Suture Self (4 page)

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—pneumonia, 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 ill
ness. 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?”

“No, actually I'm—”

He nodded at Renie. “And Mrs. Jones. Welsh, you'd be, eh?”

“No, I'm pretty much the same as my—”

“Well, now.” Father McConnaught's faded blue eyes
crinkled at the corners. He was almost bald, except for a few strands of white hair that stood up on his head like little wisps of smoke. “Let's say a prayer of thanksgiving that you both came through, eh?”

Judith and Renie dutifully said the Our Father and the Hail Mary along with the priest, which was a good thing because he seemed to forget some of the words along the way.

“Now,” the priest said, smiling even wider, “how many will this be, Mrs. Flynn?”

“How many what?” Judith asked, puzzled.

“And you, Mrs. Jones?” he inquired of Renie.

“Since I've only got one other arm—” Renie began.

Father McConnaught put up an arthritic hand. “Never mind now, the Good Lord always provides extra hands. Will we be seeing you both again next year with another wee one?”

“I doubt it,” Judith said, finally enlightened and smiling gently. “Ten's quite a few, Father.”

The priest looked skeptical. “Twelve, and the archbishop himself will baptize the babe.”

“Will he raise the kid, too?” Renie asked.

Father McConnaught put his hand behind his ear. “Eh?”

“Never mind,” Judith said kindly. “Thank you for coming, Father. We'll keep you in our prayers.”

“And so shall I with you and all the wee ones.” He made a small, painful bow and departed.

“Deaf
and
blind,” Renie remarked after Father McConnaught had gone. “When are we going to get some younger priests around here?”

“We should pray more for vocations,” Judith said. “Nuns as well as priests. I'll bet very few members of the nursing staff are from the Sisters of Good Cheer.”

“It's like the teaching orders,” Renie said, then stared at Judith. “Say—when you were talking to Nurse Heather about who operated on Joan Fremont and Joaquin Somosa, were you sleuthing?”

“What?” Judith feigned disbelief.

“You heard me,” Renie said. “Are you suspicious about the cause of their deaths?”

“Well…you have to wonder.”

“
You
do,” Renie retorted, turning off the light by her bed. “I don't. In fact, I'm going to try to get some sleep.”

“That's a good idea,” Judith agreed. “Frankly, I'm exhausted.” She, too, clicked off her light. “I guess I was just curious.”

“Oh.”

“I mean, it's got to be a coincidence, right?”

“Right.”

“If they hadn't been well known, we'd probably never have heard about their deaths.”

“Shut up.”

Judith obeyed, but couldn't get comfortable. “I still hurt like hell. This bed's too narrow. I'll never be able to sleep.”

“Count sheep. Count Chinese food cartons. Count all those imaginary kids you told Father McConnaught you had.”

“I'll try.”

Judith slept, but her dreams were disquieting in the extreme. Joaquin Somosa appeared on the pitcher's mound, where an army of fried wontons marched onto the field and savagely attacked him with chopsticks. Joan Fremont, as Lady Macbeth, was wringing her hands when Birnam Wood, in the form of towering bok choy leaves, invaded the castle and crushed her to the
ground. Finally, Judith saw a third form, more shadowy than the others, wearing what looked like a cape and pacing anxiously as a band of deep-fried prawns lay in wait with a cauldron of boiling sweet-and-sour sauce.

Judith woke up with a muffled gasp, but saw only Renie, clutching Archie the cheerful doll, and snoring softly.

N
O ONE HAD
died by morning. Judith awoke after a fitful night, not only of pain and discomfort and nightmares caused by an overdose of Chinese food, but of constant disturbances by nurses taking more vital signs. Not only didn't Judith feel rested, but she was very stiff and sore. The weakness she had suffered as a result of the surgery was still there, leaving her limp and lifeless.

Breakfast turned out to be more palatable than the previous meal. The cousins ate oatmeal, toast, scrambled eggs, and bacon. There was apple juice and coffee. Even Renie didn't complain. Much.

“You get to go home in a couple of days,” Judith said, pushing her tray aside. She'd eaten only half the food; her appetite seemed to have shrunk. “Dr. Alfonso said I'd be in here for almost a week.”

Renie was standing up, scratching various parts of her anatomy with her left hand and trying to adjust the sling on her right arm so that it didn't tug at her neck.

“I have the feeling that if we were in any other hospital,” Renie declared, finally managing to loosen the sling an inch or so, “I'd be headed home this morning. Good Cheer has held fairly firm in al
lowing longer patient stays. Maybe it's got something to do with the hospital being run by a religious order.”

“In other words, by people who have good sense?” Judith said.

“Exactly.” Somewhat unsteadily, Renie went into the bathroom and closed the door.

Judith felt envious. Her cousin was mobile; it would be weeks before Judith would be able to get around with ease. She'd be stuck using a bedpan or the commode. Doctors and nurses bragged of success stories about eighty-year-olds who danced the fandango six weeks after surgery. But Judith knew those tales were the exception to the rule. Besides, she'd never known how to dance the fandango with two good hips.

Renie emerged from the bathroom, a big grin on her face. “That must be the original toilet,” she said, moving cautiously toward her bed. “It's the old-fashioned chain type. It's so high off the floor that my feet didn't touch. By the way, we're sharing.”

“We are?” Judith said. “With whom? Robbie the Robot?”

Renie shook her head. “No, Robbie the Pro Quarterback. There's a door on the other side. I could hear him talking on the phone. He was thanking somebody named Taylor for something or other. No doubt some special treatment he's getting that we are not.”

“Bob Randall's famous,” Judith said. “He's used to five-star treatment. We are not famous, thus we are not entitled to special treatment.”

“Doesn't infamous count?” Renie retorted. “I'm working on that one.”

Judith sighed. “So you are. And with great success, I might add.”

Dr. Alfonso arrived on his rounds shortly before ten
o'clock. He was full of encouragement for Judith, though she remained skeptical. With the help of a willowy redheaded nurse named Appleby, he managed to get Judith into a sitting position. She confessed she felt dizzy, almost nauseous, and had to put her head down. The faded linoleum floor swam before her eyes.

“Perfectly normal,” Dr. Alfonso assured her. “By tomorrow, you'll hardly feel dizzy at all.”

After the surgeon had gone, Corinne Appleby informed Judith that they'd have her on her feet by late afternoon. “You'll be surprised,” the nurse said, a tired smile on her long, freckled face. Like Heather Chinn, Nurse Appleby wore a crisply starched white uniform, spotless white rubber-soled shoes, and a perky cap with a single black band. “You may feel weak now,” Corinne went on, “but little by little, you'll get your strength back.”

“I hope so,” Judith said, trying to block out Renie's latest complaints to an orderly who was attempting to straighten her bed and apparently had attempted to molest Archie the doll. Maybe it was a good thing that her cousin would go home first. When Renie was in a drawn-out bad mood, she could be nerve-racking.

“Did you bring a book?” Judith asked after the orderly had managed to flee.

“Yes, but it sucks scissors,” Renie declared. “I started it last night, somewhere between the vital signs and the nurses' argument over who ate the last package of M&M's.”

“Oh.” Judith glanced at the paperback on her bedside stand. “I couldn't even try to read last night, but maybe I will now. Unless you want to watch TV.”

“During the day?” Renie was aghast. “There's nothing on except the Weather Channel.”

“There's CNN,” Judith said meekly.

“That's just news, and it won't be good,” Renie asserted. “I'd rather read. Maybe if I started this book from the end and read it backwards, it'd be more interesting.”

“I brought a deck of cards,” Judith said, brightening. “If you could sit by my bed, we could play cribbage.”

“I haven't played cribbage in years,” Renie said. “I don't know how anymore.”

“I could teach you,” Judith said. “I play with Mother all the time. She usually beats me.”

Raised voices and a sudden scurrying in the hallway diverted the cousins' attention.

“What's that?” Renie asked, sitting up in bed.

Judith leaned forward as far as she could, which was only a few inches. “I can't tell. A couple of people—I think Nurse Appleby was one of them—just ran by.”

“Code blue!” someone shouted.

“What was that?” Renie asked, clumsily getting out of bed and trailing her IV stand behind her.

“It sounded like ‘code blue.' I don't think that's a positive phrase in a hospital.”

Renie padded across the floor in her baggy hospital gown and brown-treaded bed socks. “I thought they said
‘cordon bleu.'
I thought it sounded like something good.”

“I think maybe it means…dead,” Judith said, gulping.

“Oh.” Renie sounded dismayed, but kept moving until she was in the doorway. After a few seconds, she turned back to Judith. “Whatever it is seems to be happening in Bob Randall's room next door.”

“No!” Judith's hands flew to her cheeks. “It can't be! Maybe I'm wrong about what the code means.”

A large bald-headed man in a white coat came striding down the hall. He saw Renie halfway out of the door and barked at her to get back. Startled, she took a single step but remained on watch.

“Dr. Van Boeck,” Renie said over her shoulder to Judith. “I heard somebody say his name.”

“Who else do you see?” Judith asked, wishing she could join Renie at the door. But just thinking about it made her feel vaguely light-headed.

“I see the patient from across the hall looking at me,” Renie said. “He's a man.” She waved. “Hi, I'm Serena Jones.”

“Hello,” Judith heard the man reply in a chipper voice. “I'm Mumford Needles. Call me Mr. Mummy. Everybody else does.”

“Sure, Mr. Mummy,” Renie said. “What's happening?”

“I don't know,” Mr. Mummy said. “I don't think it's anything good, though.”

Judith had to strain to hear the last part of Mr. Mummy's sentence. “Do you see anybody else?” she asked Renie.

“Umm…Here comes Margie Randall. Can you hear her?”

Judith could, as Margie uttered a series of keening noises that sounded like mourners at an Irish wake. “That's awful,” Judith said, putting her hands over her ears.

“There must be a bunch of people in the room,” Renie said, cautiously taking a couple of steps farther into the hallway.

But suddenly, except for Margie Randall's shrieks, the commotion seemed to subside. Renie informed Judith that there were a handful of staffers milling about, with anxious, curious expressions on their faces.

“Here comes Sister Jacqueline,” Renie said. “She's with some guy who looks like Ronald Colman on a bad day. What was that movie he made where he was drunk all the time?”

“Never mind,” Judith responded. “What does the guy look like? A doctor? Security? A wizard?”

“A doctor, he's wearing a white coat,” Renie answered as the man quickly passed by. “He looks very grim. So does Sister Jacqueline.”

For several minutes, nothing seemed to happen, at least nothing that Renie could tell. Then, quietly and somberly, several of the people who had been in Bob Randall's room came back into the hallway. They spoke in hushed tones, shaking their heads and placing hands on each other's arms, as if to give comfort. Margie Randall had finally stopped shrieking, though she was nowhere in sight.

Mr. Mummy gave a sad shake of his head. “I don't like the looks of this, do you, Mrs. Jones? Or may I call you Serena?”

“Mrs. Jones is fine. What did you do to your leg?”

“I broke it in several places,” Mr. Mummy said. “A nasty fall off a ladder while I was taking down Christmas lights. I had surgery in the community hospital out where I live, then they transferred me in here today. It's a very small town and a very small hospital, with only one surgeon. Excuse me, I must lie down. Perhaps I'll see you again?”

“Probably,” Renie said in mild surprise. Mr. Mummy returned to his room.

“Is Mr. Mummy going to ask you out?” Judith inquired with a quirky little smile.

“I hope not. He's almost as old as I am, bald except for two tufts of hair sticking straight up, glasses, and
about a fifty-inch waist. Cute in a way, but not my type.” Renie spotted Corinne Appleby. “Nurse?” she asked, trying to sound humble but not succeeding. “What's wrong?”

Corinne's face was very pale under her freckles. “There's been a…problem. An emergency. Don't worry, everything's under control.”

“It doesn't seem like it to me,” Renie shot back. “Come on, we have a right to know. Whatever it is, it happened right next door.”

With trembling fingers, Corinne tucked a red curl under her cap. “Sadly, Mr. Randall expired. Excuse me, I must get back to the desk.”

If pain and posture had permitted, Judith would have fallen out of the bed. Instead, she stared at Renie, who had turned back into the room. “Bob Randall's
dead?”

Renie gave a helpless shrug. “As a dodo, I gather.”

Awkwardly, Judith fell against the pillows. “I should have known.”

And then she wondered why she'd already guessed.

 

Renie's job as sentry wasn't easy, but she remained propped up at the door, clutching the pole that held her IV, and keeping Judith apprised of what was going on in the next room.

“I can hear Margie sobbing,” Renie reported, “but at least she's not yelling her head off.”

“Can you ask somebody what happened to Bob Randall?” Judith urged, feeling supremely frustrated. The room seemed to be closing in on her; the windows were shrinking and the walls were shriveling. Judith felt as if she were in a cage instead of a bed.

Renie glared at Judith. “If I draw any more attention
to myself, they'll probably make me go back inside and close the door.”

Her cousin had a point. Judith tried to relax. She could hear the distorted sounds of the hospital loudspeaker, summoning certain parties to specific places. “Okay,” Judith inquired, “who do you think is in Randall's room besides Margie and Dr. Van Boeck and the other guy?”

“A couple of nurses, maybe,” Renie said. “What's her name? Appleby? Oh, and Sister Jacqueline, but she just came out and is headed”—Renie paused—“right past me. She's going to the nurses' station.”

The doctor who had reminded Renie of Ronald Colman came back into the hallway. He caught Renie's eye and scowled.

“Would you mind stepping back into your own room, please?” he said in a cold, cultured voice.

“I kind of would,” Renie replied. “What about the patient's right to know?”

“Know?” snapped the physician, his fine silvery mustache quivering with outrage. “What do you
need
to know? Please go back inside and close your door.”

“Okay,” Renie said, but didn't budge. Apparently the doctor wasn't used to being disobeyed, since he didn't look back, but resumed his quick pace down the corridor.

“Back to the play-by-play,” said Renie. “Coming in out of the bullpen and onto the mound, otherwise known as Bob Randall's room, is Peter Garnett, chief of surgery.” She relayed the information she'd gotten off the man's name tag. “His ERA, otherwise known as Good Cheer's mortality rate, is way up. No wonder he looks so bad.”

A moment later, two orderlies bodily carried Margie
Randall out of her husband's room. She looked as if she'd fainted. The little group moved off in the opposite direction. Then, before Renie could recount what had happened, two more orderlies appeared, on the run.

“More action on the field,” Renie said. “Margie struck out—as in out cold—and another pair of orderlies have been called in from the dugout.” She'd barely finished speaking when the orderlies reappeared, pushing what looked like Bob Randall on a gurney. His face was covered with a sheet, and Renie let out a little squawk as the entourage all but flew down the hall, then disappeared into an elevator that must have been waiting for them.

“Oh, dear.” Renie gulped and crossed herself. “I think Bob's just been taken out of the game.”

“What's the rush?” Judith asked. “Maybe he's not really dead.”

But Renie sounded dubious. “He looked pretty dead to me.” She lingered in the doorway, but events seemed to have come to a standstill. Several staff members were still talking in groups of twos and threes, but the high-pitched excitement of the past few minutes had dwindled into muffled voices and slumped shoulders. Robbie the Robot scooted down the hall, blinking and beeping to announce his passage.

“Call for the nurse, any nurse,” Renie said, finally returning to her bed. “They'll come for you. Whoa.” She collapsed, still clinging to her IV stand. “I'm not ready for prime time. I feel all wobbly.”

Judith pressed the button. “I could use a dose of painkiller,” she said. “It's been a while.”