Suture Self (18 page)

“So who is? You want a list of my ailments? Is that what you're peddling? Home remedies? I'll take a half-dozen. You want me to pay for it with my credit card?”

“You don't have a credit card, Mother,” Judith said. “You don't believe in them.”

“I have one now,” Gertrude declared. “I've bought a bunch of stuff the last couple of days, right off the TV. They sell all kinds of doodads and whatnots.
‘Act now,'
they said, so I did.”

Judith was puzzled. Until she suddenly became worried. “Where did you get that credit card?”

“I don't remember,” Gertrude said, her voice an octave higher than usual. “Maybe I found it.”

“Have you got it there on your card table?” Judith asked, sounding stern.

“Maybe. Maybe not. I'm old. I forget.”

“That's
my
credit card,” Judith asserted. “I left it on the kitchen counter Sunday night because I remembered to pay the cable bill by phone before I went into the hospital. I was distracted, I didn't put it away. Mother, promise you won't use the card again?”

“‘Act now,'”
said Gertrude. “That's what they say on TV.”

“Mother…”

“What did you say you were selling? Elixirs? Snake oil?”

“I didn't say…”

“Speaking of which, I'm seeing snakes. One just ate my sandwich. Where did he go? He's kind of cute. Oof!” It sounded as if Gertrude had dropped the phone.

“Are you there, Mother?” Judith asked, growing anxious.

There was a rustling noise before Gertrude spoke again. “I'm here. Not all there, maybe, but I'm here. Now where'd that snake go? He'd better not eat my custard pudding. I'm hanging up now.”

Gertrude did just that.

“Honestly,” Judith groaned, “I don't know when Mother is putting me on and when she really doesn't know what's going on. You wouldn't figure she'd fool around when I'm laid up in the hospital, would you?”

“Sure I would,” Renie said. “She's jealous. You're too young to be in the hospital, that's how she thinks. Or she's into denial. If anything happens to you, your mother is sunk.”

“If I stick around here long enough, I'm going to end up as depressed as Margie Randall,” Judith asserted. “How many more days? Three, four, even more?”

“For you, maybe,” Renie responded, using a Kleenex to wipe off her hands. “I'm out of here day after tomorrow.”

“Don't remind me,” Judith said. “When you leave, I'll be in despair.”

“Despair?” Father McConnaught was standing in the door, his old face evincing disbelief. “Not that, my child. 'Tis a sin. Our dear Lord came to give us hope, even in death.”

Judith forced a smile. “It was a turn of phrase, Father. I'm usually an optimistic person.”

Clasping his hands behind his back, the old priest shuffled into the room. “Despair—they often call it depression, these modern folk, and hand out pretty pink tablets—is the spiritual cancer of our age. Not all the electric lights and neon signs can dispel the gloom. Such a waste.” He shook his head, but his eyes twinkled. It occurred to Judith that the old priest didn't seem quite so vague this afternoon. “Such a pity,” he added, the wisps of hair standing straight up on his head.

“All I want is a ham sandwich,” Renie said.

Judith winced at her cousin's remark, but Father McConnaught smiled. “A simple pleasure. But the getting of things—even a ham sandwich—isn't as grand as the giving. Giving up, letting go, surrendering. There's the beauty of it.” His gaze wandered around the room with its plaster cracks, its peeling paint, its scarred wood. His eyes lingered briefly over the holy statues, but finally they came to rest on Archie the doll. “See that little fellow? He's happy. He has nothing but that big smile.”

“He has a suitcase,” Renie said, pointing to the small brown box on the nightstand.

Father McConnaught's face evinced curiosity. “And what might be in that little case?”

Renie smiled at the priest. “It's empty.”

“Ah. Of course.” Father McConnaught turned around, his gnarled fingers twisting behind his back. “They won't listen, these sad, empty souls. That's why Dr. Van Boeck made himself ill.”

“Oh?” Judith sat up straighter. The Demerol seemed to be working. Or maybe it was Father McConnaught's presence.

The priest nodded. “He can't let go. None of them can. Not even Sister Jacqueline.”

“Let go?” Judith echoed. “Of what?”

Father McConnaught spread his hands. “Of this. The hospital. Their life's work. A hundred years of the order's dedication. The sisters think it's wasted. But it's not, and even so, nothing is forever in this life. We own nothing, we belong nowhere. Except to God.”

“Then Good Cheer is…doomed?” Judith wrinkled her nose at the melodramatic word.

“Not precisely,” Father McConnaught replied. “That is, it won't be torn down or turned into a hotel.” He smiled again at the cousins, but his blue eyes had lost their twinkle. “I don't understand it, I don't wish to, don't you see. But it's all very upsetting for those who work here, and it should not be so. It's all transitory, isn't it?”

As if to prove his point, Father McConnaught shuffled off into the hall.

“Goodness,” Judith said. “That sounds bad. If the old guy knows what he's talking about.”

“I think he does,” Renie said slowly. “Most of the time. Restoration Heartware, remember?”

“A takeover?” Judith sighed. “That's really a shame. For all of Father's spiritual advice—not that he's wrong—it's still hard for the people involved. Even a stuffed shirt like Jan Van Boeck. I wonder if he's going to be okay?”

The question was answered in a surprising way. Five minutes later, Blanche Van Boeck stormed into the cousins' room. “You!” she shouted, pointing at Renie. “You almost killed my husband!”

“Oh, boy,” Renie muttered. “Almost? As in, he's not really dead?”

Blanche, who was swathed in fox and wearing a silver turban, advanced on Renie. “Listen, you little pest,
I can have you thrown out of this hospital, right into a snowbank. What do you think of that?”

“I think you wouldn't dare,” Renie shot back, looking pugnacious. “There's a reporter in the next room who'd plaster that all over page one of the next edition.”

“He wouldn't dare!” Blanche shouted, waving a kid-glove-encased fist. “He's incommunicado.”

“What do you mean?” Renie demanded. “I saw him on the phone this morning.”

A nasty smile played at Blanche's crimson lips. “He was
trying
to talk on the phone,” she said, “but his line's been shut off. Do you think we'd allow a viper in our midst?”

“I thought Mr. Kirby was a patient,” Judith remarked in an unassuming voice.

Standing next to Renie's bed, Blanche ignored Judith. “I should sue you for almost killing my husband. He's not out of the woods yet.”

“The woods?” Renie was round-eyed. “Is that where they take patients around here? No wonder so many of them croak.”

Trying to signal Renie to keep her mouth shut, Judith was fighting a losing battle. Blanche's large form and even larger fur coat blocked Renie's view of her cousin.

“You haven't heard the last of this,” Blanche warned, her arm pumping up and down. “I'm personally seeing to it that you're discharged as soon as possible. Then expect to hear from my attorneys.” She turned on her high-heeled boots and started to leave the room.

“Wait,” Judith said plaintively. “Please.”

“What?” Blanche snapped.

“What did happen with Dr. Van Boeck? Was it a stroke?” Judith asked, hoping she exhibited sympathy.

“Not precisely,” Blanche replied, finally lowering her voice. “He was…overcome. They took him to the OR merely as a precaution. My husband suffers from high blood pressure. His medication needs adjusting. But,” she went on, whirling around to look at Renie again, “it was a very near thing. That doesn't let you off the hook.”

Blanche Van Boeck stalked out.

“Dammit,” Renie cried, “that woman
will
sue me. She's just that ornery.”

“She won't win,” Judith said. “She admitted that Dr. Van Boeck has a preexisting condition.”

“Bill and I don't need the aggravation,” Renie declared, then frowned. “I can't stop thinking about Bill and those Chihuahuas. What do you think he's doing?”

“Call him, ask,” Judith suggested.

Renie shook her head. “You know how Bill hates to talk on the phone. He doesn't answer it most of the time. I'll wait until he calls me.”

“He's probably just amusing himself,” Judith said. “He's housebound, you're not around, the kids may be getting on his nerves.”

“Maybe.” Renie, however, was still frowning. “When I went to see Addison Kirby this morning, he didn't mention that he couldn't use his phone.”

“He may have just thought the system was fouled up,” Judith said. “You know, the weather and all.”

“Yes,” Renie said absently as Mr. Mummy again poked his head in the door.

“I thought I'd see if you two were all right,” he said, looking worried. “You've had a lot of commotion in the last hour. I saw Mrs. Van Boeck. Did she say how her husband was doing?”

“Tolerably,” Renie replied as Mr. Mummy limped into the room on his cast. “As near as I can tell, he blew a gasket.”

Mr. Mummy seemed mystified, but smiled. “Mrs. Van Boeck appeared quite disturbed. Was she upset about her husband?”

“She was upset with me,” Renie said. “She's going to sue me for causing her husband to have a fit. But it really wasn't my fault.”

“Of course not,” Mr. Mummy soothed, approaching the foot of Renie's bed. “I'm sure Dr. Van Boeck is under a great deal of stress. Why, just running such a large institution would take its toll on anyone.”

“Or being married to Blanche Van Boeck,” Renie muttered. “I wonder how he stands her.”

“An interesting question,” Mr. Mummy said, tipping his head to one side. “Yes, she must sometimes be a trial. Now which would you think would be worse? A rather overbearing woman such as Blanche Van Boeck or a helpless, dispirited creature like Margie Randall?”

“Goodness,” Judith said, “that
is
a conundrum.”

“Mere observation,” Mr. Mummy responded. “I've seen them both, and I wonder which is more difficult for the husband. Of course, in Mr. Randall's situation, he's beyond all that. Then again, perhaps Mrs. Van Boeck spoke kindly of her spouse when she was here a few minutes ago?”

“Kindly?” Renie made a face. “She was mostly mad at me, for—allegedly—making him foam at the mouth or whatever.”

“At you, eh?” Mr. Mummy beamed at Renie. “Dear Mrs. Jones, I don't see how you could ever annoy anyone.” Apparently, Mr. Mummy didn't notice Judith
choking on her water, for he continued. “Are you certain she didn't blame…someone else?”

“Quite certain,” Renie replied firmly. “I'm the villain.”

“Oh.” Mr. Mummy looked vaguely disappointed, perhaps in Mrs. Van Boeck's judgment. He made a little bow. “I should be going on my way. You've had a tiring afternoon. Perhaps I'll call on Mr. Kirby. The days here are so long when you can't be particularly active.”

Their visitor began his laborious exit, but before he could get out the door, Judith had a question:

“What do you do for a living when you're not laid up, Mr. Mummy?”

He turned slightly, though his gaze didn't quite meet Judith's. “I'm a beekeeper,” he said, then chuckled. “Buzz, buzz.”

“A beekeeper, huh?” Renie said after Mr. Mummy had disappeared. “Do you believe that?”

“It's so unusual that maybe I do,” Judith said. “He would definitely have to live out in the country to raise bees.”

Renie's phone rang, and this time it was her mother. Judith was trying to tune out the conversation when a hulking physical therapist named Henry arrived and announced that he was going to teach her to walk.

“I thought Heather was going to let me sit in the wheelchair again,” Judith protested. “I really don't think—”

On the phone, Renie was trying to get a word in edgewise. “There really isn't a draft through the windows, Mom. I couldn't put a coat on over my sling if I had…”

Henry snapped his fingers. “You don't need to think. It's better that you don't.”

“Truly, none of the doctors have gotten fresh,” Renie was insisting. “No, I haven't seen any white slavers…”

“But,” Judith began, involuntarily shrinking back among the pillows, “it's only been two days since—”

“That's the point, ma'am,” Henry said, beckoning to Judith. “Come on, sit up, let's get you moving.”

“Who did you say impersonated a doctor?” Renie sounded incredulous. “Well, sometimes a veterinarian knows more about medicine than…Yes, I know there's a difference between a man and a squirrel. Usually.”

“No, there isn't any difference,” Henry said with a solemn expression. “They both have nuts. Come on, Mrs. Flynn, be brave.”

Renie shot Henry a withering glance. Judith shut her eyes tight, then attempted to sit up and swing her legs over the side of the bed. Henry held on to her forearms. It occurred to Judith that she didn't feel dizzy this time, only weak. She took a step. Two. Three. Henry slowly released her. Judith took a final step on her own.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “I did it!”

“Two more,” Henry urged. “Then you can go for a nice ride.” He pulled the wheelchair just out of her reach.

Judith expected to wilt, but she didn't. Hesitantly, cautiously, she took the extra steps, then sank into the chair. “I'll be darned,” she breathed.