Tom Savage - Mrs. John Doe

She thanked the grandson and tipped him, then rinsed her face with cool water in the bathroom and took a brush to her hair. She didn’t bother changing out of her travel clothes, a black blouse and skirt and beige trench coat-what she called beige, anyway; the catalog had called it toffee. She returned to the lobby, where Bill was waiting. They got back into the car and rode in relative silence, due north, to their next destination.

When the car arrived at the hospital, Nora drew in a steadying breath. Then she allowed Bill to take her arm and lead her inside, to the morgue.

Dr. Gupta was very kind. The small Indian man in the well-tailored blue suit had an apologetic manner that actually made Nora feel somewhat stronger, more assured, as though she should be comforting him instead of the other way around. They’d been shown into his third-floor office, and now he’d brought them to a bank of elevators, one of which would take them down to the basement of the hospital.

“A formality,” he explained in his mildly accented English as they descended. “Mr. Howard has already been here, but we require an immediate relative. Otherwise, I wouldn’t-”

“It’s okay,” Nora said. “It’s quite all right. I-I want to see him.”

The elevator opened into another corridor lined with offices, at the end of which was a large gray area with gray carpets, couches, and chairs. The waiting room, Nora thought with a shudder. An old woman and a middle-aged man sat together on a couch, probably a grieving wife and son, but otherwise the place was empty. Nora glanced at Bill Howard, who chose a seat across the room from the others and said, “I’ll be right here.” She nodded and handed him her shoulder bag, and Dr. Gupta led her over to another door. Nora braced herself when he opened it.

It wasn’t as bad as she’d imagined it would be. Industrial tubes concealed in a false ceiling brightly lighted the big, long chamber, and the temperature dropped some fifteen degrees the moment they entered. The walls were lined with shiny metal stacked drawers above the green linoleum floor. She’d half expected to find the cast of CSI hunched over stainless steel tables with frightening-looking drains, burrowing rubber-gloved hands into gaping chest cavities. But no such horror was in evidence, only two silent young men in hospital blues awaiting the doctor’s instructions. The autopsy surgeries would be elsewhere, of course, down the hall or in a subbasement. She’d been watching too much television; this place was merely for storage. Storage of human beings. Her step faltered, and the doctor reached out to grasp her arm.

“It’s okay,” she said again. “I’m okay. Let’s do this.”

At a nod from the coroner, one of the orderlies went to a low drawer and pulled it open, then stepped back, discreetly out of the way. Dr. Gupta gently peeled back the white sheet, revealing the head and naked shoulders. Nora came forward to stand beside the drawer, staring down.

She said, “Yes, this is my husband. This is Jeff.”

His face was slack, calm, almost smiling. He was pale, with a bluish tinge to his waxen skin. She studied the features in repose, the closed eyelids, and the faint bruise on his right cheek by his ear. She glanced down the length of the sheet that covered most of him, wondering what it concealed. Should she ask? Did she really want to know? In the end, Dr. Gupta made the decision for her.

“It was a heart attack,” he said quietly. “A sudden, massive myocardial infarction. It may comfort you to know that he was most likely, er, gone before the car struck the wall. That”-he pointed to the bruise-“was probably sustained when the air bag was deployed, but it didn’t develop, which indicates a postmor-er, well, otherwise, there is no visible damage.”

She nodded again. A single tear made its way down her face, and she reached up to brush it away. She wondered what she should say at this point, but the doctor saved her the trouble once more.

“I’ve called it an accident, officially. There won’t be any further legal activity, no inquest or anything like that. You’re free to take him home. One thing: He had heart and liver damage, and some of the scarring goes back years. Was he on medication for it?”

She shook her head and told the truth. “This is the first I’m hearing about it.” Then she said, “I’m going to have him cremated. Can-can that be done here?”

“Of course.”

“I mean, now?”

Dr. Gupta nodded. “Yes, we’ll see to it. If you’ll come back tomorrow afternoon, I’ll have everything ready.”

“An urn?” she asked.

“A box,” he said. “You may choose the final containment when you’re back in New York. That would be best.”

“And the-the transportation?”

“Your airline will be able to assist you. They’re used to these things.” More quietly, he added, “With security these days, I’m afraid it will have to be the cargo hold.”

She didn’t know what to say to that, so she simply nodded again. Another tear ran down her cheek.

“There are a few forms for you to sign,” he said. “My assistant is bringing them down from my office. Are you-are you ready now?”

“Yes,” she whispered. She reached out as though to touch the upturned face on the steel pallet, but her hand stopped before it reached its destination, slowly returning to her side. At a nod from the doctor, the orderly pulled up the sheet and rolled the big drawer shut. The harsh metallic clang seemed to reverberate in the frigid, sterile room.

A few other people had arrived in the waiting area by the time she and the doctor rejoined Bill Howard there, but she took no notice of them. She moved directly into the arms of her friend, her husband’s friend, and wept against his shoulder. Then they all sat in a corner of the waiting area. A young Asian woman in a white lab coat arrived with legal papers and a big, sealed manila envelope. Nora signed a Certificate of Death, a Certificate of Formal Identification, a Receipt of Personal Effects, and a Certificate of Waiver of All Pursuant Claims, whatever that was-probably so she couldn’t sue the car’s manufacturer or the City of London for having erected a stone wall on Holland Park Avenue. She signed it anyway, thinking all the while of the body in the drawer next door. How small he’d seemed, and how fragile. A heart and liver condition of long standing…

“The, er, personal effects are here,” Dr. Gupta said. The assistant handed her the manila envelope containing a plain brown wallet, a key ring with three keys, a disposable cardboard camera, and a small white box. Nora opened this last item, a jewelry case. She removed a layer of cotton and stared.

It was a simple gold chain with a heart-shaped locket. She snapped it open and found a tiny, recent photo of Jeff, smiling confidently into the camera. In the box under it, nestled in a second layer of cotton, was a miniature envelope with a card. Happy Birthday! Inside the card, in Jeff’s handwriting: Pal, always keep me close to your heart. Love, J.

Pal . His private name for her; only the two of them knew what it meant. Her forty-eighth birthday was in three weeks, July 21, and he’d already bought her a gift. The wallet held two hundred forty pounds and two photos, one of her and one of Dana. Jeff’s credit cards, insurance cards, gym membership, and all the other things that he normally carried were absent, even his driver’s license. She’d never seen this wallet before either. It certainly wasn’t Jeff’s usual wallet, the one she’d given him years ago. It wasn’t real leather but plastic, what she’d heard called pleather.

She turned to look at Bill. “What about his-”