, but Corinne told me about it. At least one of them was brought to the main desk by a funny little man wearing polka-dot pants and a yellow rain slicker. Sister Julia, our receptionist, got such a kick out of him. Ms. Fremont—Mrs. Kirby—actually had two of them brought in, and first thing in the morning. It was very naughty of her.”

“Really,” Judith said. “Was Mr. Kirby with her then?”

“No,” Heather responded. “Mr. Kirby had a deadline
to meet, so he didn't come in that morning until…” The nurse paused, her face falling. “He didn't come in until after his wife had expired.”

“Poor man!” Judith said with feeling. “Had he been told that Joan died before he reached the hospital?”

“I don't think so,” Heather said. “He'd come directly from the newspaper.”