“It’s really awful,” Judith said, taking another sip of
water. “Here these three people were, helpless and
trusting.”
“Like us,” Renie noted. “Helpless, anyway,” she
amended.
Judith looked askance. “Yes. It’s something to ponder.”
“Let’s not,” Renie said. “Let’s go to sleep.”
Judith agreed that that was a good idea.
But she fretted for some time, wondering if, in fact,
they hadn’t put themselves in danger by asking too
many questions. The killer was faceless, unidentifiable. Anyone they talked to—Curly, Heather, Torchy,
the doctors, the rest of the nurses, even the orderlies—
could be hiding behind a deadly mask.
Judith slept, but not deeply or securely. Indeed, she
had never felt quite so helpless. Her dreams were not
filled with homicidal maniacs, however, but with family. Dan. Mike. Joe. Gertrude. Effie. Kristin. Little
Mac. The faces floated through her unconscious, but
only one spoke: It was Mike, and he kept saying, “Who
am I?”
Judith tried to answer, but the words wouldn’t come
out. She felt as if she had no breath, and awoke to find
that she’d been crying.
TEN
ON WEDNESDAY MORNING, breakfast was again
palatable. Dr. Ming and Dr. Alfonso made early
rounds, assuring both patients that they were making progress. Judith would take a few steps later in
the day, said Dr. Alfonso. Renie could try flexing
her right wrist a few times, according to Dr. Ming.
“You need to keep from getting too weak,” Dr. Alfonso said to Judith.
“You don’t want to tighten up,” Dr. Ming said to
Renie.
After their surgeons had left and Corinne Appleby had taken their vitals and added more pain
medication to the IVs, the cousins looked at each
other.
“Are we atrophying?” Renie asked.
“Probably,” Judith responded, glancing at the
morning paper, which had been delivered along
with breakfast. “Guess what, we didn’t stay up late
enough last night to see the news.”
“You’re right,” Renie said, making an attempt to
brush her short chestnut hair, which went off in several uncharted directions. “Do you see anything in
the paper about Addison’s accident or Blanche’s impromptu press conference?”
SUTURE SELF
151
Judith studied the front page, which was full of national and international news, all of it bad. “No, I don’t
even see a story about Bob Randall’s death. I’ll check
the local news.”
“Toss me the sports and the business sections,”
Renie requested, reaching out with her good arm.
Judith complied. “Here,” she said, “on page one of
