Too Sweet to Die T. Doyle (tharntype novel english .TXT) 📖

She mouthed back, “You’re welcome.”

I needed to fill out an incident report but first I retook her vitals. Her heart rate was a little fast, but I figured it had more to do with Dr. K’s fabulous physique than her fall.

“I’m sorry to have caused such a fuss,” Mrs. Almond said.

“Nonsense. Next time, though, I insist we do this while you’re in a chair,” Dr. Kotelawala said and gathered his things.

“Can I get you anything else?” I asked her.

“No, thank you.” She picked up the TV remote.

“Call me if you need anything or feel funny,” I said.

Dr. Kotelawala followed me into the hall. “Thanks, Charlie.”

“What happened?”

“I was soaking her foot and she kicked the bowl. It surprised me and I stood suddenly. She flinched and slid off the bed. I caught her, but couldn’t safely maneuver her back on the bed. I guided her down so she didn’t sit in the water.” He pulled his shirt away from his skin. “I should have insisted she sit in the chair. It won’t happen again.”

“Mrs. Almond can be very persuasive,” I said, thinking about how I’d helped her change her low-sodium diet. “If you want, we can have a CNA round with you and help you with the patient transfers.”

“That would be helpful. I think I’ll change first.” He looked down at his damp shirt.

“There are spare scrubs in Physical Therapy linen closet. I can show you.” I really needed to write the incident report, but the poor man needed dry clothes.

“Thanks, that’d be great.” He pulled at the cuffs of his shirt.

I directed him toward the rehab rooms. As one of the few podiatrists in Forest Forks, Dr. K. treated most of the diabetics in town. I realized he might know how often insulin pumps fail. “Dr. Kotelawala, did you know Oscar Robles?”

“No, is he a new patient here?”

“No, he was a close family friend. He died recently of an accidental insulin overdose, maybe from a pump malfunction, and I wondered if you knew how often insulin pumps fail?”

“I’m sorry for your loss. Pumps can malfunction, of course, but…” He checked up and down the hall. “Is this about Mrs. Collins?”

“Yes, I know you can’t go into specifics but if the circumstances of Oscar’s and Mrs. Collins’s death are so similar.” I rushed the words out, and I was sure I looked surprised and guilty and relieved because those feelings flipped and flowed over me.

We continued down the hall and I unlocked the linen closet outside of the rehab area. The four-foot by eight-foot room had stainless steel shelves with spare scrubs, towels, and a few blankets used by the rehab patients when working out.

Dr. K. turned on the light and selected a pair of scrubs. He stood inside the closet and faced me. “Mrs. Collins had her diabetes under control. I think it was a recent diagnosis that may have contributed to her death.” His eyes widened, like he encouraged me to make a few guesses.

“Oh?” I stalled.

“Yes.” He waited for me to say something and gave his head a small shake. “I suppose it’s not an issue since we prayed for her at church. She’d been diagnosed with Parkinson’s.”

My mouth dried. Mrs. Collins’s heart was healthy and she had her diabetes controlled. She’d have to live with the Parkinson’s, having it overtake her life, her independence. Maybe she didn’t want to deal with that future. My heart beat slowed in my chest. “How did she handle the diagnosis?”

He tilted his head to the side. “She accepted it well. She told me her son was devastated and making plans to renovate her house so she could live in it forever.” He shook his head. “I don’t think that’s what she wanted.”

“I didn’t know her,” I admitted. “I don’t think Oscar’s pump malfunction was an accident and I thought maybe the deaths were related.”

Dr. K. turned off the closet light. “I see. Did they know each other?”

“No.” I locked the door.

“I don’t think they’re related. Thanks for the scrubs.”

“You’re welcome.” I turned and headed back to the nurses’ station.

I filled out the incident report on Mrs. Almond’s fall and then checked on my remaining patients in a daze. My mind wandered from Mrs. Collins to Oscar to Tyler to kidnapped babies to Eric’s involvement in the missing narcotics. I returned to the nurses’ station. Missy scribbled a message for Mr. Nelson to fix a television.

The call lights rang non-stop keeping the CNAs, Julie, and I running. It was clear the bed-ridden patients wanted gossip, not medical care.

At dinner time, Joe texted he loved me and had a case and wouldn’t be home until late. I replied with the heart emoji. Too much had gone on today to text. I wanted to hide in the storage room to eat dinner to avoid more questions about Eric, but forced myself to go to the cafeteria.

Nora sat with Ingrid and Ray’s mom, Jenny, at the non-wobbly table. I wandered over and pointed to an empty chair. “May I join you?”

“Of course,” Nora said. She’d applied hot pink lipstick. She completed her ensemble with a black velour track suit, and honestly, she was rocking it. She looked like the grandma that drove her golf cart with a martini in one hand, and a teacup poodle on her lap.

Ingrid, on the other hand, looked like the grandma that bakes cookies with her “World’s Best Grandma” t-shirt, elastic waist jeans, and sensible sneakers.

Jenny wore a blue and green plaid flannel shirt over a tropical-print moo-moo. It was a bold choice that said, “beware”.

I sat and unwrapped the other half of my sandwich from lunch with Ray.

Jenny leaned on the arm of her wheelchair. “Why are there drug dogs in the employee’s parking lot?”

I swallowed. “I would guess they’re searching for drugs. Where were you that you saw the employee’s parking lot?” Had Jenny wandered outside alone?

“Physical therapy. They let me come in and use the arm machines whenever I want,” Jenny said with a touch of smugness.

“They