“I know I can’t be a stepmother to Violet,” she said. “I wouldn’t even try. It would be an insult to her own mother. Besides, I’m young enough to be her daughter. I try to get along with her, but she’s been hostile from the day Arthur announced we were getting married. I’ve tried to understand. I invited her to dinner when we came back from our honeymoon. Violet acted like a spoiled child. She accused me of marrying her father for his money.
“It’s true I knew Arthur had money,” Blossom said. “It’s no secret that I met him while I was working on a cruise ship. All the passengers were comfortably off. There is an age difference, but I never think of Arthur as old. As least, I didn’t until he had his heart attack. He is—was—such an active man. He loves life. He loves me. He loves Violet, though she’s …”
Blossom toyed with the zipper on her Birkin bag. “She’s difficult. And furious at her father for marrying me. Arthur and Violet had a terrible fight during our homecoming dinner, and she left before dessert. They made up later, but she’s never pretended to like me.
“When Arthur had his heart attack, Violet wanted to take over his care. She marched in here and accused me of killing her father. Right in the ICU. She screamed so loud, the nurses had to ask her to leave. As security escorted her out, Violet shouted that she would get a lawyer and take me to court. There was no reasoning with her. Well, she filed a petition for guardianship, but it was denied. The doctors said I’ve done everything to ensure he has the best possible care.
“Look at my husband,” Blossom said. Her voice trembled as if she was on the verge of tears.
Helen could see Arthur was a sad ruin. His ravaged frame made a pathetic mound in the hospital bed. His thin arms were bruised from needle sticks and his hands were crisscrossed with tape for the IV lines.
“You knew my husband when he was healthy,” Blossom said.
Again, Helen’s lie made her feel uneasy. She’d never seen Arthur Zerling except in a photograph.
“Arthur has lived life to the fullest,” Blossom said. “He wouldn’t want to be a mindless thing kept alive by machines. He told me. I don’t want that for him, either. Violet loves her father, but she needs to let go and accept that there is no hope.”
“You’re right,” Helen said. “Violet does love her father. She wants to say good-bye to him. Please let her.”
For a moment, Helen thought she saw something hard and feral flicker in Blossom’s eyes. Then it was gone, if it was even there.
“I can’t,” Blossom said. “Violet made such a scene last time, it upset her father. Arthur became restless and thrashed around. He can’t communicate, but she disturbed him. You could feel her hatred for me when Violet walked into this room. It was like another person … like a demon. That sounds fanciful, I know, but it took two nurses to calm Arthur, and the doctor had to order a shot so he could rest. Ask Nurse Abbott.”
“I wish you would consider this,” Helen said. “It would mean a lot.”
“So does Arthur’s peace of mind,” Blossom said. “I’m sure this isn’t the first difficult family situation you’ve encountered. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to slip out while Arthur is resting comfortably. I want to freshen up and eat food that doesn’t come from a hospital cafeteria. I won’t be gone long. Here’s my cell phone number if there’s any change in Arthur’s condition. The nurses have it, too. You don’t have to do anything but sit with him. Please? I don’t know anyone in Florida.”
“I’ll do it,” Helen said. She wondered what Blossom would think if she knew Arthur’s daughter was paying her to be in that room.
“Thank you so much,” Blossom said. “Do you have any questions?”
Lots, Helen thought, but she only asked one. “I thought Mr. Zerling would be on a ventilator. Did the doctor remove it?”
“No, I asked that Arthur be taken off that horrible thing,” Blossom said. “I want him to be comfortable.”
CHAPTER 7
Arthur Zerling looked like a corpse in a hospital gown. His scrawny chest barely moved. Helen thought the machines attached to him seemed more alive. They beeped softly and produced squiggly lines and colorful numbers on multiple monitors.
She was grateful he was still breathing. She had kept the final vigil by her mother’s deathbed. In a crisis, those machines would flash, screech and summon a medical army. Then Helen would be sent packing.
She could hardly believe this shriveled man had incited such strong passions. Arthur had courted death with a potent cocktail of vanity and Viagra to love his beautiful wife. Was he an old fool or a man grasping at a last chance for a full life?
His daughter, Violet, seethed with jealousy and hatred after her father’s marriage. She believed her father would get well if she took over his care. Helen didn’t. She was no expert, but Arthur looked nearly dead. She agreed with Blossom: Arthur would not recover.
And Blossom—what about her? How could a young woman have sex with this wreck? Helen thought of her own honeymoon with Phil and tried not to imagine this bag of bones in her bed. Was Blossom really attracted by Arthur’s strength and vitality—or to the possibility that she would soon be his wealthy widow?
Arthur, you are a man of mystery, Helen thought. But she was here as his minister as well as his bodyguard. She had to pray for Arthur Zerling. She paged to the back of her mother’s Catholic Bible and found the section on the seven sacraments: Baptism, Confirmation, Confession, Marriage—that one got Arthur into this mess.
She skipped over Holy Communion, averted her eyes when she saw Holy Orders and riffled through more pages until she found the Sacrament of the Sick.
“Formerly known as the Last Sacrament or Extreme Unction,” Helen read. “The priest anoints the suffering person with olive oil.”
I don’t have any olive oil, she thought. But it is a heart-healthy oil. Maybe I could find some in the hospital cafeteria. Helen derailed that train of thought, disgusted with herself. She wasn’t a priest and she sure didn’t feel like a minister. She was here to pray for the sick man. Anyone could do that. She didn’t need olive oil.
Helen read, “The Sacrament of the Sick commends those who are ill to the suffering and glorified Lord, that he may raise them up and save them.”
She took Arthur’s limp hand and tried to pray: “God, please save Arthur, if that’s possible. Or give him a peaceful death and forgive his sins, if he has any. Of course he has sins. Forgive mine, too, while you’re at it.”
That wasn’t a good prayer. It was too much about her and not enough about him. Helen tried again.
“Please let Violet, his daughter, feel her father’s love. Make the hatred that torments her go away. Comfort his wife—unless, of course, she killed him. Then give her the justice she deserves.”
Still not a satisfactory prayer, but at least it was about Arthur. What a fraud I am, Helen thought. I can’t even pray properly.
Arthur’s hand twitched and then was still. The machines continued their monotonous missions while Helen searched for a better prayer. She finally settled on the Our Father. That was comfort food for the Christian soul, she decided. She recited the timeless prayer. Duty done, she pulled an Agatha Christie paperback out of her surveillance purse to read an old favorite, The Body in the Library.
She found her own comfort in Miss Marple’s observations about the evil in everyday life. She enjoyed the old woman’s gentle rebuke to the police that most people “are far too trusting for this wicked world.”