My Grandfather, Dead

Hate. Hate was running through her veins. Well, the girl reflected, maybe it wasn’t hate but it was certainly extreme dislike. Loathing perhaps? Definitely dislike. And right now, all of this dislike was directed at one person.

Her aunt. That bitch.

This dislike was a very uncomfortable feeling. The girl wasn’t used to disliking anyone. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she had disliked someone else this intensely. She was usually easy-going. A pushover maybe. She thought about that word a bit in her mind. No. Probably not a pushover. Definitely not used to hating anyone though. The feeling sat in her stomach, burning, simmering, a strange sort of heat. It was strangely satisfying. Perhaps she was a masochist.

The girl shivered a little. The room was cool, icy even. That was to be expected in a morgue of course. It was a small room, and she was facing the silver doors that held the bodies. That held a certain body. She shivered a little again, this time not with the cold. The security guard tried to joke with her but her solemn face staring back at him dimmed his cheer so he busied himself with whatever he was doing. As the body slid out, almost soundlessly, she caught her breath. She didn’t know what she was expecting but she certainly wasn’t expecting herself to be standing here, watching her grandfather rolling out on soundless wheels with an icy blast of air seemingly propelling him towards her.

A white body bag lay still and calm on the silver slab of metal. With some trepidation and a determination she pulled on the plastic gloves she had been provided. They were cool going onto her hand, chilling her even further. Slowly, she reached for the zipper in the middle of the plastic body bag. With a scraping noise, a grinding noise, she pulled the zipper down, inch by inch. And inch by inch her grandfather appeared.

Finally, she allowed herself to look upon him. He was still dressed in a light blue hospital gown, his face calm, his body stiff. His expression was no different. His mouth was slightly open as if about to speak. She wondered what words he would have wanted to tell her. She wondered what words still lay heavy on his heart, that silent organ. His eyes were closed. He looked as he had always done in the last few weeks. Nothing different. And that struck her as even stranger. He didn’t look peaceful. He didn’t look tortured. He just looked normal.

His old hands lay on his stomach. The fingers were swollen a bit. She wasn’t sure if it was from his illness or the cold. The tips of his fingers were slightly curled inward. The skin was still a ruddy golden color, maybe a bit paler than usual, but again, nothing different. As her eyes scanned down his body, she noted each detail until it ended on his knees. That was as far as she could go. Both his legs ended in stumps. Naked stumps, so vulnerable looking, the skin over the stumps smooth, almost silky-looking.

Her eyes closed. She thought she should pray for him but her mind wouldn’t settle. It flitted from thing to thing until she felt sure she was becoming a bit insane.

She didn’t know what to do or say. She supposed she was still in denial. No. She knew she was still in denial and she had this urge to laugh. To laugh at herself loudly but the scrape of the shoe of the security guard forced her to quash down the urge. Here she was, standing in front of a dead body in a morgue on Halloween night. How ironic. How deliciously ironic.

She couldn’t seem to comprehend that this was her grandfather. She opened her eyes and looked down at him but saw nothing but a still figure of an old man, his body weak and unmoving like a horrible wax figure. This wasn’t her grandfather.

Her grandfather was strong-willed. He was hot-tempered and opinionated. He always wanted things his way and pushed, pulled, and bullied until he did get it his way. But he had loved her fiercely and she him.

Her aunt. The now-familiar burning feeling of dislike clawed into her stomach again. Her last phone call with her had not gone well. She didn’t understand how a daughter could speak that way about a father. What had gone wrong? Her mind forced her aunt’s words back into the forefront.

“None of my friends would want to go to the funeral.”

“I don’t care what you do with his things. Give them away for all I care.”

“If you want to do something for him, you’re footing the bill. I’m not paying for any of it.”

“I want him cremated.”

“I want his ashes. I’ll deal with that.”

When the girl had told her aunt about how she couldn’t afford a funeral for him, the aunt had scoffed. “Fine, then we’re not having a funeral.”

When the girl had suggested a get-together to remember her grandfather, the aunt declined. She had other things to do. “I’ll see you when we put him in the ground.”

A click on the other end meant her aunt was done saying everything she had wanted to say. Fine, the girl thought to herself, she’d remember her grandfather herself. Everyone deserved to be remembered.

A tentative clearing of the throat alerted her to the presence of the security guard behind her. She twitched, a little in fear but more so in embarrassment for being caught staring off into space. Her face flushed a bit and she jerkily leaned down, pulling the zipper up, its sound the only one echoing in the quiet room. She quickly turned away.

“I’m done.” Her hands expertly stripping the gloves, the rubber catching stubbornly on her skin as if unwilling to relinquish her. A flick of her fingers and they fell unceremoniously in the trash. She took a step back and watched as the security guard pushed on the silver metal slab and it rolled, as soundlessly as it had come out, back into the cold metal locker. A loud click and the door was locked again.

The security guard turned and looked at her quietly, waiting for her to precede him out the room so she obliged him. Her long strides in her stiletto heels clicked on the hard concrete floor. She felt the air move behind her as the security guards own worn shoes scuffed the floor following her out. In a sudden movement, he overtook her and pushed the door open in front of her. Her feet stumbled a bit in surprise but she recovered quickly.

She looked up into the security guard’s eyes for the first time all night. Really looked at him. He looked back at her, his eyes unflinching but soft.

She stepped through the door and the cold air swirled her hair against her face. The security guard stepped out behind her. She felt him standing there quietly and then in a fit of squeaking clothing, begin to move around a bit frantically. Turning, she stared at him, not knowing what to think as he riffled through his pockets, searching for something that didn’t seem to be there.

Perhaps he had left his gun there in the morgue with the bodies. Perhaps her grandfather had a gun right now lying on his body.

Her lips twitched a bit at the image but that was all, a twitch. Finally, the security guard managed to drag out a piece of ragged paper tissue from the depths of God-only-knew-where. The tissue had seen better days. Actually, she was sure that most of the things in the guard’s pockets had seen better days. It was almost laughable when the big security guard with his big hands shoved the wilting paper tissue towards her and together they watched a piece of lint detach itself from it and drift lazily down. His face was a bit embarrassed but he persevered, his arm extending towards her.

Only then did she realize the wetness on her cheeks cooling in the breeze.

So I can cry, the girl reflected. And almost in a trance, she accepted the ragged piece of tissue and dabbed at her cheeks ineffectually. Then, her hands lowered, crushing the tissue in her fist.

“Thank you.” The words seemed false, inadequate somehow but the security guard accepted them graciously, nodding a bit abruptly and stood there again silently. He shifted his feet just once but that was enough indication to tell her that he was feeling a bit awkward.

She nodded as if in confirmation of the awkwardness and together they turned back towards the hospital. He led the way, his shoes a soft scuffing counterpoint to the clatter of her heels. When she reached the hallway leading to the exit sign, he stopped and a nod in the direction of the hallway signaled for her to go on herself.

She looked up into his eyes, really looked, and he looked back at her. His eyes were questioning as if he was telling her “tell me tell me tell me about your grandfather tell me about you” but she turned away and walked deliberately toward the flickering exit sign. She was imagining it. But, even if she wasn’t, what could she say? What would she tell him?

When she finally reached her car, she opened the door and slid her tired body in. Automatically locking the doors and adjusting her seatbelt, she leaned back in her seat. Then, she closed her eyes. And there she sat in the dark, remembering her grandfather.