believed her father would get well if she took over his care. Helen didn’t. She was no expert, but Arthur looked nearly dead. She agreed with Blossom: Arthur would not recover.
And Blossom—what about her? How could a young woman have sex with this wreck? Helen thought of her own honeymoonwith Phil and tried not to imagine this bag of bones in her bed. Was Blossom really attracted by Arthur’s strength and vitality—or to the possibility that she would soon be his wealthy widow?
Arthur, you are a man of mystery, Helen thought. But she was here as his minister as well as his bodyguard. She had to pray for Arthur Zerling. She paged to the back of her mother’s Catholic Bible and found the section on the seven sacraments: Baptism, Confirmation, Confession, Marriage—that one got Arthur into this mess.
She skipped over Holy Communion, averted her eyes when she saw Holy Orders and riffled through more pages until she found the Sacrament of the Sick.
“Formerly known as the Last Sacrament or Extreme Unction,” Helen read. “The priest anoints the suffering person with olive oil.”
I don’t have any olive oil, she thought. But it is a heart-healthy oil. Maybe I could find some in the hospital cafeteria. Helen derailed that train of thought, disgusted with herself. She wasn’t a priest and she sure didn’t feel like a minister. She was here to pray for the sick man. Anyone could do that. She didn’t need olive oil.
Helen read, “The Sacrament of the Sick commends those who are ill to the suffering and glorified Lord, that he may raise them up and save them.”
She took Arthur’s limp hand and tried to pray: “God, please save Arthur, if that’s possible. Or give him a peaceful death and forgive his sins, if he has any. Of course he has sins. Forgive mine, too, while you’re at it.”
That wasn’t a good prayer. It was too much about her and not enough about him. Helen tried again.
“Please let Violet, his daughter, feel her father’s love. Make the hatred that torments her go away. Comfort his wife—unless, of course, she killed him. Then give her the justice she deserves.”
Still not a satisfactory prayer, but at least it was about Arthur. What a fraud I am, Helen thought. I can’t even pray properly.
Arthur’s hand twitched and then was still. The machines continuedtheir monotonous missions while Helen searched for a better prayer. She finally settled on the Our Father. That was comfort food for the Christian soul, she decided. She recited the timeless prayer. Duty done, she pulled an Agatha Christie paperback out of her surveillance purse to read an old favorite, The Body in the Library .
She found her own comfort in Miss Marple’s observations about the evil in everyday life. She enjoyed the old woman’s gentle rebuke to the police that most people “are far too trusting for this wicked world.”
The ding of the elevator and the hiss of the medical machinery blended into a soothing background symphony.
Just as Miss Marple was unmasking the killers at the seaside resort, Helen was startled by a loud announcement from a stern female voice. “Visiting hours will be over in five minutes at eight o’clock,” the voice said. “Please turn in your ID badges at the front desk. Good night.”
Was it really going on eight o’clock?
She stood up and stretched. The tall-backed turquoise visitor’s chair failed to give the comfort it had promised. Helen felt like she’d been sitting on a stone. And where was Blossom? She’d been gone almost three hours, long enough for a hot shower and a meal.
Helen walked to the nurses’ station. Nurse Abbott was still on duty, making notes in a thick chart. Helen studied the woman. Her short graying hair gave the nurse a mature, serious look. She had an air of competence and confidence that made Helen want to trust her. But should she? She remembered Miss Marple’s warning as if the old woman had been knitting in Arthur’s room.
Nurse Abbott reached
And Blossom—what about her? How could a young woman have sex with this wreck? Helen thought of her own honeymoonwith Phil and tried not to imagine this bag of bones in her bed. Was Blossom really attracted by Arthur’s strength and vitality—or to the possibility that she would soon be his wealthy widow?
Arthur, you are a man of mystery, Helen thought. But she was here as his minister as well as his bodyguard. She had to pray for Arthur Zerling. She paged to the back of her mother’s Catholic Bible and found the section on the seven sacraments: Baptism, Confirmation, Confession, Marriage—that one got Arthur into this mess.
She skipped over Holy Communion, averted her eyes when she saw Holy Orders and riffled through more pages until she found the Sacrament of the Sick.
“Formerly known as the Last Sacrament or Extreme Unction,” Helen read. “The priest anoints the suffering person with olive oil.”
I don’t have any olive oil, she thought. But it is a heart-healthy oil. Maybe I could find some in the hospital cafeteria. Helen derailed that train of thought, disgusted with herself. She wasn’t a priest and she sure didn’t feel like a minister. She was here to pray for the sick man. Anyone could do that. She didn’t need olive oil.
Helen read, “The Sacrament of the Sick commends those who are ill to the suffering and glorified Lord, that he may raise them up and save them.”
She took Arthur’s limp hand and tried to pray: “God, please save Arthur, if that’s possible. Or give him a peaceful death and forgive his sins, if he has any. Of course he has sins. Forgive mine, too, while you’re at it.”
That wasn’t a good prayer. It was too much about her and not enough about him. Helen tried again.
“Please let Violet, his daughter, feel her father’s love. Make the hatred that torments her go away. Comfort his wife—unless, of course, she killed him. Then give her the justice she deserves.”
Still not a satisfactory prayer, but at least it was about Arthur. What a fraud I am, Helen thought. I can’t even pray properly.
Arthur’s hand twitched and then was still. The machines continuedtheir monotonous missions while Helen searched for a better prayer. She finally settled on the Our Father. That was comfort food for the Christian soul, she decided. She recited the timeless prayer. Duty done, she pulled an Agatha Christie paperback out of her surveillance purse to read an old favorite, The Body in the Library .
She found her own comfort in Miss Marple’s observations about the evil in everyday life. She enjoyed the old woman’s gentle rebuke to the police that most people “are far too trusting for this wicked world.”
The ding of the elevator and the hiss of the medical machinery blended into a soothing background symphony.
Just as Miss Marple was unmasking the killers at the seaside resort, Helen was startled by a loud announcement from a stern female voice. “Visiting hours will be over in five minutes at eight o’clock,” the voice said. “Please turn in your ID badges at the front desk. Good night.”
Was it really going on eight o’clock?
She stood up and stretched. The tall-backed turquoise visitor’s chair failed to give the comfort it had promised. Helen felt like she’d been sitting on a stone. And where was Blossom? She’d been gone almost three hours, long enough for a hot shower and a meal.
Helen walked to the nurses’ station. Nurse Abbott was still on duty, making notes in a thick chart. Helen studied the woman. Her short graying hair gave the nurse a mature, serious look. She had an air of competence and confidence that made Helen want to trust her. But should she? She remembered Miss Marple’s warning as if the old woman had been knitting in Arthur’s room.
Nurse Abbott reached
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