We’re going in the room and Gail says, Grandma talks about passing over to the other side, she calls it the other side, she talks about people who are already there. We go over and look at her. Anne touches her arm. She is Anne’s grandmother and she opens her eyes at the touch, but Gail keeps her from talking. Anne stands there looking down at her. The sheet is up under her chin and little pink cloth gloves are on her hands. All the flesh is gone from under her skin. She smiles at Anne then closes her eyes. A trickle of blood comes out her nose and lies in a bright smear across her lips. It isn’t hemorrhage, it is blood from where she has rubbed her nostrils raw. That’s what the gloves are for, Gail says, to keep her from opening the sores in her nose. I look at the gloves. Tiny dots of blood are bright on the tips of the pink fingers.
I look at her arm lying outside the sheet. It lies over a long, yellowish plastic tube extending out from under the sheet. The tube goes down into a large, opaque plastic jar on the floor. Fluid is running in the tube. The skin of her arm is silvery and reflects light. She says something. I look up. Gail is wiping off her mouth. Her eyes are open again.
“How are you?” Anne says.
She nods and closes her eyes.
“Is the pain bothering you? Do you want the doctor?”
“Are you going to move her up?”
It’s the woman in the other bed.
“She was wanting to be cranked up before you came. If you move her up you’ll need to call a nurse. You can’t move anyone unless you have a nurse.”
“I don’t think so,” Gail answers. “Thank you very much.”
Grandma’s eyes remain closed. Drops of sweat have broken out on her brow. She hasn’t answered Anne’s question. Her face under the fluorescent lighting is that of a tiny, old man. Gail begins wiping her brow. Anne bends and kisses her cheek. I touch her arm. The skin is warm and powdery, hanging off the bone. I squeeze her arm. Anne looks at me, indicating we should go. She looks back at Grandma. She bends to her again. I walk out into the hall. Gail comes out in a hurry, going by me down the hall for a doctor.
We’re there the next night when she dies. Anne stands at her side, stroking her brow. Grandma lies in the same position as the night before, except this time her arms are folded across her chest and her head lies to the side on the pillow. The pink gloves are still on her hands. She hasn’t opened her eyes once, and we know it’s close. We’ve only just arrived, and we know it. I’m standing back against the wall by the door. I’m looking at Anne. Gail moves to take one of Grandma’s hands.
For a second I look away, glancing up at the ceiling, and then I’m looking at Anne and Gail and at her, and something goes out of the room. That’s all. One second I’m looking up, and then we’re all looking at her and something goes out of the room.