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He has to be.
But I don’t know if he is.
I blurt out, “Vasily Baranov,” to the receptionist.
Before she even starts typing, she says, “Your relation to the patient.”
“He’s my husband.” No hesitation, no self-doubt. Heismy husband.
I’m not a widow.
I’m not, but when she takes my name and somehow accepts that I don’t have any proof of identity and has an orderly escort me to Vasily, the floor the orderly takes me to is identified as the morgue.
I don’t know what to do with my hands.
I don’t know how to act; I don’t know what to say. I don’t know if I’m expected to start planning things, if I’m supposed to know what Vasily wanted done.
The room is cold, sterile. There’s a lingering odor that defies description, something that warns to stay away but isn’t as unpleasant as I want it to be, but it’s so cold in here that it’s more an idea than actual scent. Everything is clean, though, bright lights and metal walls, the drawers I know have bodies inside them and a tile floor that’s easy to hose down. No one’s working right now, not in this room I’ve been led to, but it’s clear someone has worked in here today. The top note of that indescribable scent is fresh bleach.
In the center of the room, there’s a stretcher. The sheet on it is white, pristine. But then, Maria said Vasily overdosed, so there wouldn’t be anything, if it’s even how he ended up down here. It’s empty now.
I don’t know what to do with my hands.
The orderly looks around as though he was expecting something to be happening here or someone should be here to take over. “You just hang tight, I’m sure he’ll be back in a minute.”
And then he leaves. Just walks away from a wife waiting to be told she’s now a grieving widow. But he’s an orderly. I suppose he probably doesn’t know any better than I do what to do with my hands.
There are a couple doors in the back of the room. One has a placard on it, identifying it as an office. The other has the standard set of icons of a handicapped-accessible family restroom. There’s water running. The sink? Or maybe there’s a shower in there. I imagine things get messy in this room.
There’s going to be an autopsy. That’s what happens when someone of Vasily’s age and health dies, even when the cause is obvious. They’re going to cut him open and put his internal organs in a bowl, and when they’re done examining, they’re going to stuffeverything back in his chest and put his ribs back in place, like a pumpkin that’s been gutted and carved, only for the cap to be set back on like it hasn’t been—
My brain goes woozy, my knees lock, I start to dip.
I attempt to catch myself on the gurney Vasily’s body was brought here on, but my weight’s wrong and the wheels aren’t locked. It begins to slide. I’m going to fall onto the tiles that have been splashed with the blood of a thousand, a thousand-thousand corpses.
My hands had one thing to do, and they failed.
“Ana!” an impossible voice yells, and I’m scooped up before I ever hit the ground.
Warm arms go around me. A big, firm body holds me tightly. “Ana, Ana,zvyozdochka,”is chanted in a panicked whisper. But it’s the sweet-tart, grassy scent of blackcurrant that hits me, that has the entire onslaught of emotion finally sweeping through.
“Vasily?” I sob, my voice barely making it out as I throw my arms around his neck and hold him like he’ll never be able to pry me off him. “Oh Lord, I thought you’d died! Why are you in the morgue? What’s happening? Why did you do that?” I’m a squeaky, warbly mess, my words barely make any sense, and I’m all over him.
He’s alive.
He’s here.
He’s warm and strong, and he smells good and he’s hugging me as tightly as I’m hugging him.
“I thought you died!” I wail, anger suddenly hitting me over how he’s been here the entire time and I didn’t deserve any of this. I punch right down on his shoulder, but there’s so much muscle there, all of it busy holding my weight, that he doesn’t even flinch.
Herubs my back and makes those soft, soothing sounds he’s so good at, but then he chuckles hoarsely and says, “I think I did for a minute, but I’m back.”
My legs are wrapped around his waist and his arms are steel bands around me, so I can’t escape him when I rear back, but I make enough space to shove him hard with the heel of my palm. “This isn’t the time for jokes!” I scream, but my sobbing only stops long enough for me to get the words out before I’m hysterical again.
It didn’t hurt nearly this badly when he told me Artom was dead, but I was still so confused then that I didn’t have time to process it until he was already making up an excuse for why he told me that.
“I hate you so much,” I spit out even though my diaphragm is spasming so hard I can taste bile at the back of my throat. I cover my face, forcing myself to not look at him because I know it will be hard to stand by that if I give myself a second to actually look at him again.