Oneiron

  Wlibgis had said her piece.

  Just then, after Wlibgis finishes, the door to the room opens. Two nurses, one over thirty, the other almost still a teenager, walk in. Only Wlibgis, the Wlibgis in the air, understands what they say.

  “This case here, Ms. Van Deijck, won’t last much longer,” the elder says. “Give her five more milligrams of morphine.”

  “Xaliimo, somehow I get the feeling she’s going to die today during my shift. Will you stay with me? This’ll be my first death.”

  “If she dies before my shift is over then, yeah, I’ll be here.”

  “You’ve probably seen lots of deaths.”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “How does it feel?”

  “It doesn’t feel like anything. Unless it’s a baby or a kid. Once it was. She was three and got hit by a truck backing up. She literally died in my arms when I was trying to revive her. The family’s reaction was just horrible to watch. We were all crying.”

  “Who is this one’s next-of-kin?”

  “Sort of a thin, pale woman. She comes sometimes with a little girl. She asked us to call once it’s over.”

  “Even at night?”

  “In the morning is fine, she said.”

  “It’s probably good for this one that she’ll be gone soon.”

  “Yeah. This is a pretty easy case since the pain is under control. She’s basically slept for the past five days. Once I had this old man who had cancer in his liver. He screamed and screamed no matter how many drugs we pumped into him. He just moaned, ‘Help me, help me.’ His wife couldn’t stand it and ran out of the room. In the end we spent more time calming the wife down that we did on the husband’s final moments.”

  “I just hope I don’t get any kids, at least not yet, or any in really bad shape. I don’t think I’m ready. Of course we trained for these situations in school. An actor did a course for us once and I got given this appalling case. A young boy had done himself in, and I had to tell his parents. I really put myself into it. That one ended up in my dreams, even though I kept it together in front of the class.”

  “That CPR dummy, Anne, do you know who it got its face from?”

  “No. Are you saying it’s modeled after someone living?”

  “Not living, dead. L’Inconnue de la Seine. Do you know it? She was a sixteen-year-old girl who was found in the Seine in the late 1800s. She washed up at a dock near the Louvre. The body was in good condition, and she was wearing a smile like the Mona Lisa. According to the legend, the girl was so beautiful that the pathologist in the Paris morgue made a death mask of her. Copies spread all over the Paris art scene. It became a decoration, her face.”

  “Unbelievable! A dead girl’s face? How could anyone make a copy of that?”

  “Well, of the expression and hair. It isn’t that different from a photograph.”

  “So Resusci Anne’s face was modeled after that death mask? Are you serious?”

  “Yes, completely! Our teacher told us the story once during a CPR course. I couldn’t help thinking about it, that I was putting my lips on a dead girl’s mouth. Apparently they’re the most kissed lips in the world.”

  “Right. Thanks for telling me.”

  “You’re welcome. Although you aren’t going to have to kiss Anne any more. You’ve already done your practice. It’s just real-life cases from now on. You’ll get attached to some of them, and you won’t be able to stand some of them. Last week I had this one lung cancer case. It was pretty ugly, coughing up blood and stuff. But I have to admit that secretly I was a little happy. The whole time the guy had been calling me a nigger.”

  “What about this one, Ms. van Deijck?”

  “What about her?”

  “What’s she like?”

  “She’s fine. Easy. Normal. There’s only one thing I wonder about a little. According to her papers she has a son, but I’ve never seen him here. His daughter comes with her mother, but he never does. Pretty strange, isn’t it? What could have happened between them?”

  “Did you ask her?”

  “She couldn’t talk. She didn’t want a prosthesis.”

  “Maybe she was a terrible mom. Maybe she mistreated her son. Or maybe she was just a pain. There was a boy in my class at school who cut things off with his father as soon as he turned eighteen. He said why should he care about the bastard when he never cared about him. The things his dad did were terrible. There are times you just have to get away from someone completely.”

  The Wlibgis in the air knows her time has come. No rhythm, no pulse, no singing. Just anger, solitary anger, the crystal-clear sign of departure.

  The older nurse checks the cannula attached to the back of the hand of the Wlibgis lying on the bed and then turns to leave. The younger nurse follows her. At the same moment, an electric blue waxy glob disengages from the base of the lava lamp and begins to rise. The Wlibgis in the air waits for the glob to reach the center of the lamp—no rhythm, no pulse, no singing, no luxury for her. No one helps, and she doesn’t ask for help. She waits for the electric blue lump to be in the right spot, like the bubble in a builder’s spirit level; it’s a signal, a signal to her.

  And when it does, she leaves, alone, in the way of her choosing. She sort of sits on the side of the bed, sort of tumbles onto herself, onto the mattress, as if going to sleep. The Wlibgis on the bed below wheezes. The Wlibgis in the air grimaces and swipes the hole in her throat with the back of her hand as if cutting her neck with a guillotine.

  The Wlibgis in the air disappears.

  And in their shock, no one has the time to say goodbye.

  DEATH REHEARSAL NUMBER 3 (HOW TO CLOSE UP A CORPSE IN A COFFIN)

  When a person becomes a corpse, others treat her differently than they did a moment ago, during life. A dying person is at the mercy of others, whether she’s conscious prior to becoming a corpse or in a state of unconsciousness, as Wlibgis was believed to be. Being an experienced nurse, Xaliimo had seen some things in her time. One of her former colleagues, Maritje, once made a mustache for a coma patient using the patient’s own shoulder-length hair, just because it happened to amuse her. Then there was Tessa, who had a habit of commenting after washing patients’ intimate areas, although thankfully only after leaving the room. Xaliimo didn’t feel good about that either. “You gotta have a laugh sometimes,” Tessa replied angrily when Xaliimo asked her to stop. “That’s the only way to survive this.” Xaliimo spent the whole night mulling over how a glans swollen with balanitis or a vulva spotted with lichen ruber could be amusing to anyone.

  With time Xaliimo became hardened and stopped noticing certain things. She did her work well, and people liked her, but she didn’t always have the energy to pretend to be diplomatic when treating patients who were already somewhere else, already halfway on the other side. Xaliimo also became familiar with the temptation to do inappropriate things. To shove a finger in a patient’s mouth and make a popping sound with his cheek or do like Maritje and make a mustache under a sleeping woman’s nose with her hair. Just because it was possible. No one ever trained the young novices starting in the ward in the darker sides of nursing, in the shame that the unpredictable urges aroused by the helplessness of others could create. If you didn’t stamp out that shame, it would start to sting, and if you gave in to it, it would poison your mind; if you contemplated it, you’d grow despondent; and if you denied it, the patient’s life might be put in premature danger.

  But Xaliimo didn’t give in. She didn’t fold a diaper package into a dunce cap and put it on anyone’s head, and she didn’t stick her fingers anywhere without a medical reason. She discharged her work better than before and turned up the warmth in her voice when speaking to patients. She stopped scolding her immoral colleagues, but inside she deeply despised them, their ribald talk and insufferable gestures, which would have offended the patients if they had been awake. “I was raised to give other people respect,” Xaliimo said to
herself time and time again, and that was enough, she believed. She knew that the dying had their own indisputable value, even though sometimes watching their protracted struggle with death was so exasperating that keeping her malicious thoughts in check was difficult. Why hadn’t they arranged an honorable end for themselves in time?

  But something happened when the dying became the dead. A person, who only a moment before had received if not brusk then at least routine care, magically became nearly holy, deserving of solemn respect—sometimes also, strangely enough, a risk of infection. Some nurses put on full safety gear: the aprons, masks, gloves, and long coats that were usually used with special patients, as if death were catching, and only then would they touch the corpse, which a moment before they had been willing to turn over with bare hands without any fear. They rolled the body, now unreasonably heavy, just enough to get the sheets, pillows, and bedding out from under. They placed a new single-use polypropylene-coated lifting sheet just for this purpose under the deceased, and put on a clean diaper. They removed the dead person’s clothing and jewelry, if there was any jewelry, and placed the dentures, if there were any, in the mouth to give it shape. Because dead faces collapse. Even an ample nose becomes a little bird beak. The eyes begin to droop, the cheeks disappear, and depressions, hollows, and a waxwork-like lack of luster develop. The nurses continued their work against time. They removed catheters and cannulas, intubation lines, and feeding tubes, if there were any, and they placed new bandages over any possible wounds. They washed the body, if necessary, and dressed it in a white disposable shirt that was open in the back. They bound the jaw shut with gauze (the jaw joint and neck stiffen at room temperature within two to four hours) and placed damp pads on the eyes so they would stay closed—never cotton wool, though, which would catch between the upper and lower lids leaving fluff that the mortuary staff would have to remove with tweezers (extra work, but if the casket is open at the funeral, there simply can’t be any cotton wool left in the eyes because it looks bad). Christians’ hands were raised to the chest and placed in an attitude of prayer, Muslims’ hands were extended to the sides of the body, and others were placed over the breast but left free (fingers and toes stiffen next). The legs of the deceased were bound at the ankles with gauze so they would stay in place, without spreading, and then the corpse was given a visual once-over to make sure that everything was straight and well situated (the elbow, knee, and hip joints stiffen last). Once an identification tag with name, identity number, date of death, and the hospital and ward name was attached with a safety pin to the gauze around the ankles—the tag was not tied to the corpse’s toe like in films—the body was ready for temporary concealment beneath a white sheet (rigor mortis was complete within six to eight hours). And finally a flower on the sheet: in the spring Siberian squill (Scilla siberica) or spring crocus (Crocus vernus) from the hospital garden; in the winter calla lily (Zantedeschia aethiopica) from the cantina.

  Now the family could come.

  Wlibgis had lain perfectly still in the bed, but despite the rather large amount of morphine, she snapped awake during her last moments. She opened her eyes and mouth as if to say something, but only her eyes spoke, screamed, gasped wide open for the oxygen that the mouth could no longer get inside. Her heart continued beating for a moment. Her wheezing breath turned urgent, panicked, and her eyes howled, agape, an awareness flashing in them that was horrible to watch. The younger nurse, Ineke, happened to look. Ineke turned when she heard Wlibgis suddenly gasp, when she heard the heavy, wheezing breathing stop and then restart haltingly, as if anticipating a cough. Ineke rushed to the bed and instinctively took Wlibgis by the hand. Xaliimo came to the other side of the bed, but Wlibgis stared at Ineke, no one but Ineke.

  Ineke would remember those eyes for the rest of her life, the eyes of her first patient to die.

  When Melinda and Melinda’s mother arrived, Wlibgis looked devout, nearly beatific. Hands clasped over the sheet, calla lily between the hands, eyes closed, mouth closed; Ineke and Xaliimo had arranged her as the dead should be arranged.

  Melinda was first to peer cautiously through the door. “Grandma will be lying down. She won’t be moving or breathing,” her mother had explained on the bus. “It will just be grandma’s shell. Her spirit is already somewhere else.” But Melinda was still shy about entering the room. She would have preferred to hover at the door, to peek between her fingers, to wave goodbye from a short distance. But that wouldn’t do. They had to say their goodbyes properly. They had to face death. That’s what Mommy said. Death is a part of life. Death is a perfectly natural thing. Flowers die, flies die, pets die, Bebbo died. “Cheese molds. You remember that, right, Melinda? Mold makes cheese inedible. But we need mold, because it breaks things down: living things can’t exist forever.” “Why not, Mommy?” “Well, think about what would happen if every creature that had lived for thousands and hundreds of thousands of years, all the people and animals and plants, still existed. Even the huge dinosaurs. Where would we all fit? We wouldn’t!” “We could send the dinosauws to the moon on wockets! And we could build buildings on the moon that weached to the sun!” “I don’t think that would work. The moon doesn’t have any oxygen. And the sun is too hot.” “Is there mold on Gwandma now?” “No, Melinda, there isn’t any mold. The cancer cells won the battle, and the healthy cells lost despite the treatment. Do you remember the picture the doctor drew for you? The picture of the healthy and the sick cells, how they were fighting?” “But you were tawking about cheese.” “It was a metaphor. Let’s put it this way: the bacteria that do the decomposition start their work after death. When a cell dies, chemicals are released that start destroying the body.” “Gwandma has been destwoyed!” “No, dear child. The bacteria and chemicals don’t start their work until Grandma is in the grave. Gradually. With time. It’s just part of what happens.” “What is a chemicawl?” “It’s a sort of . . . substance . . . ” “Where does it come fwom? “They’re in all of us already. People are full of all kinds of things, like enzymes and bacteria.” “What’s enzymes?” “Well, they’re sort of a . . . thing. Without enzymes, there wouldn’t be any life. Enzymes speed up cellular chemical reactions, but you don’t need to . . .” “What is a weaction?” “Melinda. Melinda dear. Just think of it this way: bacteria and enzymes are invisible little things. You can’t see them with your eyes because they’re so small . . .” “Smawller than the spots on a ladybird?” “Much smaller. But they do very important work. They decompose things and clean things up. They keep everything in good order like street sweepers and garbage men. Decomposition is a part of the circle of life.” “Am I decomposing too?” “You aren’t decomposing, silly. People who’re alive don’t decompose. And whatever decomposes is replaced by something new as long as there’s life. Cells are born and cells die. You even drop dead skin all the time.” “No I don’t!” “Dear, everyone does. Do you remember that shampoo ad? The one with the man brushing dandruff off his shoulder before a date? Dandruff is dead skin cells too. It isn’t anything serious.” “I don’t have dandwuff. I weally don’t.” “No, no. I’m sure you don’t. I was just trying to explain decomposition. Dead things gradually decompose. When we die, bacteria and other things make us into dirt again. And dirt grows new life, for example beautiful sunflowers like the ones that grow on Bebbo’s grave. Melinda, dear, death is a perfectly natural thing. We’ve already talked about this.”

  Melinda didn’t want to step into the room.

  What if Grandma was swarming with bacteria? What if Grandma started decomposing while they were watching? What if Mom had misunderstood something?! And there was another thing. Something Mom didn’t know about. The spirit. Grandma’s spirit. It’s just Grandma’s shell. But where was the spirit now? Mom didn’t know. But she knew. Grandma’s spirit was up by the ceiling. And it might want to come down. It might rush inside Grandma through the hole cut in her throat. Grandma’s body would start to shake and bubble, and green goo would come out of her mouth. Her eye
s would snap open but only the whites would show.

  If Grandma’s spirit hadn’t made it to the spirit world . . .

  Melinda grabbed her mother’s hand and closed her eyes as they walked into the room together. One step, two, three. Four. The first time a person walks up to a dead body, they usually feel dizzy. They feel a pressing need to turn and leave, accompanied by an uncontrollable desire to move closer. As if their internal organs were making the decision for them but constantly changing their mind. As if the dead body were a magnet, as if the approaching person’s stomach were cast full of iron. Something down there churns and presses. All their energy goes into looking, into bearing to look at the corpse. Bearing the irrational immobility, daring to be there, to move closer, daring to look and to be.

  The edge of the bed hit Melinda’s leg. Her mother sobbed instead of crying out in terror. Melinda carefully opened one eye a crack. There Grandma lay, face expressionless. Melinda quickly glanced around. The curtains didn’t sway, and nothing was visible on the ceiling. No eyes stared back at her. Spirits had oval eyes you could see in the middle of the ball of mist. Spirits’ eyes were gaping and terrible. Melinda had seen them in a comic book. And she knew that spirits that had been driven out of their bodies were very miserable.