Thank You for Your Years of Service

He was young, clean-shaven and tall, although in his horizontal position, long seemed like the more appropriate adjective. His strong jaw was made for films. His plump lips made my tongue subconsciously dart over my own pitifully. My movements were precise, perfected from years of routine. Just as my blue gloves pried his mouth open and reached for the first batch of cotton to insert, the ring of my doorbell interrupted.

Reluctantly, I peeled off blue latex, trotted to the door and swung it open.

“Jeff, nice to see you!” I greeted.

His grin was lopsided and toothy, “Always a pleasure Miss! Just one package today.”

I turned my attention to the small cardboard box he had thrust towards me while simultaneously trying my best to angle myself so the man behind me was not visible. People didn’t always react well to the process of grooming the deceased.

With my grin still plastered on, I shut the door as a form of goodbye. There was a flicker of disappointment in his eyes as he realized I was in no mood to have a conversation but I paid it no attention. There was work to be done.

I intended to put the package down quickly and return to my task but the small writing, scribbled messily on the top left of the cardboard, caught my eye.

Thank you for your years of service.

As a mortician, proximity to death was inevitable. Messages like this were common from colleagues, work spouses, and everything in between - those who you likely saw more often than close relatives but never crossed the distance to companionship.

It had always struck me as strange that the kindest and most heartfelt praise, from relatives near and far, was reserved for when the recipient could no longer absorb it. It was as if the senders of well wishes yearned to say just the right string of dialogue to make up for years of inaction when it mattered.

My brows furrowed. Whatever this was, it should not have come here. Yet, it was addressed specifically to me. Why send it to my place of work?

I flipped the box over, trying to find any indication of a sender. I glanced towards the prep station. I could finish first. Or I could open it now.

He’d still be dead in five minutes.

As I cut open the cardboard and tried to avoid the screeching sound of paper rubbing against itself, I felt a prickle on the back of my neck. I put the package down. Should I open something without knowing anything about it? Was that safe?

Curiosity was a fight I had never won, and today was no different. It did not take long for my fingers to find the open slits of the cardboard and pull. For a moment, it felt as if I was in the box, looking up at myself unpacking. I blinked rapidly and I was back, holding a knitted doll.

My breath hitched. The doll wore a tiny version of my own navy scrubs, its face a grotesque, stitched replica of my own. It even had an identical mole on its left cheek and hair fashioned into a tight bun.

I laughed under my breath, more as a natural reflex than amusement. Of course. It had to be some misguided gesture from the firm. I re-read the message and let the relief settle.

Thank you for your years of service.

I set the doll across from my work station, giving it a few pats on the head for good measure.

The man I was working on was named Matthew and had died quietly in his sleep. Cardiac arrest. He was only 26 years old. After I secured my gloves, I began to insert the cotton into his mouth. It was a necessary step, required to absorb moisture prior to the circulatory preservation process. The more I looked at him, the more I wondered.

“Matthew, did you have a good life?” I asked.

“Did you achieve what you dreamed?”

My hand hovered near the stubble on his face before pulling back. I looked up and met the eyes of mini-me, still watching across the room. I didn’t smile.

Whistling quietly, I continued the process before I felt the familiar sensation of prickling behind my neck. This time, my skin burst into goosebumps. I looked up and felt my stomach drop before my mind registered what was happening.

The doll was gone.

I glanced out the window, half expecting Jeff the mailman to jump out of the bushes and yell “Surprise!”. No luck. I looked back to the counter across the workstation. She was back. Was I hallucinating?

In a hurry, I took off the latex gloves and strode across the polished floors. When I picked up the doll this time, I felt it deep within me. There was a sense of wrongness. It was the feeling of not speaking up when you saw another person get bullied or sneaking a R rated film without your parents knowing. Only it felt absolute. It was as if all those smaller feelings were amalgamated into a feeling of complete malignancy.

As I held her in my arms, my eyes closed and my mind transported.

I felt fixed in place, watching myself work on Matthew from somewhere just outside my body. I wanted to grimace at the inappropriateness of my questions. I wanted to close my eyes, ashamed of what was before me. Yet I couldn’t. I couldn’t leave.

Then, suddenly, I was back, staring at the beady eyes on the counter.

I turned back towards Matthew. His mouth was already set; the cotton untouched where I’d paused. I finished the work silently without any deviation.

When I was done, I washed my hands until the skin crinkled. I turned and picked up the doll and held her between the workstation and the door. She was lighter than she should have been. Or perhaps heavier. I couldn’t tell anymore.

I thought about the garbage bins out back. The incinerator. The locked cabinet where we kept what families didn’t want returned. I thought about the counter across the room, where she’d been watching my every move, making sure I didn’t take one step out of line.

I stood there longer than I should have, weighing her in my hands.

When I finally moved, I did so deliberately.