The stranger in the mirror | Wattys2016

(6) Questions and coffins

The dog starts to bark and frantically jump up and down the front door – so there's someone coming, he always knows. Sure enough, moments later someone rings the doorbell. Once, twice, three times, each time longer and seemingly more forcefully, it's as if the doorbell itself were impatient. Finally I snap out of it and labouriously get up off the floor. I'm still nauseous.

Nevermind; I open the door, and there they are, the emergency doctor and the ambulance driver. I confirm having made the call and point them towards the bathroom door. They take bounding strides towards the door and I remember that it's still locked. I hurry past them while fumbling for the key in my pocket with shaky fingers. I get a hold of the key and hastily unlock the door while avoiding to look at them or saying anything, but the wary looks they're shooting me don't go unnoticed. I make a faltering attempt at an explanation, but to no avail, because they're not really listening at this point, anyway.

"She must've slipped and fallen, it...it looked dreadful in there when I walked in," I say as I push open the door.

They ignore me and walk inside. I watch from outside the bathroom as the emergency doctor cowers down over Claudia. He talks to the ambulance driver in a flat voice; there's an air of a seasoned doctor who can't be shocked by anything about him, which is for some reason upsetting to me. True, we weren't getting along so well lately...but still, she was my wife. The routine with which he goes about examining her injuries makes her possible death seem so banal, prosaic. It repels me.

Just as I think that, he turns around and brutally rips the "possible" out of my sentence:
"Sir, I'm afraid there's nothing we can do for your wife, she must've been in this state for several hours. I have to pronounce her dead."

Just like that, it's over. He's not even trying anything - in fact, he's not even looking at her anymore! He's filling out some sort of form while the driver leaves the room to call the police. I feel like I've been punched in the stomach.

"But...but wait! This can't just be it?! You're not even - you haven't even tried -"

I'm unable to put together a complete sentence. He looks at me with a bored expression on his face.

"There is nothing we can do for her anymore. The precise time of death will be determined during the obduction - as will be the cause of death" - he looks up at me meaningfully for a brief moment there before tending to his form again - "but my best guess is she has been dead for several hours. We would've had to be here much sooner -"

"I didn't know any sooner!" I cry out defensively, feeling very cornered by the bored doctor.

"She never yelled out or made any noise when she fell that might've alarmed you?" he asks with raised eyebrows.

"Well no - I mean, I don't know, she might...I just didn't wake up! I...I'd taken sleeping pills, if you must know, so..." I trail off when I realize he doesn't really care about my explanations and is not listening anymore.

Eventually, he has me sign his form and announces: "The police should be here any moment. They'll ask you some questions and then they will see to it that your wife is taken to the hospital for her autopsy. We're sorry for your loss."

And just like that, they're off and leave me standing in the open door numbly. I don't stir until I hear the police car's siren wailing coming closer.

                                                                                          * * *

There are two cars, a police car leading the way with blue lights and sirens, and a hearse. Four police officers enter our appartment. Two of them go off to the bathroom without wasting a glance on me to examine the scene and perpetuate any potential evidence. After they're done with that, they pack up my wife's body in a body bag and put her into the hearse to take her to the morgue. Meanwhile, the other two policemen escort me into the living room and ask me some questions, just like the doctor said they would. They ask when I last saw her alive, when I think she hit her head, why I didn't wake up, how our relationship had been, etc. I'm really not feeling too well, certainly not in the state for this sort of questioning, but I endure it.

Finally, they get up to leave. As I follow them to the front door, they thank me for answering their questions and express their condolences. They're about to leave when I see their colleagues hoisting the body bag into the hearse.

"We're very sorry for your loss. If we need any more information from you, we'll contact you. Until then -"

"W-wait! You're taking her away but...what am I supposed to do now?"

"Choose a coffin," the policeman I'd held back shrugs before turning to leave.

He gets in the car and they all drive off, and I remain on the threshold of the apartment building, aghast and mouth slightly agape.