Killer Pancake

saw her STs were way up—”

“STs?”

He sighed. “A portion of the electrocardiogram that shows the recovery of the heart between contractions is abnormal. If the STs are up, a person’s having a heart attack, okay? The paramedics called in the copter, put her on oxygen, put nitroglycerin under her tongue. It’s a blood vessel dilator.”

“Yes … I do know about nitroglycerin.” I also knew that if the vessels could be dilated close enough to the beginning of an attack, blood could get to the heart and prevent damage, sometimes even abort the attack. I said tentatively, “Maybe—”

“We think that the nitroglycerin actually thwarted a more severe attack. Her blood tests have come back, her enzymes are up, so no matter what she says now, she was having a heart attack. Do you believe me?”

Blood rang in my ears. I felt despair closing in and weakness taking over. “Yeah, sure. Just … could you tell me if she’s going to be all right? What’s next?”

“She’s scheduled for an angiogram first thing tomorrow morning. It depends on what that tells us about blockage. If an artery is badly blocked, we’ll probably schedule an atherectomy for the afternoon. Do you know what that is?”

I said dully, “Roto-rooter through the arteries.” But not for Marla. Please, not for my best friend. I tried not to think about catheters.

Gordon quirked his gray eyebrows at me, then continued: “Has she been under the care of a physician? She gave the name of a general practitioner in Aspen Meadow. We called him: He said he hadn’t seen her in five years. That’s why her phone call to him came as such a warning signal.”

“Marla hates doctors.”

“She claims she’s a hospital benefactor.”

“My sister is superstitious, Dr. Gordon. She thinks if she gives a lot of money to a hospital, she’ll never actually have to spend any time in one.”

“And she’s not married.”

It was sort of a question. If an unknown sister turns up, a spouse may be next. “Not married,” I said curtly.

“Well, then, I need to tell you this. As I said before, her blood tests show she’s had what looks like a very minor heart attack. If all goes well tomorrow, and barring any complications, I think we’ll be able to discharge her in three or four days. If the attack had been more severe, we would have to keep her in the hospital for a week or more. But when she does go home, she’s going to have to have care.”

“No sweat. My sister has lots of—er—we have lots of money. I’ll get a private nurse. Just tell me what her prognosis is.”

“She needs to change her lifestyle. Her cholesterol was at 340. That must be reduced. Then she has a good chance. We’ve got nutrition people who can help her. There’s a cardiac rehab program here at the hospital that she can get into. If she’s so inclined, that is. And she better become so inclined if she values her life.” His tone was grim.

“Okay. Thanks. Can I see her again now?”

“Not for long. Are there any other relatives I should know about?”

Without missing a beat, I replied, “Our nephew might be in. His name is Julian Teller.”

“Is this your son?”

“No, the son of … another sister. Julian is nineteen. Actually, he’s here in the hospital. I think.”

“Looking for his aunt?”

“No, being treated. Could you check for me? Please? It’s so much easier for a doctor to get information than the rest of us peons.”

Dr. Gordon disappeared for a few moments, then sat back heavily on the beige cushions. “Julian Teller was treated for shock and released about an hour ago. Shock brought on by hearing about his aunt Marla?”

“No, something else. Another family tragedy.”

The doctor gave me a strained, sympathetic smile. “Your family is having quite a day, Ms. Korman.” He shifted impatiently in the chair. Other patients are waiting? his movement said. “It would be good for your sister if you could visit as much as possible. Good vibes, touchy-feely, all that helps.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be here every day,” I wrote my phone number on a piece of paper. “Please call me if anything unusual develops with her situation. Will you be checking on her every day?”

He wrinkled his face in incredulity. “Of course.” He looked at me unblinkingly through his spectacles that were so thick they reminded me of old Coke bottle bottoms. “She may get very depressed. It’s a common response to heart attack. Even if we can bring her back to health, she’s going to need you to give her courage and support. Are you going to be able to help with that?”

It was my turn to give him an incredulous look. I pressed my lips together and nodded.

The second time I saw Marla that afternoon she slept through the whole ten minutes of my visit. Her chest rose and fell weakly inside the drab blue hospital gown that was nothing like her customary flamboyant outfits. I closed her hand lightly so as not to disturb her. Her lips, ordinarily lush with lipstick, were dry and cracked, and her breathing seemed uneven, I had seen a young woman dead that morning. Now more than anything I wanted to hold on to this friend who was closer to me than any sister could have been.

I resolved to call our church as soon as I got home. Marla was both popular and active at St. Luke’s. She chaired the annual Episcopal Church Women’s jewelry raffle and animated the monthly vestry meetings with her irrepressible brassiness and wit. If I didn’t let the parish know what was going on, I’d be the recipient of some very unchristian phone calls. I also needed to find out about arranging for a private nurse to come in as soon as the hospital discharged Marla.

I tried to make more mental lists but ended up driving home in a stupor. When the tires crunched over the gravel driveway, I was thankful to see that Tom had squeezed his Chrysler into our detached garage next to Julian’s Range Rover. Arch bounded in my direction as soon as I came through the security system. He was sporting the result of his afternoon of tie-dying: a T-shirt big enough for a quarterback and a pair of knee-length shorts streaked with vivid orange and purple splotches. I didn’t care what he looked like. I swept him into my arms and twirled him around in a circle. When, breathless, I let go of him, he stepped back, astonished.

“Hey, Mom! Get real! What’s going on? I mean, what’s happening?” He pushed his glasses up his nose and eyed me. From his puzzled but happy response, I guessed Tom had not yet told Arch about the events of the morning. “Where’ve you been?” he continued suspiciously. “Tom brought Julian home but he’s lying down. Everybody around here is out of it. But look.” He stepped back dramatically and held out his thin arms. “Is my outfit cool or what?” A proud smile broke out over Arch’s freckled face as he waited for my assessment. I was not about to tell this just-turned-thirteen-year-old that the spotted, too-large outfit hung from his bony shoulders and small torso like something salvaged from a large person’s clothesline.

“It is cool,” I agreed emphatically. “Really. You look absolutely, positively great.”

He turned his mouth down in an exaggerated frown. “Mom? You’re not tripped out or anything, are you?”

“Do you know what being tripped out means?”

Arch scratched his belly under the shirt. “Forgetful? That’s what they used to say, ‘I can’t remember anything, man, I was tripped out—’”

“Look, I’m fine. I’m only in my thirties, remember, and I was just a kid during the period you’re talking about. Where’s Tom?”

“Cooking. I told him to fix something groovy from the sixties and he said the only groovy food he knew was hash brownies. That’s disgusting! How can you put corned beef hash in brownies?”

It was going to be a tiresome hobby. When I entered the kitchen, Tom was bent so intently over a recipe that