THE PATIENT IN ROOM 13
THE FATHER’S BODY
Thursday, October 19th – 6:15 PM
The cold storage room was silent except for the hum of the refrigeration units and the soft whisper of Sloane’s breath. She stood before the shelf that held her father’s body, the white sheet bunched in her hands, her eyes fixed on his face.
He looked peaceful.
That was the first thought that came to her. Not sad. Not angry. Not afraid. Peaceful. As if he had finally found the rest that had eluded him in life.
His skin was pale, almost translucent, the color of old parchment. His eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted. His hands were folded over his chest, the fingers interlaced. On his left forearm, the word.
“REMEMBER.”
Sloane reached out.
She touched his face.
The skin was cold.
“Dad,” she whispered.
The word echoed in the cold room, swallowed by the hum of the machines.
“He is not there,” Marian said softly. “His body is there. His memories are with you.”
“I know.”
“Then why do you weep?”
Sloane touched her cheek.
She had not realized she was crying.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Because he was my father. Because he tried to save me. Because he died alone.”
“He did not die alone. The Watcher was with him. The tree was with him. The forgotten were with him.”
“That’s not the same.”
“No. It is not the same. But it is not nothing.”
Sloane traced her father’s face with her fingertips. The line of his jaw. The curve of his cheek. The hollow of his temple.
“Did he suffer?”
“At the end? No. The Watcher took his memories. His pain. His fear. He felt nothing.”
“Did he know he was dying?”
“He knew. He chose it. He sacrificed himself so that the Watcher would not take you.”
Sloane closed her eyes.
She remembered the last time she had seen her father alive. She was seven years old, standing in the doorway of his study. He was sitting at his desk, writing in his journal. He looked up. He smiled.
“Sloane. Come here.”
She walked to him. He pulled her onto his lap.
“I love you,” he said. “I love you more than anything in this world.”
“I love you too, Daddy.”
“Promise me something.”
“What?”
“Promise me you’ll never forget me.”
“I promise.”
He kissed her forehead.
“That’s my girl.”
She opened her eyes.
“I never forgot you, Dad. Not really. Even when they told me you died in a car accident. Even when I tried to move on. You were always there. In my dreams. In my memories. In my heart.”
She pressed her hand against his chest.
“I am the Keeper now. I hold the memories of the forgotten. And I will never forget you.”
Dr. Marsh stood at the door, watching.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have told you sooner. I should have told you years ago.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I was afraid. Afraid of what you would do. Afraid of what you would become.”
“What I have become is the Keeper. What I have done is remember.”
Dr. Marsh nodded slowly.
“What will you do with the bodies?”
“I will identify them. I will notify their families. I will give them the burials they deserve.”
“That will take years.”
“I have years.”
“And the hospital?”
“The hospital will close. The patients will be transferred. The staff will be investigated. The administrators will be held accountable.”
Dr. Marsh looked at the shelves of bodies.
“Including me.”
“Including you.”
Dr. Marsh nodded.
“I understand.”
She walked out of the cold storage room.
Sloane turned back to her father.
“I will come back for you,” she said. “I will give you a proper burial. I will put your name on a stone. I will visit you every year.”
She touched his face one last time.
“Thank you for not forgetting me.”
She covered him with the sheet.
She walked out of the room.
The corridor was empty.
The lights hummed. The shadows were still.
Sloane walked to the elevator.
She pressed the button.
The doors opened.
She stepped inside.
The third floor was quiet.
The patients were in their rooms. The nurses were at their stations. The alarms were silent.
Sloane walked to Greta’s room.
Greta was sitting in her chair, a book in her lap. She looked up when Sloane entered.
“You look different,” Greta said.
“I saw my father.”
“I thought your father was dead.”
“He is. His body is in the basement. It has been there for forty years.”
Greta set down her book.
“I’m sorry.”
“He’s at peace now. He’s been at peace for a long time. I’m the one who wasn’t.”
“Are you at peace now?”
Sloane sat down across from her.
“I’m getting there.”
She spent the next hour with Greta, talking about her mother, about the years she had lost, about the future she was beginning to imagine.
“I want to see her,” Greta said. “My mother. I want to see her face.”
“She was here. Today. In the conference room.”
“What did she look like?”
“She looked like you. Same eyes. Same smile. Same way of holding her hands when she was nervous.”
Greta smiled.
“Will she come back?”
“If you want her to.”
“I want her to.”
“Then she will.”
Sloane stood up.
“I need to see the others. But I will come back.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Sloane walked to the door.
“Dr. Vance?”
She turned.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Greta.”