STRIPPING TO MY UNDERWEAR while standing at the foot of a hospital bed belonging to an elderly woman is both embarrassing and nerve wracking – worse than trying on clothes in the store aisle when the change rooms are full. The thin sheets hang tight to the husk of her body. She appears to have passed. Father doesn’t seem to notice as he hands me the red and green jumpsuit from his satchel. I keep one eye on the door, terrified we’ll be discovered by doctors or family members who will blame us for the old woman’s death. Could you blame them?
Oblivious to my anxiety, Father (already in his long tailed tuxedo) whistles a jaunty tune while he cracks open makeup tubes and decorates my face in the Auguste style – just around the mouth and eyes. He excuses himself into the woman’s private bathroom to do up his own face, leaving me alone with her corpse.
How sad to pass in an empty hospital room, with nothing but dust mites floating in the sunbeam and the hum of the radiator to bear witness. If allowed to do it over, I believe the woman would have chosen a ward room, giving up privacy for the comfort of being surrounded by roommates when she curled up and ceased inhaling.
The rubber sheets squeak. The woman’s body shifts and her head lolls in my direction, eyes open. I’m mortified, frightened the woman has made the same mistake as I, and believing herself to have
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Chris Kuriata lives in and often writes about the Niagara region. His short fiction has appeared in publications in Canada, the US, the UK, Ireland, Australia, South Africa, and Japan. His novel Sacrifice of the Sisters Lot is available from Palimpsest Press.