Through the closed door, she heard the nurses noisily chattering and clattering away, apparently setting out medications for morning dispensation. What a racket they made -- enough to wake the dead. But, in fact, it wasn’t. She peered at Em in the gloom and saw him still lying stone cold beside her. A pale haze of first light filtered through the scrim of white curtain, backlighting his form and giving the crowded cubicle an unlikely aura of religiosity. Carefully disengaging her hand from his stiff fingers, she tentatively placed it on his unbeating heart and felt only the hard shell of his pacemaker. Was it still working? Does a pacemaker stop when the heart stops? She guessed not. Perhaps it did not even know that its host had died and that it was a superfluous guest in an empty house. It repelled her to think that though Em's heart had shut down, his pacer, the last straggler at the party, danced on without him.
Solitaire wondered if Em’s soul had left his body. She thought that it had, but who can say? The ancient Greeks, who practiced precise burial rituals, believed that it was necessary to close the mouth and eyes of the deceased so that the psyche or soul would not escape and wander off in disconsolate confusion, but would stay home, as it were, remaining safely within the body during the two-day laying-out period prior to the funeral. It was, in effect, a security device, in lieu, she thought, of a motion sensor.
In her minimal reading on the migration or transmigration of souls, Solitaire has noticed a curious gender discrepancy in the depictions of psychic travellers. In the older paintings and drawings, the soul, whatever the sex of the deceased, is depicted as a female, whereas in the more modern imagery, the departing soul is a male -- often attired in a business suit and tie.
This slavishness to convention is in itself a bit odd. Unless he is struck down in a board room while giving a power point presentation, a person on the point of death, or even in the throes of a near-death experience, is most likely to be situated in a hospital, hospice, home, automobile, battlefield, bottom of a lake, bath, etc, in which case he or she would be wearing a gown, robe, uniform, swimsuit or nothing at all -- in sum, almost anything but a business suit. Perhaps the Soul is dressing up for his job interview with God. But God, if we can believe Michelangelo, is a sartorial slouch who, even in the Sistine Chapel, never wears anything but flowing robes and bare feet, and obviously wouldn't be caught dead in a business suit. No slave to fashion He.
Solitaire's mind has by now begun to wander so far afield that she is beginning to fear for her sanity. She thinks that if she lies here much longer she will most certainly go mad and is therefore relieved to hear an approaching hum of soothingly low masculine voices. The hum increases, the door opens, and in a moment she is being drawn to her feet and embraced by Em’s sons, Zach and Benjamin.
Zach, the elder of the two, is a single father of two small daughters. Rising early to get them ready for school, he has picked up Solitaire's message, left the girls with a friend, and driven to his brother's, arriving at the hospice around six.
This slavishness to convention is in itself a bit odd. Unless he is struck down in a board room while giving a power point presentation, a person on the point of death, or even in the throes of a near-death experience, is most likely to be situated in a hospital, hospice, home, automobile, battlefield, bottom of a lake, bath, etc, in which case he or she would be wearing a gown, robe, uniform, swimsuit or nothing at all -- in sum, almost anything but a business suit. Perhaps the Soul is dressing up for his job interview with God. But God, if we can believe Michelangelo, is a sartorial slouch who, even in the Sistine Chapel, never wears anything but flowing robes and bare feet, and obviously wouldn't be caught dead in a business suit. No slave to fashion He.
Solitaire's mind has by now begun to wander so far afield that she is beginning to fear for her sanity. She thinks that if she lies here much longer she will most certainly go mad and is therefore relieved to hear an approaching hum of soothingly low masculine voices. The hum increases, the door opens, and in a moment she is being drawn to her feet and embraced by Em’s sons, Zach and Benjamin.
Zach, the elder of the two, is a single father of two small daughters. Rising early to get them ready for school, he has picked up Solitaire's message, left the girls with a friend, and driven to his brother's, arriving at the hospice around six.
As they lead her from the room, Solitaire clutches Zach by the arm and whispers fiercely, “They won’t let me change Em’s clothes. You've got to do it. Please.”
Zach nods. Pausing at the nurse's station, he says to the tech, “Can we get some coffee?”
Socorro looks at Kristee.
“Get them some coffee,” Kristee says to her subordinate. Her tone is crisp.
Zach takes Kristee aside while Benjamin and Solitaire follow Socorro to what is called the "Family dining room," where they sit down at a long table covered with a protective cloth. Through eyes dull with fatigue, Solitaire observes that although the intent has doubtless been to create an atmosphere of homey elegance, the mission has gone awry. Reminded of a Dylan Thomas story set in a warehouse piled ceiling-high with chairs, she feels suffocated by a depressing clutter of dark furniture -- consoles and desks, sideboards and coffee tables, love seats and, most especially, chairs, as though in expectation of burgeoning generations of extended families lounging around idly as they wait for their loved ones to make up their minds: stay or go, live or die, to be or not to be? In her deranged state of mind, these chairs seem to take on surreal characteristics. Mutant Chippendales clad in fuzzy brown and maroon stripes, line up on either side of the table like importunate pensioners demanding to be fed; in the reception room, overstuffed arm chairs and sofas, similarly upholstered, jostle for space like dowagers at a dance; behind them sit desperate duos of dutiful wallflower chairs, whilst dusty dieffenbachias, false family retainers, stand sentinel in corners, guarding tabletop arrangements of plastic pears and pine cones that gleam like heirlooms with coatings of Lemon Pledge.
Zach takes Kristee aside while Benjamin and Solitaire follow Socorro to what is called the "Family dining room," where they sit down at a long table covered with a protective cloth. Through eyes dull with fatigue, Solitaire observes that although the intent has doubtless been to create an atmosphere of homey elegance, the mission has gone awry. Reminded of a Dylan Thomas story set in a warehouse piled ceiling-high with chairs, she feels suffocated by a depressing clutter of dark furniture -- consoles and desks, sideboards and coffee tables, love seats and, most especially, chairs, as though in expectation of burgeoning generations of extended families lounging around idly as they wait for their loved ones to make up their minds: stay or go, live or die, to be or not to be? In her deranged state of mind, these chairs seem to take on surreal characteristics. Mutant Chippendales clad in fuzzy brown and maroon stripes, line up on either side of the table like importunate pensioners demanding to be fed; in the reception room, overstuffed arm chairs and sofas, similarly upholstered, jostle for space like dowagers at a dance; behind them sit desperate duos of dutiful wallflower chairs, whilst dusty dieffenbachias, false family retainers, stand sentinel in corners, guarding tabletop arrangements of plastic pears and pine cones that gleam like heirlooms with coatings of Lemon Pledge.
“It’s done,” Zach says, sliding onto a chair. “But just the shirt -- too late for the trousers.”
“Well.. at least he won't have to wear that wretched hospital gown.”
It is close to seven o'clock when Paul Cantwell, the Grief Counselor, rides in like the cavalry from Benson and the relief on Nurse Kristee's face is visible as she briskly ushers Solitaire into the Bereavement Room.
Solitaire has barely entered when she finds herself enfolded in Cantwell's long spidery arms. He is exceptionally tall -- six-four, or five -- and thin, youthfully good looking in that anodyne way that one often encounters in the west. Like the Migrating Soul, he is dressed in a jacket and trousers (no tie).
"I'm so sorry for your loss," he murmurs, bending over nearly double to place his face close to her's.
Unaccountably and infuriatingly, Solitaire, who had thought the well-of-tears was temporarily dry, bursts into sobs. But Cantwell, a certified bereavement practitioner, after all, is ready for her and with the speed of a prestidigitator simultaneously produces a box of Kleenex and sweeps her into a brown and maroon arm chair.
Solitaire hates this man on the spot. She knows it's unreasonable; he's been kind and sensitive, the very embodiment of caring, waiting courteously while she mops her face, sniffles, gulps, hiccups, blows her nose. But there it is: she hates him. It's visceral. She can't help it.
"Try to take comfort in the knowledge that your husband has gone to a better place." Cantwell's voice is almost unbearably gentle, as though he were smoothing baby oil onto her scorched psyche.
To Solitaire's basic hard-core hatred there is now annealed a top coat of inexpressible loathing, contempt and searing detestation for Cantwell. Far from taking comfort, she wants to take a weapon and kill him -- to split his skull with an ax down to the jawbone as the Vikings did to their enemies in battle.
"What place is that?" she asks.
He blinks with surprise. "Why ... Heaven."
"But you can't possibly know that, can you? No one knows."
"You're wrong there," he says, smiling with equable certainty. "We have centuries of evidence, reports from the dying and the near-dead, those who've gone through NDE's (near-death experiences) -- highly descriptive visions of departing Souls ascending to Paradise...
... not to mention innumerable accounts of Souls rushing toward the light at the end of a long dark tunnel..."
"I thought that was Vietnam,"
"Excuse me?"
"The light at the end of the tunnel ..."
A tiny frown like a hairline fracture appears on Cantwell's implacable brow and Solitaire knows her flippancy was ill-considered. She has gone too far.
"I think you might benefit from our bereavement support groups," he says flatly, but his meaning is clear. "And, of course, I'm available for personal grief counseling at any time." He rises, his calling card in hand.
Nurse Kristee appears in the doorway. "Excuse me, Walter is here."
Walter is the owner of The Heavenly Heights Mortuary, "Wally's a great guy, very sympatico," Cantwell says. "You'll like him."
"I'd like Wally to bring my husband's body to our house and then pick him up tomorrow. Of course I'll pay any additional expense."
Cantwell's eyebrows raise just enough to make Solitaire feel ashamed, as though he suspects that she intends to perform crazed sexual acts upon her husband's corpse. "I'm afraid that's not possible."
Now she is reduced to begging. "Just a few hours then -- a brief stop en route."
"Absolutely out of the question. Sorry. It's against the rules of the Health Department, It would be breaking the law."
Solitaire is sure it isn't true, but she knows when she's been beaten. Bowing in defeat, she takes his card.
"Let me give you another hug." She submits stiffly to his embrace. "Remember," he admonishes her, again ever so gently, "time heals all."
"So they say," she answers sourly. But she doesn't believe it for a second.
Leaving the Bereavement Room, Solitaire finds Zach and Benjamin in conversation with Wally, the mortician. One of them makes a comment about "Six Feet Under" and they laugh. Wally is an irredeemably cheery young man. She makes one last try and asks him if he can bring Em's body to her house. Wally shrugs regretfully -- "against the law" -- but suggests that she drop by the mortuary some time this afternoon so they can discuss arrangements. Solitaire suddenly feels dizzy and light-headed, as though she's levitating, looking down on this scene. She thinks she must be having an OBE, (an Out-of-Body Experience, as opposed to the Order of the British Empire.)
Benjamin suggests getting something to eat. Her stomach growls receptively and she realizes that she's hungry.
And so they part, Solitaire and Em, she by the front door, he by the back, she to Starbuck's and he to The Heavenly Heights.
It is close to seven o'clock when Paul Cantwell, the Grief Counselor, rides in like the cavalry from Benson and the relief on Nurse Kristee's face is visible as she briskly ushers Solitaire into the Bereavement Room.
Solitaire has barely entered when she finds herself enfolded in Cantwell's long spidery arms. He is exceptionally tall -- six-four, or five -- and thin, youthfully good looking in that anodyne way that one often encounters in the west. Like the Migrating Soul, he is dressed in a jacket and trousers (no tie).
"I'm so sorry for your loss," he murmurs, bending over nearly double to place his face close to her's.
Unaccountably and infuriatingly, Solitaire, who had thought the well-of-tears was temporarily dry, bursts into sobs. But Cantwell, a certified bereavement practitioner, after all, is ready for her and with the speed of a prestidigitator simultaneously produces a box of Kleenex and sweeps her into a brown and maroon arm chair.
Solitaire hates this man on the spot. She knows it's unreasonable; he's been kind and sensitive, the very embodiment of caring, waiting courteously while she mops her face, sniffles, gulps, hiccups, blows her nose. But there it is: she hates him. It's visceral. She can't help it.
"Try to take comfort in the knowledge that your husband has gone to a better place." Cantwell's voice is almost unbearably gentle, as though he were smoothing baby oil onto her scorched psyche.
To Solitaire's basic hard-core hatred there is now annealed a top coat of inexpressible loathing, contempt and searing detestation for Cantwell. Far from taking comfort, she wants to take a weapon and kill him -- to split his skull with an ax down to the jawbone as the Vikings did to their enemies in battle.
"What place is that?" she asks.
He blinks with surprise. "Why ... Heaven."
"But you can't possibly know that, can you? No one knows."
"You're wrong there," he says, smiling with equable certainty. "We have centuries of evidence, reports from the dying and the near-dead, those who've gone through NDE's (near-death experiences) -- highly descriptive visions of departing Souls ascending to Paradise...
... not to mention innumerable accounts of Souls rushing toward the light at the end of a long dark tunnel..."
"I thought that was Vietnam,"
"Excuse me?"
"The light at the end of the tunnel ..."
A tiny frown like a hairline fracture appears on Cantwell's implacable brow and Solitaire knows her flippancy was ill-considered. She has gone too far.
"I think you might benefit from our bereavement support groups," he says flatly, but his meaning is clear. "And, of course, I'm available for personal grief counseling at any time." He rises, his calling card in hand.
Nurse Kristee appears in the doorway. "Excuse me, Walter is here."
Walter is the owner of The Heavenly Heights Mortuary, "Wally's a great guy, very sympatico," Cantwell says. "You'll like him."
"I'd like Wally to bring my husband's body to our house and then pick him up tomorrow. Of course I'll pay any additional expense."
Cantwell's eyebrows raise just enough to make Solitaire feel ashamed, as though he suspects that she intends to perform crazed sexual acts upon her husband's corpse. "I'm afraid that's not possible."
Now she is reduced to begging. "Just a few hours then -- a brief stop en route."
"Absolutely out of the question. Sorry. It's against the rules of the Health Department, It would be breaking the law."
Solitaire is sure it isn't true, but she knows when she's been beaten. Bowing in defeat, she takes his card.
"Let me give you another hug." She submits stiffly to his embrace. "Remember," he admonishes her, again ever so gently, "time heals all."
"So they say," she answers sourly. But she doesn't believe it for a second.
Leaving the Bereavement Room, Solitaire finds Zach and Benjamin in conversation with Wally, the mortician. One of them makes a comment about "Six Feet Under" and they laugh. Wally is an irredeemably cheery young man. She makes one last try and asks him if he can bring Em's body to her house. Wally shrugs regretfully -- "against the law" -- but suggests that she drop by the mortuary some time this afternoon so they can discuss arrangements. Solitaire suddenly feels dizzy and light-headed, as though she's levitating, looking down on this scene. She thinks she must be having an OBE, (an Out-of-Body Experience, as opposed to the Order of the British Empire.)
Benjamin suggests getting something to eat. Her stomach growls receptively and she realizes that she's hungry.
And so they part, Solitaire and Em, she by the front door, he by the back, she to Starbuck's and he to The Heavenly Heights.
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