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
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Mary Daheim
ground. Finally, Judith saw a third form, more shadowy than the others, wearing what looked like a cape
and pacing anxiously as a band of deep-fried prawns
lay in wait with a cauldron of boiling sweet-and-sour
sauce.
Judith woke up with a muffled gasp, but saw only
Renie, clutching Archie the cheerful doll, and snoring
softly.
FOUR
NO ONE HAD died by morning. Judith awoke after a
fitful night, not only of pain and discomfort and
nightmares caused by an overdose of Chinese food,
but of constant disturbances by nurses taking more
vital signs. Not only didn’t Judith feel rested, but
she was very stiff and sore. The weakness she had
suffered as a result of the surgery was still there,
leaving her limp and lifeless.
Breakfast turned out to be more palatable than the
previous meal. The cousins ate oatmeal, toast,
scrambled eggs, and bacon. There was apple juice
and coffee. Even Renie didn’t complain. Much.
“You get to go home in a couple of days,” Judith
said, pushing her tray aside. She’d eaten only half
the food; her appetite seemed to have shrunk. “Dr.
Alfonso said I’d be in here for almost a week.”
Renie was standing up, scratching various parts
of her anatomy with her left hand and trying to adjust the sling on her right arm so that it didn’t tug at
her neck.
“I have the feeling that if we were in any other
hospital,” Renie declared, finally managing to
loosen the sling an inch or so, “I’d be headed home
this morning. Good Cheer has held fairly firm in al-50
Mary Daheim
lowing longer patient stays. Maybe it’s got something
to do with the hospital being run by a religious order.”
“In other words, by people who have good sense?”
Judith said.
“Exactly.” Somewhat unsteadily, Renie went into
the bathroom and closed the door.
Judith felt envious. Her cousin was mobile; it would
be weeks before Judith would be able to get around
with ease. She’d be stuck using a bedpan or the commode. Doctors and nurses bragged of success stories
about eighty-year-olds who danced the fandango six
weeks after surgery. But Judith knew those tales were
the exception to the rule. Besides, she’d never known
