Part 2

Tuesday, March 28

Before the light came up in the morning, Lee stood in a locked ward by the window wearing pyjamas under a blue hospital gown. Lee stared into the night and the gleaming city below. There were fifteen rooms with twenty beds, and the bed next to his was empty.

During the admission, the psychiatrist agreed to keep Lee for five days with an open-door policy allowing him to leave during the day, permission to leave hospital for funeral business, access to phone for funeral arrangements, and access to that one bottle of whisky – distribution left to station nurse’s judgement.

After breakfast, Lee requested his phone.

“Arboretum Memorial Park.”

“This is Lee Dean. I need to arrange for a funeral.”

“Our condolences, Madam. What’s the name?”

“I’m the sir. The name is Harper Dean.”

“My apologies, sir. Thank you. Yes. I see your lot has been set for quite some time, and the headstone is already in place.”

“Perhaps we could discuss this in person.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Harper will be likely transferred over today.”

“Thank you, sir. Would you like to schedule an appointment with one of our funeral consultants?”

“Yes, please. Anytime tomorrow.”

“Would 10 a.m. work?”

“Yes.”

Lee hung up, returned the phone to the orderly and asked to visit the chapel. He put on his suit, and the nurse buzzed him out. Over the past three months – when he wasn’t sitting quietly with Harper or in the rare moments when sleep overtook her and her relaxed face showed the same girl he met some thirty-five years ago – he learned the hospital through and through during the long days and sleepless nights of chemotherapy, radiation, scalpels, drills, and saws; or in those moments when they fought like animals in frustration which burned like tar in their hearts before erupting in volcanoes of tears in each other’s arms, tears and anger denoting fear and a goodbye.

He rode down the elevator shaft and turned toward maintenance, the hospital’s refuse aggregator, the bioinorganic beast’s colon made of concrete. The second elevator at the end of the hallway would not open. He waited. A tall, melanin-free, androgynous orderly strolled toward him. The orderly stood by and waited.

“Do you mind using your key?” asked Lee.

“Are you allowed?”

“No. My wife’s body is being transferred today to the cemetery. I want to see to it they do.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that. You need a permit from the office and be accompanied by an orderly. I can’t let you down there.”

“Then I’ll have to go and tell someone that…” Lee’s eyes dropped to the man’s badge, and then back with a hard stare “…that Jamie is smoking cannabis while on duty. I’m sure your supervisor’s boss can smell it just the same.”

Jamie pulled out his card, scanned it, and when the door opened, he stepped in, pressed B2, and stepped out. Lee stepped in.

“When you take liberties with your freedom, people will take liberties with you,” Lee uttered as the door closed.

“Screw you,” Jamie uttered as the door slid shut.

The car rode down, stopped, and the doors opened. Formaldehyde’s acidic smell and machine hum filled the air under the neon lights. Lee walked slowly toward a bright blue door at the end of the corridor. He opened it, and a great wave of formaldehyde stench rolled over him like warm brine poured over dog fur, with a faint tang of pickles.

“May I help you?” A small man with a black combover sat behind the desk.

“Yes. I’m looking for Harper Dean.”

“You are not supposed to be here alone.”

“Jamie was called away, so he just let me into the elevator.”

“That idiot,” the man frowned and typed in the name.

“Do you have the requisition slip?”

“No, they didn’t give me one.”

“Next of kin?”

“Yes.”

“Identification?”

Lee handed over his driver’s licence.

“Hold on.” The man stood up and quickly disappeared between red biohazard garbage disposals, stainless steel tanks, and grey steel shelves with side cranks that moved the rows of shelves open. On those shelves sat jars filled with grey fluids, tissue masses – some formless and some angular with sharp edges of the crushed bone – expired mechanical hip and knee joints, pacemakers, bone plates, nails, wires and screws, all mixed with bleach and disinfectant: a giant library of biological, biochemical, and mechanical failures.