I call it the Death Room.
It’s where people go to die.
But really it’s called the hospice care room because the hospital sends patients there when they are on the verge of death—too far gone to use long-term hospice care.
I sit in the kitchenette waiting area starting at the sink across from me. I feel disconnected, like I’m out of body. My grandpa has just passed away after a week-long battle with severe pneumonia and blood clots in the lungs. On top of all that, he was diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer and a death sentence. The doctors gave him three months to live, but that was before the pneumonia. My pa had a strong heart, but it wasn’t enough to beat the pneumonia.
Two rounds of antibiotics didn’t even touch it, and so, he was gone in a week.
The nurses are currently giving his lifeless corpse a bath. Just minutes ago I watched him take his dying breath and now I’m sitting here waiting to see what he looks like after death. I’m not expecting much.
Minutes later the nurse comes out and tells me I can take all the time I need to visit before the coroner gets there to take him to the funeral home. I don’t go in right away because I can’t bear to see what he looks like. Instead I continue to stare at the sink and watch as it drips into the basin. I think back to the time when Pa and I splashed in mud puddles after a heavy rain. We’d put on our rain boots and jump in them to see who could make the bigger splash. It was always him because my little feet couldn’t kick up enough water with each jump; I didn’t mind, though.
After a while, I manage to get up and trudge my way into the hospital room where my grandpa lays lifeless in the hospital bed, a new hospital gown over his body.
It’s hard for me to look at him when I notice how yellow his skin is. His fingertips are white as snow, but the rest of him has turned a jaundiced yellow and dreary gray. His hair is greasy from being unwashed after a week in the hospital, but his skin is still damp after the bath the nurse just gave him. His lips are slightly parted, revealing cracked, dried skin.
He’s not the Pa I remember so clearly, the one so full of life and love. The one who would do anything for me. I reach over to grab his hand to find that his skin is still warm; he isn’t cold yet, which surprises me. I can’t help but think about how I’ll be on my own now. What once was just the two of us has now become only me. I’ll have to keep the farm running without Pa, and really, I’m not sure I can do it. It’s a lot for just two people; how am I supposed to keep everything going with just me?
I squeeze my pa’s hand, expecting to feel him squeeze back but he doesn’t. For a moment I forget that he’s dead and I’m holding on to his dead body. I quickly drop his hand and step back against the wall. I don’t think the nightmare that is this situation has fully sunk in yet. It doesn’t feel real; it can’t be possible.
I’m so lost in thought I don’t even realize the nurse has come back to the room.
“Excuse me, Miss Atwood, I’m so sorry for your loss, but I have the Kentucky Organ Donor Affiliates on the line,” she says. “By law I have to alert them of any death. They need to ask you a few questions.”
I take the phone without saying a word and put the receiver up to my ear. “Hello?” I say.
“Hi, Miss Atwood, this is Holly Carman from Kentucky Organ Donor Affiliates,” she says. “I want to say I’m so sorry for your loss.”
I give a silent nod and realize she can’t see me, but she continues on. She mentions something about donating his corneas to restore sight in someone else who needs them, but I think to myself— my grandpa was 80-years-old, why would someone want 80-year-old corneas?
I say yes—they can have his corneas. He won’t need them wherever he’s at now. She tells me someone will be at the hospital soon to retrieve them like they’re a collectible item a curator is coming to purchase. I tell her that’s fine, hang up, and hand the phone back over to the nurse.
“The coroner should be here soon,” she says. “Please take all the time you need.”
How much time do I need to spend with my pa’s dead body. It isn’t like I can talk to him. He can’t sit up in bed and talk to me about how the dairy cows back at the farm need to be milked while he’s at the hospital. He can’t tell me about all the times he’s nearly been kicked by a cow for grabbing its udders the wrong way. He can’t tell me about all the mishaps he’s had before from working for several decades as a dairy farmer.
What am I supposed to do without him?
I lean my head against the wall, feeling a tear escape and run down my face and into my ear. I wipe it away, trying to hold back the rest. I know there’s no reason to be strong since there’s no one else I’m putting up a front for. But Pa wouldn’t want me to cry, so I will be strong for him.
I take in a deep breath and stand up straight. There’s a knock at the door, signaling the coroner has just arrived. Two men dressed in suits appear before me, both of their hands held together in front of them. One of them speaks.
“Miss Atwood, we at Johnson-Perry Funeral Home give you our utmost condolences,” the man on the left says. He has gray, balding hair and a white handkerchief hanging out of his suit pocket. “We’ll be handling the services for Mr. Atwood at your discretion. Would you like us to take him directly to the funeral home after his cornea removal?”
I nod, wanting to scream and punch something at the same time. This shouldn’t be happening to me. This shouldn’t be happening to him.
“Of course,” the gray-haired man says. “If you need anything at all from us, please do not hesitate to call. I’m Larry and this is my partner Frank.” Larry gestures to the other guy wearing a suit. He’s much younger than Larry with a clean face and dark brown hair. His half smile reveals a small dimple on his right cheek.
Again, I nod because it’s all I can bring myself to do. They tell me they’ll give me a call when they come back for his body and to set up a time to make funeral arrangements. Larry and Frank leave shortly after and I’m left alone with my pa’s dead body once more.
I look at his face and notice all the sunspots that decorate his nose and cheeks. After decades of working in the sun with no UV protection, the sun has surely done its damage. He has wrinkles across his forehead and down the sides of his neck from age. His eyes are sunken into his head and slanted down. He looks tired, like he’s taking a rest after a long, hard work week.
A tear manages to escape and run down my cheek. I don’t bother to wipe it away and instead it falls onto the white sheets of the hospital bed. I look down, blink, and then turn away to leave. I can’t be there any longer.
It’s hard for me to picture my Pa, who was once so full of life, depleted and gray like a balloon that just lost its air. As I make my way out of the hospital, I’m reminded of a time the two of us were outside sitting on the porch, looking up at the stars together.
——
You can see the stars the clearest out in the countryside because they aren’t hidden by all the streetlights and smog. When I look up, the entire night sky is dotted with them both big and small. Some are arranged into a pattern; a constellation is what my pa said they were called.
“What’s that one?” I ask, pointing up into the sky. I’m looking at the constellation that has four stars, one in each corner, and three stars aligned in the center, slanting toward the right.
“Ah,” Pa says. “That’s Orion and his belt. One of the most noticeable constellations at night.”
I’m so amazed that my pa knows this that I can’t help but squeal with excitement. “What about that one?” I switch my gaze to the one that looks like a giant ladle.
“That’s the Big Dipper,” he says. “There’s another one just like it, but smaller called the Little Dipper.”
I am utterly amazed and enthralled by all the information my pa knows about these starts. I continue to point out constellations. He names off several, including Canis Major, Cassiopeia, and others.
At first I wonder just how my pa knows all this information, but then I realize he is much older than me, and maybe one day I will know just as much about stars as he does.
“You know,” Pa says. “When I die, I’m going to the top of Orion’s belt.”
I don’t know what to say at first because the thought of my pa dying is impossible to little me. I can’t fathom the idea of being without him, but eventually I ask him why.
“I just want to be a part of something bigger,” Pa says. “When I’m gone and you look up at the night sky, just know that your old pa is sitting on the edge of Orion’s belt looking down on you.”
He averts his gaze from the sky and looks down at me. “Here,” he says. “I want you to have this.”
He digs around in his pocket for a moment before pulling out a small pocket knife and handing it to me. It has a wooden handle and a blade that only comes out when you trigger the button on top. I notice the Orion constellation is engraved onto the side.
“Always know that I’m here to protect you no matter what,” he points to the stars on Orion’s belt and I beam up at him with loving eyes.
He smiles at me and we both look up to the sky one more time, and I swear the top star in Orion’s belt twinkles. I smile and close my eyes, picturing myself sitting on a star like my pa.
——
When I get home from the hospital, it’s dark outside. I park Pa’s truck next to my silver Chevy Sonic which I bought from all the money I earned from working on the farm with Pa. I guess I’d have to sell his Ford Ranger to help pay for the funeral expenses. Luckily, I know Pa has some money put back for emergencies.
I scoff at the idea. His death is an unforeseen emergency. One neither of us had planned. I’m not even sure if he has a will hidden around the house somewhere. Pa always liked to hide his important documents in random places, and when I needed to find something, that made it much more difficult.
I debate on whether or not to go in the house and search his room for something, anything; a clue that he might have a will, but I decide against it. Instead, I choose to stay outside and look up at the sky. My eyes immediately fall onto Orion and his belt. I think of Pa and the time he told me that’s where he wanted to go when he died. I remember the pocket knife he gave me all those years ago and can feel the heaviness of it in my jeans pocket. I close my eyes and picture him there, a shroud of bright, yellow light surrounding him. I picture him young and healthy, not what he was before I left the hospital.
Before I know it, tears are falling down my cheeks like a small waterfall on a cliffside. This can’t be real. It has to be a dream. I reach my hand over to my arm and pinch the skin. A dull, achy throb follows, and I know this has to be real. I fall down to my knees, the wind whipping up around me. It blows my hair behind me, sending my blonde locks flying in every direction. I bring my hands to my face, covering my eyes, and cry harder. My heart aches with the pain of his loss. It’s like I’m finally realizing the truth. Pa is gone and there is nothing I can do about it.
The wind picks up, making a shrill whistling sound in the distance. I pull my hands away from my face and wipe my tears, but it’s useless; more just fall in their place. I blink through tear-blurred eyes and notice a dark figure in the distance, sulking its way through our soybean crops. From where I’m at, the figure looks human. It seems to be someone hunched over, hobbling toward me at a slow pace. The closer it gets, the more I realize it is an old woman holding a cane, wearily making her way through the rows of soybeans.
I push myself to my feet, a feeling of terror washing over me, which has abruptly stopped the tears. Who is this woman? Where has she come from?
“Child—” The woman says in a hoarse whisper. Her voice mixes with the wind and I almost can’t make out what she says, but an echo reverberates through my head. “Do not fear me.”
An instant wave of reassurance and calmness washes over me, like her words set off a chain reaction inside my stomach. Her voice is soothing and I have the strangest urge to meet her before her feet hit our blacktop driveway. My feet start moving before I can register anything else. I’m moving at a slow pace too, like my body is moving on its own; I have no control over anything, but at the same time I don’t want that control; I relinquish it to this strange woman.
“My child—” she says again and my legs start to carry me a little faster. “Do not fear me.”
Within seconds I’m standing at the edge of the soybean field and the woman is mere inches from her face. Her hair is long and gray, twisted into a tight braid down her back. Not unlike her hair, the woman’s skin is so thin that a knife could grave it and she would pour blood. She’s at least two feet shorter than me and leans over with a hunched back. She carries a wooden cane decorated with intricate carvings. She stands tilted to the side, which makes me wonder if she’s in pain.
“My child,” she says once more. “I feel you are in pain?”
What she asked almost sounds like a question, so I nod to answer. I’m so frozen to my spot that the thought of opening my mouth to speak seems excruciating.
“Poor thing,” the woman rasps. She reaches out to grab my hand; I don’t pull away. “I can ease your pain if you wish.”
The thought seems tempting and I deeply consider it before opening my mouth to answer, but she interrupts before I can.
“My child, let me help you.”
I consider her offer again. I don’t know who this woman is or where she came from, but something about her makes me feel at home. I feel safe standing here in front of her with the cold wind blowing all around us. I feel like I’m in the eye of a tornado waiting to come back down from a whirlwind of bliss.
“Y-yes,” I manage to squeak out. My throat is sore and dry from all the crying I did in the truck on the way home from the hospital. I need a drink of water. “Please.”
“Of course,” the woman says and starts to lift her arm. She flips her wrist over and in the palm of her hand is a vial of a clear liquid. “Drink this, my child, and you will feel better.”
I consider that whatever is in the vial might be poison, but I don’t think about it twice. Whatever this woman is, she has me under her spell, and I can’t seem to break free. I take the vial slowly and pull the stopper out of the top. I second guess myself for a split second before I down the contents of the vial in one gulp. It tastes of nothing.
“Good,” the old woman croons. “But beware. You must sacrifice a meaningful relic to keep the potions effects. If you fail, I will come to collect.”
I notice that the woman failed to mention this before I drank whatever was in the vial. The feeling of safety starts to dissipate from my chest, and I open my mouth to protest. But when I blink, the woman is gone and the wind has died down.
The night air is cool and completely silent around me.
For once in my life I feel content and I wonder if the thing she wants me to destroy is the knife buried deep in my pocket.
——
The day of the funeral comes and I feel okay. Whenever the funeral home called for me to come make arrangements, I was there for a short time then left to prepare myself for the coming days. I chose an onyx black casket complete with silver handles for the pallbearers to carry. I thought Pa would like the color, so that’s why I chose it.
I also spent that evening sending hundreds of pictures of the two of us to the funeral home. I was the only one who could provide them, everyone else either didn’t care or wasn’t around to care. It was all left up to me.
Hundreds show up for the visitation and I don’t cry once. I kept the pocket knife Pa gave me in my dress pants pocket and had my hand on it the entire time. I think maybe I’m broken and the feeling of my pa being dead hasn’t hit me yet. But when the funeral starts and finishes the next day, I don’t cry then either. It seems that the “potion” the old woman gave me three days ago has worked its magic. My pain is mostly gone. I still feel sad, but not much more than that. I wonder if taking the potion was a good thing. Maybe I should be feeling all that earth-shattering heartbreak. Wouldn’t that be healthy?
When the funeral is over and I’m back home alone I still feel okay. But something doesn’t seem right. It feels like there’s something in the air watching me, waiting for me to break at any moment.
The air in the house feels full like the air outside on a hot, humid day. I think back to three nights ago when the woman offered me that vial and said I had to sacrifice a “meaningful relic” to keep the pain away. I’ve thought about it a little. What was I supposed to sacrifice? I was not getting rid of my pocket knife.
I head to bed without a second thought. After burying my pa, the only thing I can think about is sleep. All the heavy emotions from the last two days have me feeling exhausted. As soon as my head hits the pillow, I fall asleep.
——
I awake sometime in the night and my sheets are damp with sweat. It’s pitch dark around me, but I can feel something in the room. I can hear it breathing.
I don’t move for fear of whatever it is pouncing on me and ripping me to shreds. I stay as still as I can. My heart is thudding in my chest, sending a lump of terror into my throat. That’s when I hear it.
“My child—” the thing says. It’s the same woman from a few nights ago. Why is she back? “You broke our agreement.”
For a moment I have no idea what she’s talking about, but then I remember the vial. The one I drank from. The one that has kept me mellowed out for the past few days. She must be referring to the “meaningful relic” I was supposed to sacrifice.
“You have failed,” she says. “Now I must take your soul in place of something you loved.”
She’s on top of me in seconds, flying through the air like a fly looking for its next meal. When she lands on my chest, the breath is knocked out of my lungs, but the weight of her is too much to bear; I can’t breathe at all. Her hand is around my throat, squeezing tightly. I try to cough and fight my way out of her grasp, but she is so strong. The more she squeezes the more my mouth opens; she leans over and hovers directly over my face. A cloud of dark smoke billows out of her throat and surrounds the entirety of my head. At first it’s hard for me to realize what is happening, but then I feel lightheaded.
The thing laughs on top of me. “You poor child,” she cackles. “Too weak to fight off a little old lady like me. Whatever will you do?”
I wriggle around in her grip and find purchase with the bed sheets, gripping them between my fingers and pushing. I manage to pull an arm free and flail it around, grabbing at the nightstand next to the bed. The more my air is constricted, the more my vision begins to blur. I can feel myself losing consciousness the longer I lay here. The thing takes a deep breath and as she does, a cloud of white smoke flees from the center of my chest. It leaves an unbearable pang of emptiness in its wake.
“Not much longer now and you’ll be mine.” The thing emits a witchy cackle as I keep struggling in her grip.
My hand is searching for my pa’s pocket knife. I always keep it in the top drawer of my nightstand. If I can just grab it, maybe I can use it to protect myself. I grab at the drawer pull, but I can feel my strength leaving me. How long has it been since I took a breath?
The thing takes another deep breath in and pulls another piece of my soul from my chest. I can feel myself fading, but something remains in the pit of my stomach, urging me to try harder. I quickly find support from the drawer pull and yank it open with what little strength I have. I dig around inside blindly until my hands feel the familiar material of the wooden base of the pocket knife. I grab it quickly, triggering the blade as I go. Just as the thing is about to suck out another piece of my soul, I plunge the blade directly into the side of her neck.
The relief is instant. She releases my neck and falls over onto the floor. I take a huge breath in and cough, sputtering up blood and mucus. My chest is tight and sore and my throat feels like it’s on fire.
“My child—” the thing says once more. “What have you done?”
I watch as the thing starts to disappear, wisps of smoke dissipating in the air. Little by little she disappears and is gone before my very eyes. I grab at my neck, still feeling her hands around me. A shiver goes up my spine. Someone I have managed to escape whatever I’d gotten into.
I sit as still as stone in bed, unsure of what to do with myself. If it weren’t for my pa and his knife, I would be dead. I place my feet on the carpeted ground and stand up. My legs are a little wobbly, but I manage to make my way down the hallway, into the hallway, and out the front door. The fresh air outside is a nice change from the house that reeks of death and despair.
I grip the knife handle tighter and look up at the sky. I see Orion and his belt instantly, sure that Pa is watching down on me. The top star in his belt twinkles and pang of sadness washes over me. As I begin to cry, I look down at the knife and swear the top star of Orion’s belt engraved into the old wooden handle twinkles too.