as he helped Renie through the entrance. “That should
be some consolation.”
“Why?” Renie shot back. “The pope’s not going to
operate on my shoulder.”
Bill wore his familiar beleaguered expression when
dealing with his sometimes unreasonable wife, but
said nothing as they waited for Joe to wheel Judith inside. The hospital’s interior looked almost as old as its
exterior. Over the years, the Sisters of Good Cheer had
put all their money into equipment and staff. As long
as the building was structurally sound and hygienically
safe, the nuns saw no reason to waste funds on cosmetic improvements. Thus, great lengths of pipes were
exposed, door frames were the original solid stained
wood, and though the walls had been repainted many
times, the color remained the same institutional shade
of bilious green that long-dead patients and staff had
endured almost a hundred years before.
18
Mary Daheim
There was no one around to meet the Flynns and the
Joneses. A wooden sign with flaking gold lettering and
an arrow pointed to admitting, on their right. They
turned the corner and almost collided with a robot that
was sending off loud beeping signals.
“That’s new,” Judith remarked. “I wonder what it does.”
“My name is Robbie,” the robot said in a mechanical voice. One metal arm reached out as if to snatch
Renie’s big black handbag.
“Watch it, Robbie, or I’ll FedEx you to the scrap
heap,” Renie threatened.
“My name is Robbie,” the robot repeated. The steel
creature kept moving, giving and asking no quarter.
“I hope he’s not one of the surgeons,” Judith said.
“We should ask if he’s covered for malpractice,” Joe
said as they approached the admitting desk.
A nurse in traditional uniform and white cap sat next
to a nun in a modified habit that consisted of a navy
blue suit, white blouse, and navy and white veil and
coif. The Sisters of Good Cheer were relatively conservative in their attitude toward apparel. As long as
they wore habits, the nurses who worked for them
would wear uniforms. “May we help you?” the nurse
inquired with a strained smile.
“Let’s hope so,” Joe replied. “We’re checking our
wives in.” He gestured at Judith and Renie.
“Jones,” said Bill. “Serena. Rotator cuff surgery.”
He pointed to the carefully lettered yellow Post-it note
on Renie’s sweater. Overcautious as ever, Bill had
written, “Serena Jones, right shoulder, allergic to nuts,
peanuts, and morphine, inclined to complain.”
“Flynn,” said Joe. “Judith. Right-hip replacement.”
He cast a worried look at Judith’s side. Maybe, she
