Book Read Free

Suicide Supper Club

Page 18

by Rhett DeVane


  “Either way, you require immediate treatment. Our on-call surgeon is on his way in.”

  “Surgery? Can’t I rest in bed for a few days and eat chicken soup or something? Give the hole a chance to heal over?”

  “Unfortunately, no. You are becoming increasingly septic. The longer we wait, the graver your condition will become.”

  A fresh wave of discomfort hit, in spite of the pain medication. “Anything you have to do to stop this is okay by me.”

  The curtain parted behind the doctor and the nurse stuck in her head. “One of your family members is here, Miss McKenzie.”

  Family . . . What family? “Who is it?”

  The nurse consulted a small notepad. “Choo-choo Ivey. Would you like for her to come on back?”

  Relief rushed in, better than any drug. “Yes, please.”

  The doctor rose. “You’ll be in good hands with Dr. Gunter. As soon as the surgical team is assembled, we’ll be taking you back. Dr. Gunter will stop in to meet you first and explain the procedure.”

  The sight of Choo-choo Ivey’s face peering around the edge of the cubicle’s curtains brought tears to Abby’s eyes. “Oh, thank God. Choo-choo!”

  The old woman rushed to the bedside, leaned down for a gentle hug, and pulled the chair close to the gurney. The scent of garlic and wine boiled off Choo-choo and accosted Abby’s nose. Her stomach gave only a slight lurch, a marked improvement over earlier.

  “Abby, what in the world has happened?”

  “I have a hole in my colon, of all things. I’m having emergency surgery.” Abby fought the sedating effects of the anti-nausea and pain medications. “Sheila? Loiscell?”

  Choo-choo started to speak, then hesitated. “They aren’t here just yet, dear. Don’t worry. I won’t leave you.”

  Abby reached over and managed to squeeze Choo-choo’s hand. “I’m so glad you’re here, and not—”

  Choo-choo held a finger to her lips. “Hush now. Let’s not speak of unpleasant things. We have to get you through this.”

  Behind them, a scrub-attired man appeared. “Abigail McKenzie?”

  Abby nodded. She had been called by her real first name more in the past hour than in the past ten years.

  He extended a hand. “Dr. Gunter. I am your surgeon.” His grip, strong and warm. Between that and the compassionate expression he wore, Abby took an instant liking to him. He was not old, but old enough. Abby guessed mid to late thirties.

  “I guess that makes me your patient.” Abby silently chastised herself. Drugs never had a good effect on her ability to sound intelligent.

  The surgeon glanced to Choo-choo, and then back to Abby. “I need to go over your procedure.”

  Abby lifted one heavy hand and tried to motion in Choo-choo’s direction. “It’s okay to talk in front of her. Pretty sure I won’t remember a thing later. She can fill me in.”

  “Very good then.” He smiled again. On certain people, all that smiling might appear solicitous, but his features took to it as if the expression was a frequent guest.

  “I’ll perform a resection of part of your lower colon, the sigmoid colon, about four or five inches. I’ll send tissue samples to the lab for evaluation. Then, I will take one end and bring it to the surface to form a stoma. You will have a colostomy bag when you awaken. I have to do it this way in order to allow the infection to subside. If I did it now—given the amount of contamination—the site would not heal.”

  The little moisture Abby had in her mouth dried to dust. “A colostomy?”

  “You will have this for at least six to eight weeks. Afterwards, I can go back in to reconnect the bowel.”

  “Two surgeries?” The air left the cubicle.

  Dr. Gunter nodded. “It is very good you came in when you did. Given a little more time, the infection could have compromised the colon so that you would have had a permanent colostomy.” His next words stopped Abby cold. “Or you would have become so septic, you might have died.”

  “Sweet Jesus,” Choo-choo muttered.

  Still nursing what remained of her alcohol and adrenalin high, Loiscell Pickering paced the surgical waiting room at Tallahassee General. At the late hour, only a handful of people shared the elongated room. An overhead television set on CNN offered no balm. Anyone would get depressed watching the unfolding world situation. A second digital screen scrolled limited information about surgical patients. She pulled a slip of paper from her pants pocket and read Sheila’s tracking number for the twentieth time in less than an hour. The readout had not changed. Sheila was still in surgery, and it had been going on two hours.

  “Loiscell, you have to sit down,” Elvina said. “You are wearing me out.”

  Loiscell stopped long enough to frown down at Elvina. “I can’t sit. I’m about to jump out of my skin. How can you stay so calm?”

  “Practice. When you’re my age, you’ve spent hour upon hour in rooms like this one. It won’t do any of us any good if you collapse. No news is good news. Sheila’s been in there for a long while. That means they’re taking care of her.”

  “I suppose.” Loiscell shot a look at the woman sitting behind the information desk. “I’m going to ask that Pink Lady volunteer.”

  Elvina huffed. “Might as well save your breath. That one there has been in this very spot since Moses parted the Red Sea. I know she was the same one from when Jake Witherspoon had his emergency surgery a few years back. She runs this waiting room with an iron hand.”

  “Won’t hurt to try.”

  “Go ahead on, then. But don’t get your feathers ruffled if she doesn’t give you more than the basic information. You’ll come away with as much knowledge as you went in with.” Elvina lowered her voice. “These days, I sense conspiracies lurking around every corner. No telling who knows what, and the FBI and CIA are probably behind it all. Those Pink Ladies are pawns in a much bigger game.”

  Loiscell waved Elvina’s comment aside and walked over to the woman in the hot pink jacket. Loiscell hated to outright lie about anything, but what other choice did she have? Sheila Bruner had no next of kin to speak for her. The new HIPPA privacy rules be damned! She had to pose as a relative in order to get any information at all. Besides, she had been up to her wrists in Sheila’s blood. If that didn’t count for something, nothing would. Even a fake sister rated higher than a rat husband who’d just tried to kill you. God only knew what she was going to do about the lies she’d told that investigator. She had downright lied to the police! Good Lord.

  “Excuse me. How will I know when my . . . um . . . sister makes it out of the OR?”

  “The status bar will tell you when the patient is moved from surgery to the recovery area.” The volunteer offered a trained compassionate smile and pointed to the overhead digital monitor. “Her doctor will come out and talk to you.”

  When Loiscell walked past to resume her pacing, Elvina’s brows flickered. “Told you so.”

  Loiscell reviewed the incredible scenario, still beyond comprehension. Choo-choo had to be mistaken. Surely, Glenn Bruner wasn’t the professional hired by Choo-choo Ivey. No way. They had simply gotten mixed up with that butthole’s desire to hurt his wife. But why trail her to Tallahassee? Seemed like a lot of trouble to go through. Glenn was a rabid hunter. Sheila was always complaining about trying to find ways to fix the pounds of venison packed in their freezer. Wouldn’t it have been far less conspicuous to shoot Sheila and dump her body somewhere in the woods? Unless another hunter walked up on the body, Glenn would be home free. No telling how many bones rested in shallow graves—or not—along the dirt roads in Gadsden County.

  Plus, Loiscell had never figured Glenn bright enough to plan anything short of a boozy card game. She glanced at her hands. Though she had washed them five times, the aura of blood and violence clung to her skin. She hadn’t had time to think, only react. What did one do with a gunshot wound? They didn’t cover that in basic CPR classes. Her limited knowledge came from watching hours of hospital-themed television dramas.
Stop the bleeding. Call for help. Don’t move the victim.

  Choo-choo’s sweater was ruined. Even if the dark crimson stain washed out, who would want to wear a garment that had been drenched in a friend’s blood? If it had saved Sheila from hemorrhaging to death before the paramedics arrived, the sacrifice was worth it.

  The irony wasn’t lost on Loiscell. If things had gone as planned, each member of the Suicide Supper Club would be laid up on a cold slab with a neat bullet hole, and deader than a doornail. When it came right down to it, Loiscell’s first reaction had been to do anything in her power to cheat death.

  Her thoughts flailed around like a gigged frog; the leftover wine buzz didn’t help. What about that other woman, the poor lady who had stopped to offer directions? She had remained unconscious in spite of the wail of emergency sirens, unlike Sheila, who had opened her eyes once. That ambulance had pulled away first, taking her to an ER, but which one? Had to be here. This hospital had the trauma center.

  Loiscell steered around some lady’s bag of knitting supplies as she paced. Must be some way to get details. She shot the stink-eye at the Pink Lady. Trying to pull information from her would be like smuggling cheesecake past a yo-yo dieter. Loiscell paused and studied the others in the waiting area before walking over to stand in front of Elvina. “Do you remember seeing a man in here earlier? Or in the ER?”

  “Plenty of men coming and going.”

  “About average height, darkish hair . . . ” Loiscell’s brow furrowed. “He had a mustache, I think.”

  “Not to berate you at such a trying time, Loiscell dear. But now is not the appropriate time or place to troll for a man.”

  Loiscell stomped her foot. “Oh, for the love of Pete, Elvina. I’m not cruising men!”

  “Well I beg your pardon then.”

  “That other lady—the one I told you Glenn shot—her husband. I’d like to find out if she’s okay.”

  Elvina narrowed her eyes. “Come to think of it, there was this one fellow. Pink Lady summoned him a while back. Believe it was when you were in the restroom. He looked like he’d been run over by a dump truck. Reckon that was him?”

  “Might have been. Gosh, I feel like such a rat. I could’ve gone over to him and at least offered support, or something. We were both up to our wrists in blood. Side by side. You’d think I would have at least said something to him.”

  Elvina reached up and patted her on the arm. “I don’t think he would hold it against you. Not like you had ever met him, or his wife, before this evening. I’m sure there was a world of confusion—what with police and ambulances crawling all over and you having to give your statement to that investigator that followed you here. I’m sure we can find out something about her later. I’ll phone up my friends at the police department.”

  “In Chattahoochee? How you figure they’ll know anything?”

  Elvina caressed the small pouch on the outside of her handbag where her trusty cell phone rested. “They’ve heard. Trust me.”

  “But this is Leon County.”

  “So it is. They all share information. And believe you me, they’ll be talking more in the next few hours about Glenn Bruner. I’ll speak with J.T., Melody’s beau. If it can be found out, J.T. can do it. Mandy cuts his hair—what little there is left of it—and we hear all kinds of law stuff like you wouldn’t believe.”

  By the time Loiscell made another round of the waiting area, the read-out had changed. Sheila had been moved to recovery. Loiscell exhaled and caught a whiff of her own breath, and man, did her mouth taste horrible. A little of the tension in her body released like a tire with a slow leak. Thank you, God. Sheila’s still alive!

  Loiscell flipped open her cell phone and dialed. “Sheila made it through surgery. She’s in recovery. No details yet. What’s up over there?”

  “Abby went back about twenty minutes ago,” Ben Wither’s calm voice answered. “The doctor told Choo-choo the surgery would last about an hour and a half.”

  “Yes, but will they tell either of you anything? This privacy stuff is a real bear to work around.”

  Ben voice’s lowered. “Choo-choo told them she’s Abby’s aunt.”

  “Amazing, how all of us are related all of a sudden. I’ll bet they get a lot of that.” Loiscell cast a quick glance toward the Pink-Lady volunteer to make sure she wasn’t watching before she continued. No telling if the woman could read lips. For sure, Elvina’s paranoia germ was contagious. “I’m Sheila’s long-lost sister.”

  “Wouldn’t be a problem here, even if Choo-choo wasn’t claiming to be family. Turns out, I’m down as Abby’s medical power of attorney. They showed me a copy of the legal paper.”

  Loiscell paused. “Well now. Ain’t that something?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  One day after suicide

  Tuesday

  Sheila Bruner tried to reign in her anesthesia-muddled mind. A single, nonsensical thought bobbed into her mind: she had never learned to do a cartwheel.

  As a child, she could skip, jump rope double-time, somersault, hopscotch, and run. But every time she tried to cartwheel, her legs refused to fly gracefully into the air, and she landed in a crumpled-up mess. Finally, her auntie forbade her to try, as all Sheila succeeded in doing was flipping her dress up and showing her underpanties to the world. Not very lady-like.

  The first time Sheila had worn a pair of Bermuda shorts, cut above the bend of the knees, she had flown out of the house and sailed into what should have been a perfect cartwheel. No dress or petticoats in the way. Nothing to stop her from achieving perfection. A week later, the multi-colored bruise on her left buttock still mocked her in the mirror.

  As a teenager, Sheila had discovered basketball. She could pass and dribble. She could run fast enough to cover the court. Best of all, the game required no cartwheels or any other form of flashy gymnastics. The perfect sport. If only she hadn’t fallen into the trap of love. She might have gone to college and played for Florida State. So much of her life could be summed up with if only.

  Sheila blinked to clear her vision and squinted, taking in the details of her surroundings. Nurses. Monitors. Other people on gurneys in various stages of wakefulness. Where was she? Seemed like a post-surgical holding pen in a hospital. Which one, she hadn’t a clue since her eyes couldn’t focus well enough to read the logo on the nurses’ nametags.

  Four words rang in her memory: The Suicide Supper Club.

  Sheila squeezed her eyes shut to stanch the flow of hot tears. The shots ringing through the dark. The pain. Now here. She had survived and her friends were dead. No other explanation. She couldn’t even die correctly.

  Glenn was going to be furious when he found out she was laid up in a hospital. He had tormented her on the handful of occasions when a cold or the flu took her from her duties. Though she hadn’t ended up in the hospital following the miscarriages in her early twenties, she vividly recalled how he had reacted to the three days she had spent at Tallahassee General after the hysterectomy. No one to cook his meals. No one to make sure the house remained perfect. No one to throw down and rape. Yes, rape; call it what it was.

  Even after she came home, Glenn continued to rant about his sorry plight and stupid excuse for a wife. Holding her belly, Sheila had inched around, carrying the soiled laundry to the washer piece by piece, vacuuming in measured squares. A meal that normally took a half-hour to prepare took much longer, since she had to stop often and collapse into the kitchen chair. The only respite from her wifely duties had been the freedom from his rough sexual abuse. The red-edged incision scar repulsed Glenn, and he didn’t touch her for over six months.

  Given her husband’s recent rages, a stay in the hospital would send him far over the edge. She would be forced to hear it, and now, have no friends to share the burden. Sheila would go back to that house, that life, that undiluted hell.

  “Oh, good. You’re awake. Your sister is in the waiting area.” The nurse’s face faded in and out of focus. “As soon as we get yo
u to your room upstairs, I’m sure she’ll be right in.”

  Sister? Things weren’t making sense. Did she have a sister? Not last time she checked. At least, the nurse didn’t say husband. A few hours of rest before she had to face Glenn would be a small gift from God.

  Sheila attempted to move her left arm, but a confusion of bandages held it firm. When she glanced down, the corner of a surgical dressing showed beneath the sheet. What kind of a hit man had Choo-choo hired? The idiot had missed anything vital by a country mile.

  The next time Sheila opened her eyes, she lay between pristine white sheets in a private room.

  “Hi, sugar,” A soft voice said.

  Sheila squinted. “Loiscell?”

  A warm hand grasped hers. “That’s right.”

  “Loiscell, you’re here! You’re alive! How . . . ? Choo-choo . . . Where’s Choo-choo? And Abby?”

  “Of course I’m here. Now, don’t go getting yourself all upset. You need to remain calm.”

  A second woman stepped up behind Loiscell. Sheila frowned as she tried to get her vision to cooperate. “Miz Houston?”

  Elvina smiled. “It’s okay, dear. We’re not going to leave you. Don’t you worry about one little thing, you hear?”

  “But . . .”

  Loiscell gave Sheila’s hand a gentle squeeze. “We’ll talk about everything in great detail as soon as you’re a little clearer in your mind. For now, you are safe and we’re here.”

  Elvina motioned to the remote for a patient-controlled analgesia unit. “You should press that little black button when you feel any pain. The nurse said so. Don’t scrimp on that morphine. There’s no need—no need at all—for you to hurt.”

  Sheila opened her mouth to speak. It was all too confusing and tiresome. She squeezed the PCA button. Within seconds, a comfortable warm flush washed over her, dissolving worry and that nagging throb in her shoulder.

 

‹ Prev