Читать книгу Mr. X - Peter Straub - Страница 25

A white-haired Irish politician introduced himself as Dr Muldoon, the heart specialist assigned to my mother’s case, and described Star’s condition as ‘touch and go.’ His confidential whiskey baritone made it sound like an invitation to a cruise. Shortly after Muldoon’s campaign stop, the muscular guy with the ponytail who had been talking to May went into the cubicle, and I followed him.

He was taking notes on the readouts of a machine that would have looked at home in the cockpit of a 747. When he saw me, he stood up, nearly filling the entire space between the equipment and the side of the bed. The tag on his chest said his name was Vincent Hardtke, and he looked like an old high school football player who put away a lot of beer on the weekends.

I asked him how long he had been working at St Ann’s.

‘Six years. This is a great staff, in case you have any doubts. Lawndale gets the fancy Ellendale clientele, but if I got sick, this is where I’d come. Straight up. Hey, if it was my mom, I’d want to know she was getting good care, too.’

‘You’ve seen other patients like my mother. How did they do?’

‘I’ve seen people worse off come through fine. Your mom’s pretty steady right now.’ Hardtke stepped back. ‘That old lady with the cane, she’s a piece of work.’ He pushed the curtain aside and grinned at Aunt May. She snubbed him with the authority of a duchess.

By late morning, visitors had gathered in the passages between the nurses’ station and the two rows of cubicles. Stretching my legs, I walked all the way around the nurses’ station a couple of times and remembered something Nettie had said.

Nurse Zwick ignored me until I had come to a full stop directly in front of her. ‘Nurse,’ I said, indicating my duffel bag and knapsack against the wall, ‘if you think my bags are in the way, I’d be happy to move them anywhere you might suggest.’

She had forgotten all about them. ‘Well, this isn’t a luggage car.’ She momentarily considered ordering me to take them to the basement or somewhere else equally distant. ‘Your things don’t seem to be in anyone’s way. Leave them there for the time being.’

‘Thank you.’ I moved away, then approached her again.

‘Yes?’

‘Dr Barnhill told me that you spoke to my mother this morning.’

She began looking prickly, and a trace of pink came into her cheeks. ‘Your mother came in while we were having the first patient summaries.’

I nodded.

‘She was confused, which is normal for a stroke person, but when she saw my uniform, she got hold of my arm and tried to say something.’

‘Could you make it out?’

Anger heightened the color in her cheeks. ‘I didn’t make her say anything, Mr Dunstan, she wanted to talk to me. Afterwards, I came up here and made a note. If my report to Dr Barnhill displeased your aunts, I’m sorry, but I was just doing my job. Stroke victims are often disordered in their cognition.’

‘She must have been grateful for your attention,’ I said.

Most of her anger went into temporary hiding. ‘It’s nice to deal with a gentleman.’

‘My mother used to say, No point in not being friendly.’ This was not strictly truthful. Now and again my mother had used to say, You have to give some to get some. ‘Could you tell me what you reported to the doctor?’

Zwick frowned at a stack of papers. ‘At first I couldn’t make out her words. Then we transferred her to the bed, and she pulled me in close and said, “They stole my babies.”’