downcast. Perhaps she went home to rest.”
“I hope not.” The man who appeared to be Bob Randall’s brother gave a shake of his head. “There’s supposed to be a big snowstorm moving in. She might get
stuck at the house.” He uttered a heavy sigh. “Poor
Margie. She’s always downcast. I guess it’s just her nature.”
The nun turned back to Judith, but avoided looking
at Renie, who wore a mutinous expression. “Excuse
SUTURE SELF
31
me, I must get things straightened out. Keep drinking
those liquids, both of you. Come along, Mr. Randall.
Jim, is it?” She put a firm hand on Jim Randall’s elbow
and steered him out into the hall. “I agree, too much
excitement isn’t good for . . .”
Her voice faded as they moved down the hall. Renie
picked up a tiny digital clock from her nightstand. “It’s
going on five. I haven’t eaten since last night. When do
they serve around here?”
“I thought you hurt so much,” Judith remarked,
plucking listlessly at the white linen sheet. “Good
Cheer Hospital” had been stitched in blue on the hem,
but the letters had worn away to leave only “Goo . .
h . er Ho . p . . .”
“I do,” Renie said, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t be
hungry.”
Before Judith could respond, Dr. Alfonso reappeared, now dressed in blue jeans, a denim shirt, and a
black leather jacket. “You’re looking a bit brighter,
Mrs. Flynn,” he said, though his own voice was weary.
“Let’s take a peek at that dressing.”
“When do we eat?” Renie asked in a petulant tone.
“After a bit,” the surgeon replied without taking his
eyes off the loose bandage. “We’ll get the nurse to
change that. How’s the pain?”
“Awful,” Renie broke in. “Whatever happened to
Demerol?”
“It’s bearable,” Judith responded bravely. “Though
it hurts quite a bit to make even the slightest move.”
“We’ll take care of that, too,” Dr. Alfonso said with
a tired smile. “Now let’s talk about your rehab—”
“How can a person rehab,” Renie demanded, “when
his or her arm feels like it fell off? In fact, I think it did.
Do you want to check the floor for me?”
32
Mary Daheim
“We’ll have you try to sit up tomorrow,” the doctor
said to Judith. “Maybe later in the day, we’ll see if you
can take a few steps.”
“That sounds next to impossible right now,” Judith
said, though her weak smile tried to convey courage.
“I’ll do my best.”
“I’ll do my worst if somebody doesn’t put something besides corn syrup in this IV,” Renie snarled.
With shoulders slumped, Dr. Alfonso started to turn
away from Judith. “I’ll be by in the morning to—”
His words were cut short by screams and a large
thud from nearby. Judith stiffened in the narrow bed
and Renie’s expression went from grumpy to curious.
Dr. Alfonso picked up his step, but was met by a petite
Asian nurse in a fresh white uniform and cap.
“Come, please, Doctor,” the nurse urged in an anxious voice. “Something’s happened to Mr. Randall.”
“Randall?” Dr. Alfonso echoed, following the nurse
out into the hall. “Dr. Garnett’s patient?”
Judith’s jaw dropped. Surely not another local
celebrity had succumbed at Good Cheer Hospital. She
pricked up her ears, trying to catch the nurse’s fading
reply.
“Not Bob Randall,” she said. “It’s his brother, Jim.
He suddenly collapsed and is unconscious.”
Renie made an airy gesture of dismissal with her left
hand. “Maybe he’s dead. Can anybody around here tell
the difference?”
Judith stared incredulously at her cousin. “That’s
not funny.”
Renie’s face fell as she realized the enormity of
what she had just said. “No,” she agreed, a hand to her
head. “It’s not.”
THREE
IT WAS ALMOST a quarter of an hour before the
cousins learned what had happened to Jim Randall.
A simple faint, it seemed, according to the Asian
nurse, whose name tag identified her as “Chinn,
Heather, R.N.”
“He’s so different from his brother, the football
player,” Heather Chinn said as she adjusted Renie’s
IV. “They look alike, sort of, but they don’t act like
brothers, let alone twins.”
“Twins?” Judith said, comparing the gaunt, pale
Jim Randall with the robust, suntanned Bob. “As in
identical?”
Heather shrugged and smiled. She had matching
dimples in a perfect heart-shaped face. “I don’t
know about that. Their mannerisms are really at opposite ends, too. Mr. Jim is so shy and doesn’t seem
to have much self-esteem. Mr. Bob is full of life and
confidence. He’ll be out of here in no time.”
“What made Mr. Jim pass out?” Judith inquired
as the nurse added more painkiller to her IV.
Heather shrugged again. “Stress, maybe. Worrying about his brother. Though I don’t think Mr. Jim
is very well. He’s had several tests to determine
what’s wrong, but . . .” She finished with the IV and
34
Mary Daheim
grimaced. “I shouldn’t gossip like that. It’s unprofessional, and I’m merely speculating.”
The pain was beginning to ebb. Judith moved in the
bed, her gaze following Heather Chinn as she tried to
make Renie more comfortable.
“You’d have more room,” Heather said in a pleasant,
reasonable voice, “if you’d put some of these . . . items
in the drawers of your nightstand.” Her slim fingers
pointed to the paperback book, two magazines, pack of
gum, roll of breath mints, several spring fashion catalogues, and a small grinning doll with an equally small
suitcase.
“Don’t touch Archie,” Renie warned as Heather
started to move the doll. “He stays with me. My husband got him as a good luck charm. Archie loves hospitals.” Renie grasped Archie’s tiny hand. “Don’t you,
Archie? See how cheerful he is? Archie always looks
cheerful.”
While Judith was accustomed to Renie and Bill’s
proclivity for talking to inanimate objects, including
their car, Heather Chinn wasn’t. The nurse looked
askance.
Judith decided to intervene before Heather recommended committing Renie to the mental health wing.
“I don’t suppose,” Judith said in a manner that only
suggested a question, “you had either Joan Fremont or
Joaquin Somosa as patients.”
“The actress?” Heather responded, looking at Judith
over Renie’s tousled head. “No. But the other one—
was he some kind of ballplayer, too? I was on duty
when he flat-lined.”
Renie jerked around to look at the monitor beside
her bed. “Flat-lined? Is that what you call it? All those
funny squiggly marks are good, then?”
SUTURE SELF
35
“Yes.” Heather smiled, revealing her dimples.
“You’re doing fine, Mrs. Jones. In fact, we’ve noticed
that you’re unusually . . . resilient.”
Loud, Judith figured was what Nurse Heather
meant. And maybe nuts. “Mr. Somosa . . . flat-lined for
no apparent reason?”
“Not at the time,” Heather replied, checking Renie’s
IV. “I believe there was something in the postmortem
that indicated otherwise.”
“Drugs?” Renie put in. “I heard that might have