Baker looked puzzled.
“Well,” Susan said uneasily, “it’s just ... she’s been so silent ... and even though she’s sleeping, it seems as if she’s too silent ... and I wondered if maybe ...”
Mrs. Baker went straight to the second bed, pulled back the end of the curtain, and slipped behind it.
Susan tried to see beyond the curtain before it fell back into place, but she wasn’t able to get a glimpse of Jessica Seiffert or of anything else other than the nurse’s back.
She looked up at Tracey and Hepburn gesticulating and arguing in silence on the TV screen. She ate a spoonful of the ice cream, which tasted wonderful and hurt her teeth. She looked at the curtain again.
Mrs. Baker reappeared, and the curtain shimmered into place behind her, and again Susan didn’t have a chance to see anything beyond.
“Relax,” Mrs. Baker said. “She hasn’t passed away. She’s sleeping like a baby.”
“Oh.”
“Listen, kid, don’t let it prey on your mind. Okay? She’s not going to die in this room. She’ll be here for a couple of days, maybe a week, until her condition’s deteriorated enough for her to be transferred to the intensive care unit. That’s where it’ll happen, there among all the beeping and clicking life support machines that finally won’t be able to support her worth a damn. Okay?”
Susan nodded. “Okay.”
“Good girl. Now eat your ice cream, and I’ll see you in the morning.”
After Thelma Baker left, Susan turned up the sound on the TV set and ate all of her ice cream and tried not to look at Mrs. Seiffert’s shrouded bed.
The exercise and the large serving of ice cream eventually conspired to make her drowsy. She fell asleep watching Adam’s Rib.
In the dream, she was on a TV game show, in an audience of people who were wearing funny costumes. She herself was dressed as a hospital patient, wearing pajamas and a bandage around her head. She realized she was on “Let’s Make a Deal.” The host of the show, Monty Hall, was standing beside her. “All right, Susan!” he said with syrupy enthusiasm. “Do you want to keep the thousand dollars you’ve already won, or do you want to trade it for whatever’s behind curtain number one!” Susan looked at the stage and saw that there were not three curtains, as usual; there were, instead, three hospital beds concealed by privacy curtains. “I’ll keep the thousand dollars,” she said. And Monty Hall said, “Oh, Susan, do you really think that’s wise? Are you really sure you’re making the right decision?” And she said, “I’ll keep the thousand dollars, Monty.” And Monty Hall looked around at the studio audience, flashing his white-white teeth in a big smile. “What do you think, audience? Should she keep the thousand, considering how little a thousand dollars will buy in these times of high inflation, or should she trade it for what’s behind curtain number one?” The audience roared in unison: “Trade it! Trade it!” Susan shook her head adamantly and said, “I don’t want what’s behind the curtain. Please, I don’t want it.” Monty Hall—who had ceased to look anything like Monty Hall and now looked distinctly satanic, with arched eyebrows and terrible dark eyes and a wicked mouth—snatched the thousand dollars out of her hand and said, “You’ll take the curtain, Susan, because it’s really what you deserve. You have it coming to you, Susan. The curtain! Let’s see what’s behind curtain number one!” On the stage, the curtain encircling the first hospital bed was whisked aside, and two men dressed as patients were sitting on the edge of the bed: Harch and Quince. They were both holding scalpels, and the stage lights glinted on the razor-sharp cutting edges of the instruments. Harch and Quince rose off the bed and started across the stage, heading toward the audience, toward Susan, their scalpels held out in front of them. The audience
“Well,” Susan said uneasily, “it’s just ... she’s been so silent ... and even though she’s sleeping, it seems as if she’s too silent ... and I wondered if maybe ...”
Mrs. Baker went straight to the second bed, pulled back the end of the curtain, and slipped behind it.
Susan tried to see beyond the curtain before it fell back into place, but she wasn’t able to get a glimpse of Jessica Seiffert or of anything else other than the nurse’s back.
She looked up at Tracey and Hepburn gesticulating and arguing in silence on the TV screen. She ate a spoonful of the ice cream, which tasted wonderful and hurt her teeth. She looked at the curtain again.
Mrs. Baker reappeared, and the curtain shimmered into place behind her, and again Susan didn’t have a chance to see anything beyond.
“Relax,” Mrs. Baker said. “She hasn’t passed away. She’s sleeping like a baby.”
“Oh.”
“Listen, kid, don’t let it prey on your mind. Okay? She’s not going to die in this room. She’ll be here for a couple of days, maybe a week, until her condition’s deteriorated enough for her to be transferred to the intensive care unit. That’s where it’ll happen, there among all the beeping and clicking life support machines that finally won’t be able to support her worth a damn. Okay?”
Susan nodded. “Okay.”
“Good girl. Now eat your ice cream, and I’ll see you in the morning.”
After Thelma Baker left, Susan turned up the sound on the TV set and ate all of her ice cream and tried not to look at Mrs. Seiffert’s shrouded bed.
The exercise and the large serving of ice cream eventually conspired to make her drowsy. She fell asleep watching Adam’s Rib.
In the dream, she was on a TV game show, in an audience of people who were wearing funny costumes. She herself was dressed as a hospital patient, wearing pajamas and a bandage around her head. She realized she was on “Let’s Make a Deal.” The host of the show, Monty Hall, was standing beside her. “All right, Susan!” he said with syrupy enthusiasm. “Do you want to keep the thousand dollars you’ve already won, or do you want to trade it for whatever’s behind curtain number one!” Susan looked at the stage and saw that there were not three curtains, as usual; there were, instead, three hospital beds concealed by privacy curtains. “I’ll keep the thousand dollars,” she said. And Monty Hall said, “Oh, Susan, do you really think that’s wise? Are you really sure you’re making the right decision?” And she said, “I’ll keep the thousand dollars, Monty.” And Monty Hall looked around at the studio audience, flashing his white-white teeth in a big smile. “What do you think, audience? Should she keep the thousand, considering how little a thousand dollars will buy in these times of high inflation, or should she trade it for what’s behind curtain number one?” The audience roared in unison: “Trade it! Trade it!” Susan shook her head adamantly and said, “I don’t want what’s behind the curtain. Please, I don’t want it.” Monty Hall—who had ceased to look anything like Monty Hall and now looked distinctly satanic, with arched eyebrows and terrible dark eyes and a wicked mouth—snatched the thousand dollars out of her hand and said, “You’ll take the curtain, Susan, because it’s really what you deserve. You have it coming to you, Susan. The curtain! Let’s see what’s behind curtain number one!” On the stage, the curtain encircling the first hospital bed was whisked aside, and two men dressed as patients were sitting on the edge of the bed: Harch and Quince. They were both holding scalpels, and the stage lights glinted on the razor-sharp cutting edges of the instruments. Harch and Quince rose off the bed and started across the stage, heading toward the audience, toward Susan, their scalpels held out in front of them. The audience
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