When the patient in room 225 died, Hera was the one who found her. As a nurse's aide, she knew the head nurse would page for "Dr. Blue", who wasn't a doctor at all, but rather code for death. Hera had seen death before, of course. She didn't think anyone in the world hadn't seen death by now. But this one stopped her.
The woman looked peaceful. Her face was smoother than it had been and she seemed to finally sleep. It was probably because the pain was gone. No more furrowed brow or pinched lips. No more tensed muscles or fretful movements, trying desperately to find a position that was comfortable. The sheets were draped and smooth, as if the woman knew she was about to die and straightened them herself.
Hera stepped closer. The woman's hair had been brushed--how had that happened? Did she brush her own hair, too? The hospital gown was clean. Perhaps the night shift had changed and cleaned her. The woman's hands were folded, one atop the other, calmly, neatly. Hera couldn't stop staring. Most in the hospital died in agony. Most were covered in the filth of the end, their hands clawing at their own faces, at the air, at the inevitable.
She never touched the dead, but Hera found herself reaching. She lay her hand atop the woman's. They were cool and smooth. Hera held the woman's hand. As she finally pulled her hand away, she felt the necklace chain. How could she forget? The woman always wore a heart-shaped locket. She had screamed herself raw when a nurse tried to remove it. Since the woman was at the stage where she could no longer speak, they could only speculate. Children? Parents? Spouse?
The locket slid easily from the woman's hands. Hera opened it.
