The Sisterhood - Michael Palmer [84]
The pounding in Christine’s head began to recede as she set the umbrella by the door and hung up the tent-sized coat. “Tea,” she said, forgetting to invite the woman in. “Would you like some tea?”
“Tea would be fine, Christine.” Dalrymple’s smile broadened as she motioned at the hallway. “In the living room?”
Christine calmed down a bit more. “Oh, I’m sorry, Miss Dalrymple,” she said. “I didn’t mean to be so impolite. Come in. I … I’m sorry for the mess the place is in but …”
“Nonsense.” The director cut her off. “It’s a lovely apartment. Please, Christine, relax. I promise not to bite you.” She surveyed the living room briefly, selected an armless, upholstered chair across from the couch, and set herself down. “You mentioned tea?”
“Oh, yes, there’s water on the stove. Let me heat it up.”
“Lemon, if you have it,” Dalrymple called out. “Otherwise plain.”
“It’ll only be a minute,” Christine said, bustling about the kitchen. She bit into a biscuit from the only box she could find. “Damn,” she hissed, spitting the stale cookie into the trash.
In the few minutes it took to arrange two cups of tea and some lemon slices on a tray, Christine singed her forearm and put a thin cut in the corner of one thumb. Two steps into the living room she froze, barely preventing the cups from toppling over. Dotty Dalrymple had a copy of the evening Globe unfolded on her lap.
“I assume from your reaction that you have read this evening’s paper,” Dalrymple said.
Christine closed her eyes and inhaled sharply. If her nursing director had made the connection between her and Charlotte, something was very wrong. Now she wished she had called The Sisterhood Screening Committee for advice. “I … my landlady showed it to me a little while ago,” she stammered. “It’s awful.”
“Do you know Dr. Shelton well?” Dalrymple asked, motioning her to the couch.
“No, not really. We’ve barely even talked. I … I just met him for the first time last week.” Too many words, she thought. What could she want?
“Do you know his background?”
His background? The question caught Christine off guard. Why would Dalrymple ask about that? Does she suspect? Was she trying to cover for her somehow? Christine decided to continue the verbal joust until the woman’s purpose was clearer. “His background? Well, not much really. No more than some hospital rumors.”
“The man is a known drug addict and probably an alcoholic,” Dalrymple cut in bluntly. “Did you know that?” Christine was too shaken by the nursing director’s statement to answer. After a moment the woman continued, “Several years ago he was removed from the staff at White Memorial. His appointment to the staff of our hospital was made over the loud protests of many of the other physicians. David Shelton is not a credit to his profession.”
David’s face formed in Christine’s thoughts—gentle and intense, with kind, honest eyes. Dalrymple’s words made no sense next to that picture. “I … I don’t know what to say.”
Dalrymple leaned forward in her chair and stared at her intently. “Obviously I am here sharing these facts with you for a reason.” Her voice held a strange, mystical quality. “Christine, we are sisters, you and I. Sisters.” Christine gasped. “I wanted so much to tell you that afternoon on Four South, but our rules forbid it. I have been part of The Sisterhood of Life since my earliest days in nursing. In fact, I represent the Northeast on our board of directors.”
“I never would have thought … what I mean is, I never suspected …”
Dalrymple laughed. “There are several thousand of us, Christine. All over the country. The very best nursing has to offer. Joined by ideals and our pledge to forward the cause of human dignity.”
“Then you know about Charlotte?”
“Yes, my dear, I know. All the directors know—the New England Screening Committee knows—and, of course, Peggy knows. I am here representing all of them. I am here to help.”
“Help me?”
“Yes.”