Excerpt
At six o’clock the following morning, Tyne began preparing her
Catholic patients for Father Marriott’s visit. He would be around
shortly to give them communion, and Tyne knew she would be expected
to stay, no matter what time he got through. She wished she
could, like the Protestant nurses, slip out unnoticed instead of having
to kneel at the bedside during the communion. Her last night on duty
had been a busy one and she was tired. Besides, she wanted to get back
to the residence to see if Curly had been well enough to go to work.
Whether from a guilty conscience or fear of a reprimand from
Sister, Tyne did not know, but she stayed until all her patients had
received the sacrament. When at last she got to the residence, it was
almost eight o’clock. She had skipped breakfast, but she would go
to the lounge later and see what she could scrounge up besides the
inevitable tea and toast.
She opened the door to her room, expecting and hoping to see it
empty. But her heart sank when she saw Carol Ann lying in bed, on
her back, the covers dishevelled. In four steps Tyne was beside her,
looking down into the white face. Curly opened her eyes. They were
large and terrified.
“Tyne,” she gasped, “help me, please help me.” With trembling
hands she pushed aside the sheet that was her only covering.
Tyne cried out in horror. Curly lay in a pool of blood.
In the waiting room on St. Francis private ward, Tyne sat with
Carol Ann’s parents. Mr. Shaughnessy had his long legs stretched
out, ankles crossed. From time to time he picked up an outdated
magazine from the coffee table in front of him, leafed through it
briefly, then tossed it back onto the table. Across the room his wife
sat on a small naugahyde sofa clutching Tyne’s hand.
Few words had passed between them after the initial confusion of
the Shaughnessys’ arrival at the hospital. Mr. Shaughnessy, called at
work by his wife, had gone home immediately to get her. They had
met Tyne in the lobby, and proceeded to the private ward to wait for
their daughter who would be admitted there from surgery.
Mrs. Shaughnessy broke the silence with a question she had asked
at least half a dozen times. “You’re sure this Dr. Kendall is a good
surgeon, Tyne?”
Libros Libertad 