wonder Garnett tried to save Van Boeck.”
“He has to,” Judith said, wishing the effort to converse didn’t exacerbate the pain. “The Hippocratic
Oath.”
“Uh-huh,” Renie said in a thoughtful voice. “So
maybe I just sort of gave him a little nudge. I still feel
terrible about it. Besides, we never got our pain medication. I don’t hurt any less just because Van Boeck
had a fit.”
“True enough,” Judith sighed. “Neither do I. In fact,
I feel worse. By the way, did you notice that Mr.
Mummy wasn’t limping when he left?”
“I couldn’t see him with all those people blocking
my view.” Renie gave Judith a curious look. “No limp,
huh? Interesting. I wonder what he’s doing here.”
“So do I,” Judith said as Heather came into the
room.
“I’ve brought your pain medication,” she said in a
voice that was chilly with disapproval. “Maybe it will
settle you down.” She gave Renie a hard look.
“Thanks,” Renie said meekly. “How’s Dr. Van
Boeck?”
“I don’t know,” Heather replied, her mouth in a
straight line. “He’s in the OR.”
“Goodness.” Renie lay very still.
“His wife has been sent for,” Heather added. Her
tone seemed to indicate that Renie should feel even
guiltier for alarming the illustrious Blanche Van
Boeck.
SUTURE SELF
195
Renie, however, remained silent. Heather moved on
to Judith’s IV. “You’re certain you need more Demerol?” the nurse asked.
“I am,” Judith said. “If anything, I hurt worse right
now than I did an hour ago.”
Heather gave a little sniff, but added another dose.
“That ought to do it for both of you,” she said, sounding stern.
“I’ll bet,” Renie said after the nurse had left, “that
the little twit has never had more than a headache. I
don’t get it. Medical practitioners don’t seem to give a
hoot for the patient’s comfort. Do they really prefer to
listen to us gripe?”
“I suspect a lot of people don’t gripe,” Judith said.
“They suffer in silence, they’re too shy to ask, they’re
intimidated by the staff, especially the doctors.”
“Phooey,” said Renie, digging into her grocery bag.
“Snack?”
“No, thanks.” Judith looked askance at her cousin,
who apparently didn’t feel sufficient guilt to have lost
her appetite.
For a few minutes, Judith lay back against the pillows, hoping the Demerol would start to work. Little by
little, the worst of the pain seemed to ebb. At last she
picked up the family tree and sighed.
“I think I’ll call Mother,” she said.
“You’re procrastinating,” Renie accused, smearing
Brie on a water wafer.
“No, I’m not. I mean, I can’t do much about
Kristin’s family because I don’t know all their names.”
Judith shot Renie a self-righteous look and dialed
Gertrude’s number.
For once, the old lady answered on the third ring.
“Who is this?” she growled. “You selling something?”
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Mary Daheim
“It’s me, Mother,” Judith said wearily. “How are
you?”
“ ‘Mother’? I don’t have any kids,” Gertrude
snapped. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“Please,” Judith begged, “don’t tease me. I’m not
feeling real good right now.”
“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?”
SUTURE SELF
197
“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.”
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Mary Daheim
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.