Postmortem

By Cynthia Bateman

My mother died yesterday. At 1:04 pm. That’s when the

paramedics pronounced her, but she was dead well before

that. She was cold when I found her. Her head had rolled

back and to the left. Dark brown eyes stared straight ahead

and a spot of drool crusted on the side of her gaping

mouth. She was lying on the couch in a blue velour robe

that was tied so tightly closed I was sure she was naked

beneath it. Her right arm hung off the edge of the couch as

if she were waiting for an executioner to hack it off. Left

hand tucked down by her side. Feet bare. Ankles uncrossed,

and every inch of visible skin glowing a translucent white.

I knew she was dead the moment I saw her.

The paramedics rushed in. Went straight over to her.

No pulse. No respirations.

“Did you find her?” the heavyset one asked.

“Yes. I’m her daughter.”

“I’m very sorry to tell you ma' am,” he began slowly,

“but your mother passed some time ago. There’s nothing we

can do to revive her.” As if that would come as a surprise

to me.

“Call it?” the thin one asked the heavy one. The heavy
 2

one nodded. “13:04,” said the thin one.

“I know,” I said.

“Was she on anything? Any medications?” The thin one

asked. Was she on anything? Xanax, Ambien, Oxycontin,

Digoxin, Lasix, Cipro, Percocet, Zofran...

“No,” I replied.

“Was she sick? Heart problems? Did she fall recently?

Maybe hit her head?” the heavy one asked. Yes, to all of

the above.

“It’s okay,” I said. “She had cancer.

“Ooh,” they replied simultaneously. Then the heavy one

stood up and told the thin one he’d go make the call.

“Mike’s gonna call the coroner,” the thin one began.

“It takes ‘em awhile to get out sometimes. You want us to

call someone for you? Maybe a relative?”

“No, thanks. I’m fine.” The nurse in me spoke up, “I

need to sign something, though, right?” I knew what was

coming. I wanted to get on with it.

“Yeah. Mike’s got the paper work.” Just then the heavy

one came back and had me sign a paper saying that I agreed

my mother was dead and it was okay for them to leave. I

signed, and they left.

It took nearly five hours for the coroner to arrive.

After the paramedics left, I went over to her and placed

 3

the dangling left arm across her stomach. It didn’t want to

stay at first but I pulled it and propped it until it did.

The paramedics, the thin one I think, had closed her eyes,

but her mouth still hung open. I pushed her chin up to

close it and a trickle of pink spit oozed form the corner

of her mouth. I wiped it away with my sleeve and went in

search of her turban.

My mother never liked to be seen without her baldhead

sufficiently covered. She wore a short brown wig that never

looked natural to me or one of a variety of cotton or

terrycloth turbans she owned. I liked the turbans.

In her bathroom, I found the remnants of her last

morning. Two wet towels lay bundled on the floor. A

facecloth, wet but neatly folded, was draped across the

water faucet in the sink. Floating in the toilet were

bloodstained tissues similar to those I’d find littered on

her nightstand or filling the wastepaper basket by her

desk. That wretched cough a vibrant personification of the

demon within her.

I found the white terrycloth turban lying atop the

tissue box on the back of the toilet. I gathered the damp

towels and placed them in the hamper, wiped the sink down

with the facecloth, flushed the toilet, and went back to

the living room. I was relieved to find her just as I’d

 4

left her- mouth still closed, no more oozing drool, and

left arm securely in check. I placed the turban on her

head. Then placed her head on a pillow I’d brought from the

armchair across the room.

I got the phonebook from the top drawer on the left in

her desk. Macklin’s Funeral Services. I wrote the address

and phone number down on a yellow post-it. The coroner

would need that information. Then I started down the hall

to her bedroom but decided I should eat a cracker first- a

trick of the trade, non-medicinal anti-emetics in a box. I

turned around and went to the kitchen.

The box of Cheerios sat open on the island next to her

pill organizer. I opened the compartment marked with the W.

She’d taken her morning pills. In the pantry next to the

stove I found the box of Saltine crackers. Plain, no salt

added. The salt made her throat burn. I took a coffee mug

from the cabinet and filled it with tap water. I think I

ate three crackers but maybe I only ate two. Anyway, it was

enough.

I headed down the short dark hallway to her room,

walking past the photos of my sister holding Eleanor, my

brother’s wedding, and my college graduation. The blinds

were still closed in her room. She always opened them in

the morning. I pulled back the sheer lace curtain and

 5

turned the wand. The sun immediately filled the room, but

the light hurt my eyes and I wondered if it had hurt hers

too. I closed them again.

In her closet hung the long black dress bag. I pulled

down the zipper just enough to reveal the soft lavender

material inside. Purple was my mother’s favorite color. In

deciding what to wear, it was the only obvious choice.

She’d picked it herself- a simple purple summer dress,

short puffy sleeves, three fake buttons down the chest.

Directly below the dress bag sat my navy blue Nike sports

bag. I knew its contents without opening it- her

underclothes, a pair of nude nylons, and plain white flats.

I gathered the Nike bag, the dress bag, and the Styrofoam

head that held the short brown wig. After the coroner

arrived, I would deliver these to the funeral home.

I went back to the kitchen, took the cordless phone

from the wall, and sat on a white barstool at the island.

It was 3:20. After a while, I ate another cracker and drank

some water. My mother usually had the TV on even when she

wasn’t watching it. Background noise, she called it. I

understood why, the apartment was silent except for the

ticking of the cat shaped clock on the wall. It was one of

those cartoon-like cats with the giant white eyeballs, too

large for its black head. Its dime-sized pupils moved back
 6

and forth in sync with the ticking. My mother thought it

was cute. I never paid much attention to it until I was

sitting there waiting. I took it down from the wall,

removed its batteries, and threw them in the trash. I left

the cat sitting on the island next to the pill container

and the box of Cheerios.

I sat in the armchair across from my mother and

flipped through the copy of Reader’s Digest that was

sitting on the coffee table. I took the bags and the wig

out to my car and placed them across the backseat. I got

her mail- a Harriet Carter catalog, something from the

insurance company, a flyer advertising a local church

picnic, and a sheet of pizza coupons. I put the coupons in

my purse and placed the rest of the mail on the coffee

table.

I heard her neighbor come home from work. He has a big

black Lab that barks like crazy when anyone comes up the

sidewalk. My mother liked that. It made her feel safe. I

sat back in the armchair and thumbed through the Harriet

Carter magazine. That’s where the cat clock came from. I

saw one exactly like it in the catalog. $39.99. I looked

over at my mother. Her complexion had changed from that

glowing translucent white to a thick, rubbery white that

reminded me of the fat she’d trim from a lesser cut of beef

 7

before she cooked it. It was 5:30.

An hour later the neighbor’s Lab started barking. The

coroner had finally arrived. I let them in, one short, bald

man and two skinny boys who didn’t look old enough to be

out of high school. The bald man gave me more papers to

sign while the two skinny boys opened a large white plastic

bag and spread it out on the floor. One boy took my mother

from under her shoulders and the other boy took her ankles.

They lifted her from the couch and placed her on top of the

white bag on the floor. One boy tucked her feet in the

bottom of the bag and the other pulled the plastic up

around her head.

“What home are you using?” the bald man asked.

I handed him the post-it with the funeral home

information and watched the boys bag my mother over his

shoulder.

“Macklin’s, that’s a nice one,” he said.

“Thank you. She picked it.”

One of the boys asked me to spell my mother’s name and

state her date of birth while he wrote the information on a

small rectangular tag. He threaded a thin string through

the tag and tied it around my mother’s right wrist. Then,

the other boy zipped the bag closed. They lifted the bag

containing my mother onto their stretcher and rolled it out

 8

the door.

“We’re very sorry for your loss,” the bald man said.

“Thank you,” I said as I reached to turn on the floor

length lamp that stood by the armchair.

“Do you want me to call someone for you?” he asked.

I looked out the front door and watched the boys slide

the bag containing my mother into the back of a large black

hearse. “No,” I answered. “Thank you.”

The bald man apologized again, shook my hand, and

handed me a yellow copy of the paper he had me sign. “Keep

this for your records,” he said. And then he left.

I stood at the doorway until they drove away.

I went back to the kitchen and flipped on the light

switch. The cat clock lay lifeless on the island. I picked

up the cordless phone and went back to the armchair. My

brother answered on the second ring.

The phone went silent when I told him. I waited a few

seconds.

“I still have to tell Maggie,” I said.

“Where is she?” he asked.

“At home probably, with the baby.”

“Not Maggie. Mom, where’s Mom now?”

“The coroner just came. They took her to the funeral

home. I’ve got her clothes in my car. I’ll drop them off
 9

tomorrow sometime. I still need to go to Maggie’s tonight.

I don’t think she should hear over the phone.” Six months

ago, my little sister Maggie’s husband of two years had

been killed in a car accident leaving her a widow at

twenty-five and a single mother to ten-month-old Eleanor.

Roger was silent on the other end of the phone. Then

finally, “Mom’s gone. I can’t believe it. I mean, I knew it

was coming, but...God. I didn’t even get over there this

week. I was going to come tomorrow night. Jen and I. Take

her out to dinner. We just talked about it today. Do you

think...” he paused.

“What?”

“Do you think it was fast? Like in her sleep or

something?”

“ I think it was fast. I think she was ready.”

“I’m glad it wasn’t me who found her. That’s a shitty

thing to say, but I am.”

“No. It’s not. I understand. I’m glad it wasn’t you

too, or Maggie for sure.”

“What now?” he asked me.

“I’ll take Mom’s clothes to the funeral home in the

morning, finish up anything that needs to be done there.

I’ll call you, tell you the service schedule.”

“Somebody’s gotta tell Aunt Natalie. They were so

 10

close.”

“I’ll take care of it. I’ll make all the calls

tomorrow. Tonight I just want to get to Maggie.”

“You don’t need me to go, do you? I don’t think I can

do that. You know Maggie. She’s gonna take it hard.

I...Mom’s gone.”

Roger never had been good in a crisis. It was better

for us all if he stayed home. “Roger, it’s okay,” I said.

“I can do it. You stay home. You and Jen, you guys just be

together.”

He agreed. He told me he loved me. Then we hung up. I

put the phone back on the island in the kitchen and turned

the light out. I picked up my purse from its place on the

floor by the armchair, turned the lamp off, and walked

across the darkened living room. I stopped at the door,

turned back to look at the couch, and saw the armchair

pillow where my mother’s head had rested. I returned the

pillow to its home on the armchair, locked my mother’s

door, and left.

Maggie lives twenty minutes from my mother. I drove

there listening to my car’s air conditioner blow frigid air

into my face and wishing I’d brought the Saltines with me.

The front porch light was on when I arrived. I sat in my

car for a few moments trying to get right what I’d say to
 11

her.

I walked up the porch steps and Maggie came out to

meet me. She knew something had to be wrong for me to show

up at ten o’clock at night alone and unannounced. “Hey,” I

started.

“Hey. What’s going on?”

“Let’s go inside. Where’s Eleanor?” I asked.

“I don’t want to go inside. Karen?”

She knew before I said it out loud. “Mom’s gone Mags.”

“Nooo,” she breathed. Her arm immediately went across

her chest, leaving her right hand to rest over her heart.

She crouched down on the chipped white patio floor, her

knees folded beneath her. I put my hand on the back of her

neck and she leaned her head against my thigh. We held that

position for a while as she cried. Finally, she looked up

at me. I brushed her fine brown hair back from her face and

helped her to her feet.

“How- I mean, where? What happened?” she sobbed.

I told her how I’d gone to check on my mother as usual

and how I’d found her on the couch. I told her she seemed

at peace and how it was better for her now cause she had no

more pain or that horrible cough. I told her it’s okay for

us to be sad for a while because we’ll miss her so much but

that we had to remember that she went to a better place.

 12

Maggie just shook her head. “God,” she said. “Do they

train you all to talk like that or do you just pick it up

over time?” She didn’t mean anything by it. She’d just

heard it all before.

I don’t know how long we sat on the front porch steps.

Eleanor was sleeping on a blanket on the living room floor

and Maggie didn’t want to take the chance of waking her.

Besides, it was a beautiful night, not too humid, big,

bright moon. I told Maggie about the funeral plans, same as

I’d told our brother. Maggie asked if our mother had her

wig on when she passed. I said no but that I had put her

turban on her and was taking the wig to the funeral home

tomorrow. Then Maggie cried some more and I held her hand

and sometimes I rubbed her back.

After a while, Maggie leaned her head on my shoulder.

I put my arm around her and said, “I can stay tonight if

you want me to. I have to leave early tomorrow to start the

arrangements, but I’ll stay tonight.”

Maggie looked at her watch. “Wow,” she said. “It’s

already tomorrow. It’s almost two.”

“You’re kidding?”

“No.” She stood first, and I followed. “No,” she said.

“ No, you need to go home and get some rest yourself. I’m

okay.”
 13

I knew she wasn’t. I knew she’d break down again the

second I drove away. “Mags, come on. I don’t want to leave

you.” And that was true. I didn’t.

“No, really. I’m exhausted. My eyes hurt and Eleanor’s

gonna be up soon. There’s no way she’ll sleep all night on

that floor. I was going to move her to her crib when I

heard you pull up.”

I said okay and told her to call me anytime if she

wanted me to come back, or even just to talk. We hugged and

I started to walk away. I was almost to my car when Maggie

called after me, asking if we should send flowers “or

something” to the funeral home. I said I would do it

tomorrow and then corrected myself and said later today.

Then I got in my car. I buckled my seatbelt, and looked

back for Maggie in my rearview mirror, but she’d already

gone inside. She turned the porch light off. The house went

dark. I sat there for a few seconds, and then I drove away.

I stopped for gas at the station down the street from

Maggie’s house. I put fifteen dollars in my gas tank. I

bought a bottle of water and a package of those crackers

with the fake cheese in the middle, and I got back in the

car. I drove home listening to some sports talk show on an

am station I’d never heard before. I drank all the water. I

never opened the crackers.

 14

The dashboard clock read 3:02 when I pulled into my

driveway. My house was dark and I wished I’d put one of the

inside lights on a timer like my mother said I should, or

bought one of those motion-activated porch lights like my

brother has. I unlocked the front door and flipped on the

hallway light. I put my keys in the cereal-sized bamboo

bowl on the table by the door and set my purse on the

floor. I walked into the living room. My phone still lay on

the couch. I’d tried to call her from it. I wanted to tell

her that Willie Nelson was about to sing on the Today Show.

I tried three times. She never answered.

I picked the phone up from the couch and dialed.

“St. Joseph’s Hospital. Nursing office, can you hold?”

a female voice asked. Before I could answer, the music

began to play. Barely audible, static-filled instrumentals,

the same type of music that was always playing in my

mother’s doctor’s office. She hated it, said it sounded

sad. She was right.

“Thanks for holding. How can I help you?”

“I need to call in for my shift this morning.” I stood

in the middle of my living room, the light from the hallway

barely peeking into it. Yesterday morning’s half empty cup

of tea still on the coffee table, printouts of my mother’s

latest lab results scattered next to it.

 15

“Name?”

“Karen Kassen.”

“What department?”

“Oncology.”

“Title?”

“RN.” I folded my right arm over my left, suddenly

aware of the goose bumps that covered them.

“What shift?” she continued.

“7am to 7pm.”

“Calling in sick?’ As if she cared, as if I was

anything more than another piece of paper she had to file.

“No.” My eyes burned, but I swallowed back the tears.

“My mother died yesterday.” And then I hung up.