The House of Thunder Read Online Free PDF Page A

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 spread.” He pulled up a chair, then lowered her bed as far as it would go, so they could talk comfortably while they ate.
    As he put her tray on the bed table and lifted the plastic cover from it, he blinked at her and said, “You look nice and fresh.”
    “I look like death warmed over,” she said.
    “Not at all.”
    “Yes, I do.”
    “Your tapioca looks like death warmed over, but you look nice and fresh. Remember, I’m the doctor, and you’re the patient, and the patient must never, never, never disagree with the doctor. Don’t you know your medical etiquette? If I say you look nice and fresh, then, by God, you look nice and fresh!”
    Susan smiled and played along with him. “I see. How could I have been so gauche?”
    “You look nice and fresh, Susan.”
    “Why, thank you, Dr. McGee.”
    “That’s much better.”
    She had “washed” her hair with talcum powder, had lightly applied some makeup, and had put on lipstick. Thanks to a few drops of Murine, her eyes were no longer bloodshot, though a yellowish tint of sickness colored the whites of them. She had also changed from her hospital gown into a pair of blue silk pajamas that had been in her luggage. She knew she looked far less than her best; however, she looked at least a little better, and looking a little better made