letterheads and other design projects for at least three
hospitals, including our own HMO. All of them were
very bottom-line conscious, and all of them expressed
serious concerns about keeping afloat.”
Judith nodded. “I understand that modern medicine
is a mess, but it seems impossible in a country as rich
and supposedly smart as the United States that we
could have gotten into such a fix. No wonder Mother
keeps ranting about how Harry Truman tried to get universal medical coverage legislation through Congress
over fifty years ago, and how if he couldn’t do it, nobody could. And nobody has.”
“Very sad, very shortsighted,” Renie agreed. “But in
the case of Good Cheer, I get the impression that
they’re simply trying to survive. Certainly the nuns
would hate to give up the hospital. There may be a
shortage of vocations, but certainly nursing—and administrative skills—are worthwhile in a religious community. Not to mention that they’re drawing cards for
women who are contemplating a vocation. If the Sisters of Good Cheer don’t have a hospital to run and patients to care for, what will they do? Medicine is their
tradition of service.”
“It’s sad,” Judith sighed. “If it’s true.” She gazed up
at the statue of Mary with the infant Jesus. The plaster
was a bit cracked and the paint a trifle chipped, but the
158
Mary Daheim
Virgin’s expression was easy to read: She looked worried, and Judith couldn’t blame her.
“It’s the whole bigger-is-better mentality,” Renie
said in disgust. “By the time our kids are our age,
about four people will own everything in the world.
It’ll be stifling, stupid, and I’ll be damned glad to be either dead or gaga.”
“Don’t say that, coz,” Judith said in mild reproach.
“And don’t get off on a tangent. You still haven’t explained why you think there’s a cover-up.”
“Do I need to?” Renie snapped. “There are tons of
reasons for a cover-up. Good Cheer may be losing
money hand over fist. They’re certainly losing patients
in a most terrible way. The hospital and the religious
order have their reputations on the line. So do individuals, like Dr. Van Boeck, Dr. Garnett, Sister Jacqueline. With Blanche in their corner—or at least in the
hospital’s corner—there’s enough clout to muzzle the
media. Except, of course, for a rogue reporter like Addison Kirby, who’s not only something of a star in his
own right, but who has a personal stake in all this because of what happened to his wife.”
Judith paused as the mop brigade arrived. Two
middle-aged women, one Pakistani and the other
Southeast Asian, silently and efficiently began cleaning Judith’s half of the room. When they reached the
other side where Renie had trashed her sector, they
looked at each other in dismay. In her native tongue,
the Pakistani rattled off a string of what, in any language, sounded like complaints. The Southeast Asian
looked mystified, but responded with her own invective, jabbing a finger at Renie and scowling.
“Hey, what did I do? I’m crippled,” Renie said,
holding up her good hand. “I can’t help myself.”
SUTURE SELF
