The Yellow Hibiscus Chapter 5

As he escorted me to the morgue, he prepared me for the gruesome task of identifying their remains. Their fingerprints and dental records were not yet available. So it was up to me.

The morgue was in the basement of Clinton Hospital on 149th Street in the Bronx.

He observed everything from the huge glass window, where Officer Johnson had instructed us to wait. Two men attired in surgical attire examined two charred bodies lying on stretchers that seemed unidentifiable.

He knocked on the steel-framed glass door on which an embossed brass sign read ‘Coroner,’ then entered. They conversed for a while, then he signaled, inviting us in. Willoby eyes lingered on me, revealing a tinge of concern tracing his face.

“I can handle it,” I pretended, steeling my innards as I followed him inside.

“Dr. Erik Huber and Dr. Pedro Colon,” Officer Johnson made the introductions. “The Coroners.”

I nodded.

As we approached the bodies, the smell of formaldehyde became intense. I shook my head in repulsion and cringed as my lids swelled with tears, “I can’t. I am sorry, but these bodies could be of anyone.” I couldn’t even differentiate if they were male or female. All that was discernible to me was that one was slightly larger.

Both doctors casually approached me from opposite directions, carrying a file.

“Female Caucasian, about seventy-eight years old, black, greying dyed hair, light brown eyes, five feet, half of the index finger missing on the right hand,” a voice to my left rattled articulately.

Before time permitted my response, the voice to my right chimed in, “Male Caucasian, about seventy-nine years old, gray hair, grayish-blue eyes, five feet six inches tall. Did he walk with a limp?” he queried.

I rotated halfway to my right, wiped my eyes, and verified, “Yes, my father had a limp.”

“That explains why one of his legs is shorter than the other,” he said, referring to his file peering over his thin-rimmed spectacles firmly seated on the bridge of his nose.

“No,” I denied in futility. “It could be anyone.”

Now all eyes were trailing me.

“That’s all conjecture. There are eight million people in this City!” I challenged, heading for the door.

As I approached the exit, a voice hauntingly reminded me, “But how many of them lived at 5001 Morris Park Avenue, had sweet and sour pot roast, sauerkraut with chunks of corned beef, black bread or German bread and . . .”

“It could be anyone!” I defiantly shouted as I faced the exit. My tears refused to stop.

“How?” I wept in anguish, facing them, “How come their bodies are like that? Both hands are at their sides. Burned victims’ hands are always protecting their faces from the flames.”

“You are right,” Dr. Huber agreed, focusing on Officer Johnson, who cast his eyes on Willoby.

He nodded his head in agreement.

Dr. Huber continued, “Twenty years on the job and there is only one explanation for this . . .”

“Ahem,” someone cleared their throat.

I followed his eyes to Officer Johnson. He leveled him with a look, and thus the ‘look trading’ I’d observed earlier continued.

I wondered what they were trying to conceal as I struggled to suppress the storm raging within me.

Officer Johnson came over to me and politely explained, “Miss Shade, I know words cannot begin to express your feelings. I know there is nothing any of us can say that will ease your pain or bring your parents back. But we are investigating the fire and your parents’ death, and it’s standard procedure to wait until our investigation is complete.”

He assessed me with genuine concern and rambled on.

“Right now, we need you to identify these bodies. I know it is difficult for you to make an identification, but based on the Coroner’s report, can you safely say that those two bodies over there aren’t your parents?”

I cupped my mouth with my left hand, closed my eyes, and emancipated my tears. Silence permeated the air for a while as I searched within for all the strength I could muster to identify the charred remains of my parents. Someone handed me a tissue, and I wiped my eyes and nose and tearfully confirmed, “If the Coroner’s report is correct, they are my parents.”

“Are you sure?” Dr. Huber asked, still standing to my right.

“Yes,” I said, slowly turning to face him. “I had dinner with my parents on Monday night. We had all the things you mentioned. Sauerkraut with corned beef chunks is my favorite. My Mom never liked it with corned beef, but she prepared it just for me. And yes, she had half of her index finger missing on her right hand.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” Dr. Huber’s eyes sadden as he touched me on my right elbow. He then walked over to his desk, took a folder from the drawer, came back towards me, and said, “You’ll have to sign these.”

I took the papers. The top sheets were for the identification of Simon and Helen Shade. Two for each of them. The rest were for the legalities that would give the City permission to release their bodies to my choice of a funeral home, which would undertake the professional duties at my expense after the Coroners had completed their investigation. I had to claim their bodies. I signed everything.

“Miss Shade,” Dr. Colon said. “The hospital offers grief counseling. There’s a support group that meets every Thursday from 4–6 P.M, and it’s free,” he offered me a card. The caring look on his face made the moment slightly bearable.

“Thank you,” I said, slipping the card in my bag.

Thank you for reading this piece. I hope you enjoy it.