The Sisterhood - Michael Palmer [10]
“Oh my God,” Christine murmured. She crossed the room and knelt by the woman, whose cries had given way to helpless whimpers. “Mrs. Chapman?”
“My Johnny’s dead. Gone. They all said he would be fine, and now he’s dead.” She was staring through her hands at the floor, talking more to herself than to Christine.
“Mrs. Chapman, I’m Christine Beall, one of the evening nurses. Can I do anything for you? Get you anything?” Christine ached at the thought of John Chapman’s death. The near-legendary fighter for blacks and other minorities had been up and doing well when she had left the hospital just sixteen hours before.
“No, no, I’ll be all right,” the woman finally managed. “I … I just can’t believe my Johnny’s dead.”
Christine looked about. A few vases of flowers were intact, but most had been thrown to the floor or shattered against a wall. “Mrs. Chapman, who did this?”
The woman looked up. Her eyes were red and glassy, her features distorted by grief. “Me. I did,” she said. “I came up to clean out Johnny’s room. All of a sudden it hit me that he was gone. He’s never coming back. The next thing I remember, the nurse was trying to keep me from smashing any more of Johnny’s gifts. He even got a card and a book from the governor, you know. My God, I hope I haven’t ruined it. I—”
“You didn’t ruin it, Mrs. Chapman. I have it right here. And here’s the orange juice you wanted.”
Christine turned toward the voice.
Angela Martin nodded a greeting, then brought over the book and the juice. “I called your pastor, Mrs. Chapman,” she said. “He’ll be right over.”
At the sight of Angela, immaculate and unruffled despite a difficult eight-hour shift, the woman calmed perceptibly. “Thank you, child. You’ve been so kind to me. And you were to my Johnny, too.” She gestured at the mess. “I … I’m sorry about this.”
“Nonsense,” Angela said, “I’ve called Housekeeping. They’ll take care of it. Come, let’s wait in the quiet room until your pastor comes.” She put a slender arm around the grieving woman’s shoulders and led her out.
Christine stood alone amid the wreckage, remembering her initial surprise at John Chapman’s humor and erudite gentleness. Was there anything else she could do now for the man’s widow? Not really, she decided. As long as Angela Martin was with her, the woman was in exceptionally compassionate and skilled hands.
Christine started toward the door, then stopped and returned for the two undamaged vases of flowers. Mrs. Chapman might want to bring them home, she thought. She glanced at the note taped to the green glass vase. Lilies … from Lily? Good grief, what next? She shook her head. An unexpected death and bizarre namesake flowers. It all felt quite in keeping with a day that from its very beginning had seemed beyond her control.
Her roommates, Lisa and Carole, had both left for work when the phone began ringing. Christine had made a quick thrust at her alarm clock, then identified the true source of the insistent jangle. She had tried burying her head under the pillow. Eventually she had stumbled to the kitchen, certain that the ringing would stop as soon as she reached for the receiver. It did not.
“My name is Peg,” the caller had said in a voice that was at once both soft and strong. “I am one of the directors of your Sisterhood. There is a patient on your floor in Doctors Hospital whom I would like you to evaluate and, if you see fit, present for consideration to your Regional Screening Committee. It is not possible for me to do so myself without an awkwardness that might well be noticed, since I no longer actively practice nursing.”
Christine had put her hand under the faucet, then rubbed cold water over her face. Although mention of The Sisterhood had awakened her like a slap, she wanted