care for Eddy.
“I’m not much into the local gossip,” Greg said. “I developed this habit of listening with just one ear. Then I never have to remember if I’m told something in confidence or not, though everything is supposed to be confidential,” he said, in much better health and humor, now that the mini flu epidemic was over. “I’m always amazed at what I hear at Kaye’s a half hour after an accident, though.”
Grace wondered how much he knew about Ted’s condition, and if he would talk about it.
“Ah, yes. Ted Marshall. Had to turn him over to Beardslee in Lansing,” he said in his shorthand speak when referring to medical cases, regret in his voice. “Terrible accident. No reason to think it’s the cause of the deterioration, though. Can’t put my finger on it. Should be… ah, well. But it isn’t. No known viral or organic. I checked out some interesting stuff on the net. Shouldn’t be happening.” He looked up at her. “All hypothetical, of course.”
“Of course.”
They were at a staff meeting at Bay Bridge Hospital when she met more of the medical community. The group arranged itself in a loose circle on folding metal chairs. Despite the navy padded seats the backs of the chairs were cold. Closed navy drapes and abstract prints hung on the walls, removing any sense of coziness. Deeply padded carpeting muffled the conversation and the “new” smell competed with antiseptic from the hallway that oozed in whenever the door opened to admit another arrival. Before the meeting, Greg officially introduced her to his inherited nurse. She had been ensconced when he first joined the local medical clinic fourteen years earlier, an invaluable help, the doctor said. She had only seen the backside of Mathilde Van Ooyen disappearing into the restroom at the clinic when she’d first interviewed with Greg.
“Grace, here’s our Mathilde—the best nurse at East Bay Community Clinic.”
“The only nurse, you sly one. Call me Matty,” she told Grace. East Bay’s nurse was in her late fifties at least, judging by her iron-gray hair. Her rich labials and slurring sibilants identified her as a non-native speaker. Pleasantly well-fed, Matty appeared to enjoy life. Grace did not dare compare Greg and Matty to the medical people back home in Woodside. It was past time to move on with her life. Woodside was over.
The three of them stood together before the huge silver coffeepot, embellishing the thin brown, harsh-smelling contents of their foam cups with various powdered offerings. Grace ignored the large sugar cookies and stale-looking donuts arranged on a paper doily near the pot. Matty revealed her origins during their easy conversation. As suspected, she was born Dutch. The nurse smiled quizzically at Grace, head cocked, eyebrows rising to some inner rhythm of thought as the doctor droned on with the introductions.
“I was just planning to fulfill an obligation to the university, to practice in a smaller, less prosperous community before I went on to bigger and better things,” Greg said. “I went to med school on a community grant and scholarship and the university helped pay part of the costs. Once I got here, got to know some of the people, I didn’t want to leave. Where else would be better to live?”
“Grace, dear, anything you can do to help out this poor, tired, exhausted soul. He can’t keep up with me, you know,” Matty stage-whispered conspiratorially and gave a wicked wink.
The doctor grinned. “These Dutch women are so demanding,” he responded and turned away to shake hands with another of the hospital staff.
The nurse gave Grace a soul-searching look which she took in good humor. Establishing a good rapport from the first was mutually beneficial. When Matty reached out her hands, Grace automatically met them.
“Ja, good, strong, warm, useful hands,” she happily observed, squeezing. There was no spark, no tingle; nothing but firm pressure. Her hands were warm, tough,
“I’m not much into the local gossip,” Greg said. “I developed this habit of listening with just one ear. Then I never have to remember if I’m told something in confidence or not, though everything is supposed to be confidential,” he said, in much better health and humor, now that the mini flu epidemic was over. “I’m always amazed at what I hear at Kaye’s a half hour after an accident, though.”
Grace wondered how much he knew about Ted’s condition, and if he would talk about it.
“Ah, yes. Ted Marshall. Had to turn him over to Beardslee in Lansing,” he said in his shorthand speak when referring to medical cases, regret in his voice. “Terrible accident. No reason to think it’s the cause of the deterioration, though. Can’t put my finger on it. Should be… ah, well. But it isn’t. No known viral or organic. I checked out some interesting stuff on the net. Shouldn’t be happening.” He looked up at her. “All hypothetical, of course.”
“Of course.”
They were at a staff meeting at Bay Bridge Hospital when she met more of the medical community. The group arranged itself in a loose circle on folding metal chairs. Despite the navy padded seats the backs of the chairs were cold. Closed navy drapes and abstract prints hung on the walls, removing any sense of coziness. Deeply padded carpeting muffled the conversation and the “new” smell competed with antiseptic from the hallway that oozed in whenever the door opened to admit another arrival. Before the meeting, Greg officially introduced her to his inherited nurse. She had been ensconced when he first joined the local medical clinic fourteen years earlier, an invaluable help, the doctor said. She had only seen the backside of Mathilde Van Ooyen disappearing into the restroom at the clinic when she’d first interviewed with Greg.
“Grace, here’s our Mathilde—the best nurse at East Bay Community Clinic.”
“The only nurse, you sly one. Call me Matty,” she told Grace. East Bay’s nurse was in her late fifties at least, judging by her iron-gray hair. Her rich labials and slurring sibilants identified her as a non-native speaker. Pleasantly well-fed, Matty appeared to enjoy life. Grace did not dare compare Greg and Matty to the medical people back home in Woodside. It was past time to move on with her life. Woodside was over.
The three of them stood together before the huge silver coffeepot, embellishing the thin brown, harsh-smelling contents of their foam cups with various powdered offerings. Grace ignored the large sugar cookies and stale-looking donuts arranged on a paper doily near the pot. Matty revealed her origins during their easy conversation. As suspected, she was born Dutch. The nurse smiled quizzically at Grace, head cocked, eyebrows rising to some inner rhythm of thought as the doctor droned on with the introductions.
“I was just planning to fulfill an obligation to the university, to practice in a smaller, less prosperous community before I went on to bigger and better things,” Greg said. “I went to med school on a community grant and scholarship and the university helped pay part of the costs. Once I got here, got to know some of the people, I didn’t want to leave. Where else would be better to live?”
“Grace, dear, anything you can do to help out this poor, tired, exhausted soul. He can’t keep up with me, you know,” Matty stage-whispered conspiratorially and gave a wicked wink.
The doctor grinned. “These Dutch women are so demanding,” he responded and turned away to shake hands with another of the hospital staff.
The nurse gave Grace a soul-searching look which she took in good humor. Establishing a good rapport from the first was mutually beneficial. When Matty reached out her hands, Grace automatically met them.
“Ja, good, strong, warm, useful hands,” she happily observed, squeezing. There was no spark, no tingle; nothing but firm pressure. Her hands were warm, tough,
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