DISPLACED PERSONS

Asher rang the buzzer at Tolmisano’s Funeral Home, waited thirty seconds, then identified himself to the disembodied intercom voice that finally responded. He stood on the concrete side steps to the funeral home, shivering in the white lab coat he forgot to take off while waiting for that voice to let him in. An isolated snowflake surprised him as it blew by, since the frigid winter sun was still framed by the bright, blue sky. Quickly though, that snowflake was followed by a dozen others and then a darkened, smothering cloud engulfed him in a sudden winter squall. Finally, a woman in her early thirties opened the door, then stepped back as the wind blew Asher into her foyer. Ignoring the crucifix on the wall, he could not stop himself. “Holy Christ! That storm came on so quick, I thought it was aimed just at me.” The woman almost smiled, but chose to ignore his non-greeting. “Dr. Asher, I’m Heidi Garnett. Thanks for coming over. I hope I didn’t ruin your weekend.” She was a good foot shorter than Asher, had light brown hair, an unadorned, heart-shaped face framing cheeks too well scrubbed. With her knee-length, gray skirt, man-tailored, stiff white shirt and stylish pumps, Asher speculated she could just as well have been cast as a saleswoman in the ladies shoe department at Nordstrom’s as a funeral home director. “Don’t apologize. If you hadn’t called me, inevitably someone else would have.” He reached down and shook her hand, transmitting a slight shock through them both, as if each emitted charged particles. “Dr. Asher, You probably don’t remember me, but we met once at the hospital a few years ago. You took care of my stepfather, Carl Thompson, when he had pneumonia. Unfortunately, he died inside of ten hours after he got there. I suppose you did your best, but the Walk-in Clinic had misdiagnosed him a few days before, so by the time you got to him, I guess it was too late.” Asher stammered an apology. He well remembered the day he spent trying to revive Mr. Monahan. For months after, he had worried that he would be pulled into a lawsuit he was sure the family would file against the Walk-in Clinic, but had heard nothing since. Asher did not, however, recall Heidi’s part. Heidi chose to change the topic. “Follow me. Mrs. Lockhart is in the morgue downstairs” As he trailed her, Asher tried to distract himself from this reminder that there was likely a sizeable coterie of people out in the community who had feelings about him, of which he was totally oblivious. Instead, he chose to focus on the funeral home’s beehive of quiet activity. They stepped silently past three formal parlors, each holding a smattering of family members, huddling around open caskets; then past an ornate, packed sanctuary with a sobbing congregation engrossed in a mournful eulogy; and finally past a side room packed with empty caskets, waiting in anticipation of their future occupants. Asher bent over and whispered to Heidi, “Busy day, I guess.” Heidi merely smiled back, whether in agreement or in satisfaction, Asher could not tell. As they headed down the stairs to the morgue, hanging on the stairway wall, Asher followed a curious black and white photographic exhibit of the various hearses this funeral home had used over the prior fifty years. In the basement, amidst large porcelain sinks and multiple bottles of pungent formalin, Mrs. Lockhart rested on a metal table, covered with a white sheet. This time there was no blood to be seen. Whatever exact terminal circumstance had led to her demise was indecipherable. When Asher uncovered Mrs. Lockhart’s face, she seemed more relaxed in death than she had ever been in life. He engaged in the formalities of looking into her eyes and listening to the absence of sounds in her heart and lungs. He brushed his hand across the AV fistula used as access for her dialysis, aware of the now absent thrill—that vibrating sensation of blood flowing from artery to vein—signifying the end of her circulation. Asher neglected to cover Mrs. Lockhart back up, suddenly aware that Heidi was hovering a foot away, watching him intently. He moved away, trying to put some distance between them. “Poor lady. At least she’s at peace now. She suffered enough at the end.” Heidi hesitated, then answered cryptically, “Isn’t there some old proverb. ‘Better to suffer injury, than injure others.’” Asher was taken aback. Did Heidi still harbor resentment toward him or maybe doctors in general? Now, intent on getting out of there as quickly as possible, he asked Heidi for the death certificate. She handed Asher the red-bordered, flimsy paper and stood over him while he filled it out, a task he had completed dozens of times. Usually, he took his time with these official documents, taking seriously his role as the determiner of who, where, why and how his patient had exited. This instance, though, he hurriedly scrawled “Renal Failure” and his name and address. He rose and handed Heidi back the paper, face to face with her now, trying to end the encounter on a light note. “Well, I guess that’s it. Another loss for the home team. Seems by the crowds you’ve got upstairs, business is booming.” Heidi answered, and for months afterward, Asher wondered whether she was merely being flip, whether she was she trying to provoke him or was she giving voice to her poorly disguised hostility. Because her comment triggered a reaction that neither of them could possibly have anticipated and was so out of character for Asher, he wondered afterward if he had imagined the entire episode. “Well, Dr. Asher, if you all did a better job, maybe I’d be less busy.” The half-grin indicating Heidi was kidding that should have followed her remark might have staved off Asher’s immediate response, but none came. Instead, reflexively, his arm spring-loaded, Asher’s right hand jerked upward, slapping Heidi across the face, leaving an irrevocable five-fingered stain on her cheek. They both froze in place, neither able to believe what had just happened. Heidi slowly brought her hand to cheek as if to convince herself the sting she felt had a physical antecedent. Then she tore upstairs, running into an office and slamming the door shut. Asher ran after her, the door almost striking him in the head. For the next ten minutes, he tried to apologize through the closed door, listening to Heidi’s sobs on the other side. Finally, he gave up and left the funeral home, trailed by the image of Mrs. Lockhart’s unblinking eye, the sole witness to his crime.