The House of Thunder Read Online Free PDF Page A

moved with self-assurance and with considerable natural grace.
     
    He’d already had a positive influence on her. A simmering paranoia had been heating up slowly within her, but now she realized that her uneasiness had been entirely subjective in origin, a result of her weakness and disorientation; there was no rational justification for it. Dr. Viteski’s odd behavior no longer seemed important, and the hospital no longer seemed the least bit threatening.
     
     
 
Half an hour later, when Mrs. Baker looked in on her again, Susan asked for a mirror, then wished she hadn’t. Her reflection revealed a pale, gaunt face. Her gray-green eyes were bloodshot and circled by dark, puffy flesh. In order to facilitate the treatment and bandaging of her gashed forehead, an emergency room orderly had clipped her long blond hair; he had hacked at it with no regard for her appearance. The result was a shaggy mess. Furthermore, after twenty-two days of neglect, her hair was greasy and tangled.
     
    “My God, I look terrible!” she said.
     
    “Of course you don’t,” Mrs. Baker said. “Just a bit washed out. There’s no permanent damage. As soon as you gain back the weight you lost, your cheeks will fill in, and those bags under your eyes will go away.”
     
    “I’ve got to wash my hair.”
     
    “You wouldn’t be able to walk into the bathroom and stand at the sink. Your legs would feel like rubber. Besides, you can’t wash your hair until the bandages come off your head, and that won’t be until at least tomorrow.”
     
    “No. Today. Now. My hair’s oily, and my head itches. It’s making me miserable, and that’s not conducive to recuperation.”
     
    “This isn’t a debate, honey. You can’t win, so save your breath. All I can do is see that you get a dry wash.”
     
    “Dry wash? What’s that?”
     
    “Sprinkle some powder in your hair, let it soak up some of the oil, then brush it out,” Mrs. Baker said. “That’s what we did for you twice a week while you were in a coma.”
     
    Susan put one hand to her lank hair. “Will it help?”
     
    “A little.”
     
    “Okay, I’ll do it.”
     
    Mrs. Baker brought a can of powder and a brush.
     
    “The luggage I had with me in the car,” Susan said. “Did any of it survive the crash?”
     
    “Sure. It’s right over there, in the closet.”
     
    “Would you bring me my makeup case?”
     
    Mrs. Baker grinned. “He is a handsome devil, isn’t he? And so nice, too.” She winked as she said, “He isn’t married, either.”
     
    Susan blushed. “I don’t know what you mean.”
     
    Mrs. Baker laughed gently and patted Susan’s hand. “Don’t be embarrassed, kid. I’ve never seen one of Dr. McGee’s female patients who didn’t try to look her best. Teenage girls get all fluttery when he’s around. Young ladies like you get a certain unmistakable glint in their eyes. Even white-haired grannies, half crippled with arthritis, twenty years older than me —forty years older than the doctor—they all make themselves look nice for him, and looking nice makes them feel better, so it’s all sort of therapeutic.”
     
     
 
Shortly before noon, Dr. McGee returned, pushing a stainless-steel cafeteria cart that held two trays. “I thought we’d have lunch together while we talk about your memory problems.”
     
    “A doctor having lunch with his patient?” she asked, amazed.
     
    “We tend to be less formal here than in your city hospitals.”
     
    “Who pays for lunch?”
     
    “You do, of course. We aren’t that informal.”
     
    She grinned. “What’s for lunch?”
     
    “For me, a chicken-salad sandwich and apple pie. For you, unbuttered toast and tapioca and—”
     
    “Already, this is getting monotonous.”
     
    “Ah, but this time there’s something more exotic than cherry Jell-O,” he said. “ Lime Jell-O.”
     
    “I don’t think my heart can stand it.”
     
    “And a small dish of canned peaches. Truly a gourmet