by Karlin
Medical students knew enough not to crowd around and dump water on somebody who fainted. The instructor spoke to him. He answered. Yes, he felt weak. He would be OK in a minute. No, he wasn't sick. It was just the shock. Yes, shock. You won't believe it, but "Suzy" is my grandmother.
Pale, shocked faces. A nightmare come true. He was sent home with a friend, along with a promise that tomorrow he could work with another group, a different body. The statistics were wild. It was highly unlikely to know the person that you were taking scissors and scalpel to. The cadavers were traded around between cities and states, just to avoid this situation. Who was to know that that would be his grandmother's last trip from Atlanta to Detroit? How would he be able to keep this horrible secret? It would destroy his mother.
Best not to talk about it, not to think about it at all. Tomorrow he would gather up his courage as best as he could, and start on the next one. It had to be tomorrow. If he put it off any further he would never be able to go back to the lab.
He closed the door to his room, assuring the concerned face that he would be OK. A hot shower, the smell washed away, his mind clear, just the hot water washing away the shock, washing away the memory.
He dried himself off, resisting the urge to give Latin names to the familiar parts of his body. He could dry his knees without naming them, and his balls were just balls, nothing else.
He managed a light supper, a couple pieces of toast with cream cheese, and crawled into bed, his mind blank.
He was in the lab again. It was late at night, maybe midnight. The room wasn't entirely dark. Light from the streetlamps made its way through the windows. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dim lighting he found that he could see fairly clearly. He was the only one in the room, not counting the cadavers. He could make out their shapes under the draped plastic sheeting.
He knew somehow that he was dreaming, but it didn't make it any less real. He went to a cadaver, lifted the plastic, and bent over to see the face hiding in its shadows. The stench assailed his nostrils. He stood up suddenly, and dropped the plastic back in place. Not because of the stench, but because he thought, was almost sure, that he knew that face.
He wanted to leave the room, but couldn't. A strange fascination drove him to the next body, to the next plastic sheet. He lifted up the plastic and peered at the face. This body lay in a darker corner of the room, and try as he would, he couldn't see the face very clearly. A wave of relief passed over him, and he became aware of his heavy breathing and sweaty forehead. He gradually relaxed and listened to his heart slowing down to a normal pace.
Just then a beam of light, perhaps the moon peeking through a hole in the clouds, or an odd reflection from an automobile headlight, fell directly on the unknown face.
He woke up, and glanced at the clock. Three o'clock in the morning. He had the uneasy feeling that somebody was watching him, that there were concerned cadaverous faces gathered around his bed. He flipped on his reading light to dispel the visions. He felt oddly damp. He pulled himself up on one elbow, and saw that his sheets were soaked with sweat. He would have to change them. But first he had to shower.
He took off his shorts and threw them on the bed. The whole mess would have to go into the wash. He stopped in the hallway, halfway to the shower. There was light from his room, enough that he could inspect himself in the full length mirror. He was certainly all there. He touched his face, rubbing the familiar muscles hiding under his skin. Procerus, depressor supercilli, levator labii.
He ran his hands lightly over his body, trying hard to not think of the Latin names. Funny how he had so much trouble remembering the names for an exam, but couldn't forget a single one when he actually wanted to forget.
His skin felt cool, but horribly sticky. He continued to the shower. There was always plenty of hot water, and the room was well-lit. In the shower he could forget everything, and just enjoy the animal pleasure of the running water pouring over his head.
Eventually he had to come out. He would have preferred to stay there forever. Isn't that a form of heaven – an endless hot shower? But is anything endless really that good?
He put on clean shorts, changed the sweaty sheets, but didn't go to bed. The thought of turning off the lights in that room, the possibility of a returning dream, of more faces, were too much for him.
He stayed in the living room, all the lights on, and watched the late night movies until it grew light outside and the early morning news shows came on. He dumped half a jar of instant coffee into a mug, added boiling water from his electric kettle, and added great heaping spoonfuls of sugar until it was obvious that no more could dissolve. He thought of adding some milk, but wasn't sure that it would improve the mess. Besides which, he hadn't been shopping in a while, and suspected that whatever milk he had was well on its way to becoming cheese.
He managed to drink most of the caffeine concentrate, and only then started wondering what the symptoms of a caffeine overdose were. It made no difference, though. He had already drunk it, and he couldn't afford to fall asleep in class. In class, or lab.
The morning routine. Again the shaving cream, the safety razor, skin stretched taut to meet the blade. The muscles under his skin, the familiar Latin names popping into his mind, Procerus, depressor supercilli, levator labii. Even the thoughts had become a routine. He was with his grandfather, watching him shave with that straight blade. He found himself holding the safety razor the wrong way, about to pull it sideways across his face, a move that would almost certainly result in a nasty cut. He paused, and inspected his drawn face in the mirror. Hopefully the caffeine would kick in soon, and he would stop daydreaming.
Classes. Disease, diagnoses, treatment. Very definitely not thinking about the lab. Time enough to feel nervous when the lab started.
Again the corridor, the waiting students, the nervous jokes. A few asked him how he was feeling, and smiled at him. He wasn't embarrassed. Anybody would have reacted the same way if it had turned out that they were dissecting their own grandmother.
The door opened, and the students filed in. He was with a new group today, with a body he hadn't paid much attention to before. He noticed that 'Suzy' was no longer there. Somebody had had the sense to remove her from the lab. They were still working on the head and neck.
One of the female students pulled the plastic off of "Roger's" head. He had never noticed the student before. She was a petite, pretty girl, whose reddish wavy hair reminded him of his sister. He hadn't thought that there were any cute medical students, but it seemed, happily, that he was wrong.
He took a good look at the cadaver's face, momentarily reassured that it definitely was not his grandmother. Not his grandmother, may she rest in peace. Bernie! How could it be Bernie? It was just his imagination. His brother was alive, or at least had been the last time they had spoken, only a week ago. How could he have died and ended up here without his having heard about it?
It was just his imagination. Like the song, just his imagination, running away with him. The best thing was to ignore it, and proceed like everything was fine. The cute girl asked if he would like to make the first cut. He felt honored, almost the master of the house carving the Thanksgiving turkey. He picked out a pair scissors from the drawer, and turned towards the body.
The mantra ran in his head. 'It's not Bernie. It's not Bernie.' He started snipping, cutting Bernie's face, exposing his facial muscles, reducing Bernie to a list of Latin names, Procerus, depressor supercilli, levator labii. Then the pretense broke down. It really was Bernie. Who was he fooling?
He remembered a dizzy feeling, and the pain of hitting the floor. Afterwards, he found himself in his room, on his bed. How long had he been there? Who had brought him there? He didn't know.
He heard a voice, vaguely familiar. It was the same voice that had suggested that he be the first one to dissect Bernie. The cute student had offered to stay with him until he woke up. He really wanted her to stay. It was a chance to talk to her. She had deliberately volunteered to be wi
th him. He wished that he could like her, ask her to stay. But the voice only reminded him of Bernie, of the sound that the scissors made as he snipped through his own brother's skin. He had to figure out some polite way of getting her to leave, of convincing her that he was fine now, thanks for your help, appreciate the concern.
He had been so busy with his studies that he hadn't had much time to pay attention to the gentler sex. And here he was, alone with the only cute girl who had paid attention to him in the past ten months, and all he was concerned about was getting her to leave. Still, he had no choice. He didn't want her hanging around mothering him. Maybe tomorrow or the next day he could invite her out for coffee or something, just to thank her. Then there would be the possibility of a more normal relationship.
Hard to stop the daydreaming once it started. After all, he was a healthy young man, and it was perfectly natural to think about an attractive young woman, even to fantasize about her. Face the facts, he did have a very real interest in the female anatomy, as long as it wasn't presented to him stiff and cold under a plastic sheet, stinking of whatever they used these days to keep the cadavers from, well, stinking.
He knew that he was starting to obsess about the lab. He would just have to muddle