Deathbed fk-8 Page 8

  He could, of course, pray over it. And he would. While he cleaned up the popcorn.

  * * *

  Sister Eileen Monahan sat idly at her desk. Since the attack, she’d had difficulty concentrating, particularly when alone. There was a tendency to relive in memory the panic that had overcome her when she was grabbed from behind and choked—the feeling that she was about to die.

  Her struggle to remain conscious and stay alive had surprised her somehow. She had always assumed that when the time came to face death she would be able to abandon herself to the will of God and go with a sense of peace. And when she was attacked, she’d had no doubt that she was about to die. Now, as a result of that incident, she was trying to better prepare herself for death under any eventuality.

  As for the hospital staff, fortunately the turmoil over the incident was quieting down. After the initial brouhaha, everyone recognized that it had been no more than a freak occurrence. The assailant had been suffering the early symptoms of withdrawal from a drug overdose. He’d had no real idea of what he was doing. He would have attacked anyone walking down that corridor at that time. That she had been the victim had been her bad luck, but no more than a coincidence. The main benefit of the episode was that security had been tightened in the detox unit.

  “There’s someone to see you, Sister.”

  Sister Eileen glanced up at her secretary. Then she squinted through her half-glasses at her appointment calendar. She had a meeting in half an hour. Blindly she could have bet there’d be a meeting in a short while from anytime. But there was no appointment scheduled for this time.

  “She doesn’t have an appointment.” There were times when Dolly came close to reading Sister’s mind.

  “Who is it, Dolly?”

  “A Miss Patricia Lennon.”

  Patricia Lennon. Patricia Lennon. The name rang a very definite but ill-defined bell.

  “From the Detroit News.”

  “Oh.” Pause. “Give me a couple of minutes, Dolly, then show her in, will you?”

  “Yes, Sister.” The door closed behind her.

  Pat Lennon.

  The full given name had fooled her. With Patricia Lennon she was unfamiliar. With Pat Lennon she was right at home. Sister had been reading Pat Lennon’s byline for what seemed like ages. First in the Detroit Free Press, where she’d been a reporter for several years before moving down West Lafayette to the “Old Gray Lady,” as the News was known.

  But what was Pat Lennon doing at St. Vincent’s? From all Sister could recall, Pat was one of the city’s top reporters. What did they call them . . . investigative reporters. Yes, from all Sister had heard and read, Pat Lennon was one of the best investigative reporters around. Which brought Sister back to the beginning: Why would a top investigative reporter be calling at St. Vincent’s? To investigate? What?

  That, thought Sister, is all we need. Here we are, hanging on by a thread and here comes someone to unravel that thread.

  St. Vincent’s existence was so increasingly precarious that Sister Eileen had lived through its death in anticipation many times. It was anyone’s guess how much longer the institution might endure. But she had poured so much of herself into it that she had figuratively joined her life to that of the hospital. She guessed she might die a little if St. Vincent’s were to close.

  She could not see the presence and interest of Pat Lennon as anything but a threat. But, like all the other threatening realities of life, this one too must be faced.

  Pat Lennon entered Sister’s office, smiled and, hand outstretched, approached the desk. Sister Eileen stood and they shook hands. Briefly but thoroughly the two appraised each other.

  Lennon was surprised. Newspaper photos did not do Sister Eileen justice. She seemed a warmly attractive woman. Lennon had been through parochial school, even a Catholic college. She was used to nuns in traditional habits. She reflected on what a waste it would be to wrap this woman in yards and yards of wool. Any woman who could keep her figure into late middle age deserved to let others know.

  Sister Eileen was surprised. While she had seen Pat’s byline many times, as was so often the case with reporters there was never an accompanying photo. Columnists were well recognized, because their photos usually ran with their columns. But reporters, who were easily of equal or greater importance, lived lives of personal anonymity. Over the years, Sister had seen her share of reporters, but this one was different. Why, she could easily have been a motion picture or stage star.

  Beyond appearance, each woman realized and acknowledged that the other was both expert and extremely competent in her field. They respected each other.

  Sister gestured to Lennon to be seated. “So, what brings you to St. Vincent’s, Miss Lennon?”

  “Pat.” Lennon invited the use of her first name.

  Sister Eileen nodded. However, as was the case with Father Koesler, she herself would be more at home with her title.

  “For the longest time, I’ve sort of had St. Vincent’s in the back of my mind,” Lennon opened. “I mean, here it sits in the middle of downtown Detroit. And yet, in a way, it isn’t here. With no disrespect, Sister, St. Vincent’s is one of the last refuges anybody thinks about. There are so many big hospitals, like Receiving or Harper or Grace—and some, like Children’s, that specialize—that not too many people think very often of St. Vincent’s.”

  “So, you’ve come here just to think about St. Vincent’s?” It was more a voicing of incredulity than a question.

  “I want to do a feature on St. Vincent’s for our Sunday magazine.”

  “Oh.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “I hope not. What do you intend to do?”

  “Start by interviewing you. Then, tour the hospital. Sort of get the feel of it. Talk to some of the staff. If it’s okay, spend some time in various departments like the emergency room, the X-ray lab; maybe talk to some patients. I’m not sure where this will lead. But it’s supposed to be a feature article, so it should be fairly comprehensive. It can’t do St. Vincent’s any harm. Most hospitals have gotten into advertising. An article in the Michigan Magazine could prove to be a better ad than money can buy.”

  She doesn’t know where this will lead, but it can’t hurt, thought Sister. We’ll just have to see about that. “We’ll do our best to cooperate,” she said. Realistically, there wasn’t any alternative.

  “Can we start with your interview?”

  Eileen checked her watch. “I’m afraid I haven’t much time. I’ve got to attend a meeting in about fifteen minutes.”

  “Let’s see how far we can get.” Without being able to structure her story before all the interviews were completed, Lennon thought of making Sister Eileen the article’s centerpiece. Only time would tell. “Would you mind if my photographer joins us?”

  “Photographer?” Eileen had not counted on pictures. This thing was escalating. “Oh, you must have some photos of me in your files at the paper.”

  “Nothing up-to-date. We’ll want fresh shots of you and the hospital. We can contrast the way the building looks now with some of those ancient stills we’ve got in our library.”

  Sister chuckled. “You’re not going to contrast my present appearance with some of those ancient stills of me that you’ve got in your morgue, are you?”

  “Not likely. You probably don’t look a lot different.”

  “That was a long time ago.” Just the suggestion of days gone by brought a flood of memories. She forced herself back to the present. “Very well. What’s your photographer’s name?”

  “William Arnold. He prefers William, not Bill.”

  She spoke into the intercom. “Dolly, there should be a photographer named William Arnold out there. Would you send him in, please.”

  A moment later, a young black man entered. Eileen did not count the cameras suspended from his neck and shoulders, but there seemed to be many.

  Introductions were exchanged. Then, “Don’t pay any attention to William, Sister. Ju
st talk to me naturally. William will get some candid shots of you.”

  Eileen was not happy with this arrangement. She did not photograph well under the best of circumstances. And with a candid shot, the likelihood was great that her mouth or eyes might be opened too wide, or she might be grimacing. But, as with the interview, there was nothing much to do but cooperate. A lack of collaboration would only antagonize. And in a feature article, St. Vincent’s needed all the help it could get.

  Lennon opened her notepad as William began checking the lighting and moving things around. He was distracting; no two ways about that.

  “So, Sister, when did you come to St. Vincent’s?”

  She needed only a moment to recall the date. “In 1936, I was just out of the convent with temporary vows.”

  Lennon’s pen stopped, poised over the pad. She was figuring.

  Eileen laughed. “I was eighteen at the time.” Pause. “Which means I’m now sixty-eight.”

  Lennon looked at her. Incredible. For Pat, in her early thirties, the late sixties spelled “old.” She would never have imagined anyone would look so good at sixty-eight. “Then you have been here . . . fifty years!”

  Eileen smiled. She knew what Lennon was thinking. That she had been at St. Vincent’s longer than Pat had been alive. “Well, off and on. There was some time taken out for further training, some degrees. But, it’s true, St. Vincent’s has been my one mission.”

  William was moving around behind and on either side of Lennon, snapping pictures madly. Sister Eileen found this quite disconcerting. But . . . there was no help for it.

  “Isn’t that a bit unusual, Sister? I mean, don’t nuns and priests—especially nuns, get moved around a lot?” Lennon was remembering the nuns who had been her teachers. One of the most difficult challenges in tracking down one’s former religious teachers was locating their present assignment.

  “I guess that’s true of most Sisters. It’s hard to say how it happened that I’ve been here all these years. Timing has a lot to do with it. Some might say it was providence. I just happened to be here and ready to assume it each time a new position opened up. Now,” Eileen shook her head, “I don’t know that anyone wants the job.”

  “That brings us down to the bottom line, Sister. Something I want to explore in some depth. I know it will be the question uppermost in my readers’ minds: Why? There doesn’t seem to be any earthly reason why St. Vincent’s should still be here. Why?”

  “That is, indeed, a very big question, Pat.” Eileen glanced at her watch. “Far too big for us to get into just now, since I’ve got a meeting to attend. Maybe we can pick it up later.” She stood, as did Lennon. William mercifully stopped shooting.

  “You did say you wanted to tour the hospital, didn’t you, Pat?”

  “Very much so.”

  “It will be a bit delicate. You’ll have to be most careful when it comes to our patients. They are likely to be frightened of you. And we can’t have anyone disturbing the routine.”

  “Trust us, Sister. We won’t take anyone’s picture without his or her permission. We’ll be very circumspect. Maybe it’ll be possible for us to talk again after we’ve been around the hospital and you’ve finished with your meeting.”

  “That will be quite late in the day. But, we’ll see.”

  Eileen arranged with Dolly to have credentials made up for Lennon and Arnold. An aide was summoned to escort the two newspeople to the various nurses’ stations and the various hospital departments.

  As she left them, Eileen breathed a prayer that all would go well. For things to go well, particularly if they visited the clinic, would require a miracle. But then, Sister Eileen believed in miracles.

  Because she knew how to cut through red tape, and because she was secretary to the CEO, Dolly was able to get credentials and an ID pass for Lennon and Arnold in record time.

  Bruce Whitaker, who had just come back on duty, noticed Lennon and Arnold immediately. In this, he was not alone. The two made an odd couple even in the hospital setting. Lennon’s striking beauty alone was enough to turn heads, female as well as male. And it was definitely noteworthy to see in the corridors a young black man with cameras hanging all over him.

  Although he was scheduled to check in and receive an assignment, Bruce had not yet done so. Clad in hospital coat and ID badge, he now trailed the touring group at what he considered a discreet distance.

  With Whitaker in tow, the trio visited for varying lengths of time: the noninvasive diagnostic lab, where EMG, EKG and EEG tests were evaluated; the renal unit; art therapy; the mental health unit; the open and closed psychiatric wards; the alcohol and detoxification units; the protective services department, and the respiratory therapy unit.

  During the visit to each unit, Whitaker tried to get close enough to hear what was going on without having his presence noted. But invisibility eluded him. Especially when, while walking down the hallway on 2-B, he kicked over the IV stand, pulling down the patient attached to the IV. Then there was the nasty incident when Whitaker knocked the plug out of the wall socket in the renal dialysis unit.

  At the scene of the first commotion, Lennon had assumed that Whitaker was a doctor. She also assumed that the patient, weak or awkward, had crashed into him. But at the second imbroglio, she began to doubt her earlier assessment. Why would a doctor be following them? And how could one so clumsy be a doctor? In a whisper, she asked William to keep an eye on the singular man, try to find out who he was and what he was doing.

  Lennon had the vague impression that she had seen the man before. Something about him reminded her of some story she had covered. Other things about him argued against any previous meeting with or knowledge of him. Odd.

  “So, how’s it goin’, uh . . . Bruce?” Arnold got close enough to read Whitaker’s ID.

  “Oh!” Whitaker was startled. He was sure he hadn’t been noticed. The recent catastrophes that had been visited upon him were, in his frame of reference, quite ordinary occurrences. But, having been addressed, Whitaker squinted to make out the other’s ID. “Things are okay, I guess . . . uh . . . Bill.”

  “William.”

  “Oh, excuse me . . . I thought . . .”

  “William.”

  “Yes, of course. Whatever. William.”

  “You work here, Bruce?”

  “Well, sort of. Not work, really. Well, not employment. Actually, I’m employed at the Back Porch Theatre.”

  “No shit! Whaddya do there, Bruce, Baby?”

  “Well, it’s part-time work, really. I’m the janitor.”

  “Ha! The kind of crazy stuff they do there, they’ll probably write a whole goddam play around your broom. But whaddya do here, Bruce?”

  “I’m a volunteer. But I’m sort of between duties right now. And I was kind of interested in you and the lady. Did I hear her say she’s with the DetroitNews?”

  “Oh, yeah. That’s Pat Lennon. A really neat lady.”

  “And you, Bill-er, William?”

  “Staffer with the News.”

  “Staffer?”

  “Staff photographer. I drew this assignment to go with Pat. My lucky day. She’s a real pro. Fun to do a job with.”

  “So. What is she doing here? What are both of you doing here?”

  “She’s doing a feature on the place for Michigan Magazine. An’ I’m taking a zillion shots so some editor can pick out the ones he wants to use with the article.”

  “You’re going to do a feature article for the News’ Sunday magazine on this hospital? On St. Vincent’s?”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  It was a miracle. The answer to prayer. Their entire plan had been to somehow get the news media interested in this hospital so that the authorities would be forced to confront the violations of Church law that were going on here.

  Now here were a reporter and a photographer from one of Detroit’s major newspapers. It was an answer to prayer. God was good.

  But so far, nobody had shown thes
e News people anything. Just routine stuff . . . treatment centers, machines, busy staff people, and sick patients. None of the evil stuff.

  It figured. The nurse’s aide had probably been warned not to show them any violation of Church law.

  Now that he thought of it, Whitaker wondered if this reporter would recognize a sin if she saw it. He had no idea whether she was Catholic. Oh, God, this golden opportunity mustn’t slip through his fingers.

  Wait! The clinic! It was his best shot.

  “How about the clinic?” Whitaker asked Arnold.

  “I give up. How about it?”

  “Don’t you want to see it?”

  “Not particularly.” Arnold was growing bored.

  “I think you should see it.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  A good question. Not because they were advocating contraception. Although that was, indeed, the underlying reason Whitaker sought to interest them in the clinic.

  “Because it’s an integral part of the hospital . . . and you’ve seen just about everything else.” It was the logical reason. Whitaker was grateful to the Holy Ghost for that inspiration.

  “Makes sense. Hey, Pat, this guy says we should see the clinic.”

  “That’s where we’re going now”—Lennon looked at the aide-guide for confirmation—“isn’t it?” The aide nodded.

  That’s odd, thought Whitaker. The aide had apparently planned to take them to that cesspool regardless.

  As they made their way to the clinic, the aide continued her explanation of those sections of the hospital through which they were passing. Lennon took notes and occasionally asked questions. For the most part, Arnold let his cameras dangle. Tagging along behind the threesome was Whitaker.

  Evidently, Arnold found the clinic interesting. He took light readings and began snapping pictures. The aide flagged a nurse, made introductions and stepped back to allow the nurse to take over explanations.

  The nurse guided Lennon and Arnold through the clinic. Fortunately, it held few patients at the moment.

  There had been no ostensible purpose for Whitaker to accompany them through the clinic. His presence was in no way called for. Nor could he think of any pretext to stay. So, reluctantly, he left the group and went to volunteer his services elsewhere.