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
44
Mary Daheim
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-SUTURE SELF
45
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
46
Mary Daheim
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.”
SUTURE SELF
47
“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