Janette Turner Hospital Collected Stories by Janette Turner Hospital Page B

forehead.
    â€œTell me about yourself, Mrs Grossetti. Tell me how you came to have your beautiful name. Beatrice has always been one of my favourites, especially if you pronounce it the Italian way.”
    â€œI can’t blame them, I suppose. It’s natural, isn’t it?” replied Mrs Grossetti who walked down her own paths. “You are different though. I suppose you see so many … so much of this … it seems ordinary to you.”
    â€œI do see a lot. Perhaps the difference is the doctors are fighting against death. But you see, I share it, I stay with my patients. No one is left alone.”
    â€œAre you afraid of being alone?”
    Angela was disconcerted. “No! Oh no. Not me. I don’t want you to feel alone.”
    â€œI would feel less alone with my geraniums and tomatoes than here. It is very cruel to keep me here. I’ve lived, you know. I’ve seen a lot. Buried my only son (he was just a child) and my husband. And a good many friends. I’ve seen a lot of … not as many as you perhaps, but I’m no stranger to … at least, I didn’t think I was.”
    Mrs Grossetti drifted in and out of sleep. Angela had other cases to attend to and she came and went. But she checked with Beatrice every hour. She had an instinct about these things.
    Sometimes the frail body stirred and whimpered, and Angela would sit and hold her hand.
    â€œMrs Grossetti? I’m here. Is there anything you want?”
    â€œBeatrice. My name is Beatrice.”
    â€œIt’s such a beautiful name.”
    â€œMy father loved Dante. He taught in a college. My father, that is. You know Dante’s Beatrice?”
    â€œYes indeed. I took one whole course on him in college myself. The professor used to make us recite the Italian aloud because it sounded so beautiful. I’ son Beatrice che ti faccio andare …”
    â€œIs that the part where she meets him in paradise?”
    â€œNo. It’s at the beginning, in the dark wood. When he was lost and afraid.”
    â€œSuch a luxury. To believe there was somebody waiting for him … And then finally all that light and peace. Do you believe it?”
    Angela said soothingly, as to a child: “Perhaps, perhaps. I don’t know.”
    â€œI used to. I wish I still could.”
    â€œThat’s not so important. I do know that death itself is a moment of joy and peacefulness. I can promise you. I have seen it over and over again.”
    â€œBut after that you can’t know, can you, doctor? I wish I’d never been a Catholic. It keeps you scared up to your very last breath.”
    â€œDo you want to see a priest?”
    â€œNot yet, not yet. I want to see my tomatoes ripen.”
    Beatrice slept again and Angela went about her rounds.
    The surfacing into speech was less frequent, the exchanges with Beatrice more fragmented as the afternoon wore on.
    â€œIt is so strange,” she said once, quite suddenly, “to think of the tomatoes ripening next week without me. Ripening and rotting all by themselves.”
    Acceptance, Angela thought. The final stage. “Shall I bring a priest now?”
    Beatrice opened her eyes and turned to face Angela.
    â€œYou’re in such a hurry, doctor. Determined to see me off properly, aren’t you?”
    â€œYou are a Catholic, Beatrice. It is customary …”
    â€œYes, yes. For the final promises. And will you believe him? Will you find the promises reassuring?”
    Angela, caught off guard, almost said: I’m not the one who is dying.
    Instead she said: “It is what you believe that matters, Beatrice.”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter to you yet, doctor. Things are, things are – whatever we believe. I believed I was healthy two days ago.”
    She sighed and seemed to lapse back into sleep. Angela was about to go but Beatrice seized her hand.
    â€œDon’t go, doctor. I’m afraid. I’m so