by Victor Allen
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Death is a sad fact of life in any hospital, and the workers -especially the non technical workers like orderlies and custodial staff- deal with it with more than a bit of black humor. The curtained gurney used to transport dead patients from wherever they have expired to the freight elevator that goes to the basement morgue is variously referred to as a “Granny Cart,” “A To-Go Box,” or a “Take Out Tray.”
The less than interested orderly now wheeling Richard’s cooling corpse toward the freight elevator knew very little other than nobody ever really believed they would someday be riding the “Granny Cart.” He also didn’t know that the first call Elizabeth had gotten was from Jennifer, telling her about Richard’s accident in the clinic. He didn’t know that fifty-five minutes later Elizabeth was already in the hospital’s freight elevator that the employees used when she got the second phone call from Doc Christie telling her that Richard was dead. Had he known these things, the sudden flurry of activity that erupted around him as the freight elevator began to move up from the basement would have been understandable. The Grim Reaperess and the head of Radiology grabbed hold of him and tried to redirect him away from the elevator, but it was too late.
The elevator doors purred open to reveal a shell-shocked and disheveled Elizabeth. Icy beads of sleet still sparkled in her hair and her cheeks were red from cold. The first thing she saw was the “Granny Cart” headed to the morgue, then the bewildered look on the face of the orderly, and the guilty, caught-in-the-spotlight looks of criminals in the line of police fire on the faces of Doc Christie and the Grim Reaperess as they realized they had failed to keep this from happening.
Though she couldn’t see him, she knew it was Richard. Elizabeth felt dizzy, a bit out of phase with reality, but forced herself to step from the elevator. Without a word, she walked over to the “Granny Cart” and pulled the curtain back. The drool had been wiped from Richard’s face and, other than the deathly pallor, he looked pretty much like he always had: like the kid who has just thrown a rock through the plate glass window at the bank. She placed a shaky hand on his face as a tear rolled down her cheek.
There was nothing else she could do.
