flashquake Nonfiction

NATURAL DEATH
by Carole Moore

She sat upright, as though surprised by her own death, her head thrown back, counterbalancing the body’s tendency to pitch forward, toothless mouth yawning open, eyes staring, unblinking, at the ceiling.

Several layers of clothes submerged her small, round frame: a slip peeked out from beneath the hem of her dress, a threadbare sweater, a man-sized terrycloth bathrobe, dingy and brown-gray, secured at her waist with a man’s belt.

Her feet were encased in multiple socks piled one upon the other like too many layers of paint on a canvas, covered by much-too-large slippers. Her arms dangled to each side, but it was her hands I noticed first.

Each wore one dirty wool sock.

"She was 84," the patrol officer said, flipping his notebook open. "Lived alone. We’re trying to find her family."

I placed my hand on her bare neck. Her skin was cold and slightly rubbery with no hint of warmth.

"Why is it so cold in here?" I asked, already certain of the disgraceful truth.

"No heat, detective," the officer said as I knelt next to her chair. I looked up. His voice softened. "Helluva way to go — having to wear socks on your hands to keep warm."

I touched the woman’s hand. The sock dangled loosely around her wrist, dirty, unwashed, worn. My breath came in white puffs as I ran a clinical, no-nonsense, practiced eye around her body, then pushed myself up to glance down at the vacant eyes and opened mouth.

A quick burst of cold air invaded the room and the medical examiner barreled in, his cheeks bright red blotches.

"Can’t people ever die in daylight?" he asked. His hair stood up in silver tufts on top of his head.

"You tell me, Doc," I said. "You’re the expert. I just show up when I have call."

He grinned a hello, then ducked behind his professional face and bent to the task of determining why an 84-year-old woman died sitting in a chair in her kitchen with no heat on the coldest day of the year.

"Isn’t there any goddamn heat in this place?" Doc asked, peering into eyes as dull as unpolished granite.

"Appears she didn’t have any. Note the socks," I said. His eyes sought mine for a second and we shared a guilty glance, then shrugged back into the present.

"Any medical history?"

I pulled several brown bottles of pills out of my pocket and handed them over. "Found them on her dresser."

He nodded and read the labels over the top of his glasses. "Looks like she had a heart condition. You try getting up with her doctor?"

I nodded. "On vacation. The Bahamas."

"Damn. Some people have all the luck. I wish I was in the Bahamas right now instead of freezing my ass off here. Should have gone into cardiology. You ready to turn her?"

The officer handed me a pair of rubber gloves. I snapped them on and we turned her so the doctor could check her back. Once he finished, the ambulance crew took over.

"Classifying this one as a natural," the doctor said. I nodded.

We walked outside, shedding our gloves like so much shame, our hands dusted with white from the traces of talcum powder inside them. I immediately stuck my hands in my coat pockets. My fingers found the chilled metal of my badge, while the frigid night wind blew the doc back into his Mercedes. Then I turned and watched as the gurney rolled out, the body bag strapped on it.

I checked my watch. Too late to climb back into bed, too early to go on duty. I drove home, took a bath and read the paper, then dressed and went to the nursing home where my grandmother lived. My mother’s car was already parked out front.

Pushing through the double doors, I became engulfed in a cloud of heat as I hurried through the lobby, past rows of people sitting vacant-eyed in wheelchairs, to my grandmother’s hall. Her door was ajar and my mother was seated next to the bed, holding her hand. Mama spoke softly, crooning nonsense about my Grandfather and Jesus.

Grandmother was bent, broken and toothless, shriveled down to 90 pounds and acknowledging nothing. Every so often aides turned her, careful not to break the lettuce-thin skin.

My mother nodded to me as I stood at the foot of the bed, sweating in the impossible heat. I slipped out of my coat, draping it over my arm, intending to run as soon as I’d done my duty, salved my conscious, spent my 15 minutes with her so I could sleep at night.

My grandmother lay with her head back and eyes closed, mouth open, oblivious to our presence. Unable to watch, I glanced down at the dark wool hanging across my arm and saw smudges of white around one pocket — traces of the talcum powder on my hands. I brushed at the mark, trying to make it disappear.

But no matter what I did, it wouldn’t go away.

Copyright 2003 by Carole Moore

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