By Elizabeth DiMeo
Suspense/Thriller, 258 pages
Cover art by Pat Evans
Among many other targets, famed
televangelist Jerry
Duran often criticizes medical
facilities and their personnel severely. Now he’s had to be admitted to a
hospital even though he regards all such institutions as alien country. Will
his prayers save him?
Excerpt:
Almost fifteen minutes
later a thin but muscular girl about twenty-three sauntered out. She wore a
black leotard with matching tights and an indifferent expression. Her short
dark brown hair curled attractively about her face. “What can I do for you?” she
asked.
“I’m thinking about
enrolling in your program, but I need some information first.”
“What kind of
information?”
“Well, could you give
me some idea of your fee schedule?” Ellen
asked.
“You mean how much it
costs? Twenty-five dollars a month, with no sign-up fee.”
“And what exactly does
that include?”
“Unlimited exercise
time, both in group sessions and individual work-outs, and dietary supervision
once a week. That means we review with you what you’ve eaten for the last seven
days, so you have to keep a record of it. It’s kinda like counting calories.” Lori snapped her gum. “We give you a special sheet
for that.”
“If I can, I’d like to
see some people exercising,” Ellen
said.
“Well, I guess so,” Lori replied. “Just come this way.” She led Ellen
back from the desk area past a half-wall of smudged plastic bricks to a large,
brightly-lit room where about a dozen middle-aged women dressed in pale blue
sweat-suits and snow white sneakers sat on the parquet floor with legs apart,
while the leader at the front shouted directions in verse to them. The group
chanted the verse as they bent forward, grasped their legs and moved from side
to side.
Lori
laughed. “Gloria is one of our
veterans. She really knows how to get these country-club matrons moving. We
have group exercise scheduled on the hour from nine to five that lasts fifteen
minutes. This bunch comes in as a group. They must serve dinner late. Or maybe
the help puts it on the table for them.
“Then we run it again
from six to ten in the evening for the working girls.” She glanced at Ellen. “We’re open for men, too, but haven’t gotten
any so far.”
Can’t say that’s a big
surprise, Ellen thought. “What about
exercise equipment? Do you have any of that?” she asked.
“Well, we have a few
machines for individual work-outs, but our emphasis is on group work. Getting
everyone sweating together makes the time go faster.”
“Can I look at the
machines?”
“Well, I guess so.
They’re back in here.” Lori led Ellen to a small room off to the right, which looked
as if it were both a dressing room and a machine-exercise room. Lockers and a
ladies’ rest room occupied much of the space, while two treadmills and three
stationary bikes were crowded into one corner. A full-length mirror stood in
front of each of the machines.
Kimberly Moore,
the IV therapist from the hospital, sat on one of the bikes, pumping furiously.
She looked cool and relaxed, unflappable in shocking-pink sweat top and pants.
She turned her head toward the door briefly as Ellen
and Lori came into the room.
“Well, hey, Kim,” said Ellen.
”I’m surprised to see you here. Is this the secret behind that fabulous figure?
I’m impressed.”
“Now, honey,” Kim drawled. “I wouldn’t go nearly that far. I do try
to work out here three or four times a week You’d think running around the
hospital all day would be exercise enough, but it isn’t. And I’ve got to keep
looking good. Lots of competition out there, you know.” She said all of this
without breaking her rhythm or turning to look directly at Ellen.
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