Autopsy→After
2/8/10I wrote this in December 2009. It’s either the first part of an unfinished short story or the entirety of an extremely short story; I don’t know. Do you know? If you do, could you tell me?
Before they cut him open, they were already skeptical. But they were professionals, so they did the job they’d been assigned. It took about two hours; they felt they had been thorough. Yet they had found nothing: no disease, no poison, no injury. Nothing that would have killed the man on the table.
Dr. M. sighed. He wasn’t surprised.
“He’s not going to like this,” Dr. H. whispered.
“Shhh.”
They put the man back together and sewed him up, removed their masks and gloves, dropped them in a bin next to the sink, and washed their hands. Then they regarded each other grimly across the table, neither wanting to speak first.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Dr. H. said at last. “We were unable to determine a cause of death.”
“I don’t understand,” said the man on the table, raising his head. “Why not?”
“There is none to determine, sir.” Dr. H. rubbed his hands together nervously. “It is my professional opinion that…well…what I mean to say is that I can only conclude…”
Dr. M. put his hand on Dr. H.’s shoulder. “My colleague and I can only conclude that you have not in fact died.”
“Of course I’ve died. Let’s not start that again.”
“You’ve made your opinion on the subject very clear, sir; otherwise we wouldn’t be here. But the evidence speaks for itself.”
“Evidence?” The man sat up. “A fellow knows when he’s died! Why do you think I put myself through this? For fun?”
“Sir, if you’d please get dressed…”
“Oh, I’ll get dressed.” He snatched from Dr. H. the plastic bag which contained his clothes and personal effects. “Do you know how ridiculous that sounds? Asking a dead man to get dressed?” He dumped the contents of the bag onto the floor and picked through them, looking for his socks.
Dr. M. looked away, frowning. Dr. H. said quietly, “I’m afraid we’re just not seeing it your way, sir.”
“My heart stopped, for fuck’s sake! I died!”
“Your heart?” The doctors exchanged an uneasy look.
“Didn’t you notice my heart’s stopped?”
Dr. H. tried to think back over the past two hours. “I…can’t say I noticed…one way or the other. It’s not really part of our regular checklist. Did you happen to notice?”
Dr. M. shook his head. “We were looking for so many things, for so long. I suppose I don’t remember thinking ’say, his heart’s stopped.’” He appeared to contemplate the ceiling for a moment. “Then again, I don’t precisely recall it doing much of anything, either. But as he said, it’s not something we ordinarily look for.”
The man had put on his socks and underwear, and now he paused in the midst of buttoning his shirt. “Of all the stupid things. Listen to my chest!”
“Right now?”
“You’ve got a stethoscope or something, yes?”
Dr. M. snorted. “Why would we bring a stethoscope to an autopsy?” He turned to Dr. H. and murmured, “You didn’t bring one, did you?”
“Don’t be silly. To an autopsy?”
“But you…” The man put his hands to his temples. “You don’t even need it. Just put your ear against my chest.”
“I’m afraid the battery in my hearing aid is very low,” Dr. M said. “It started failing a moment ago. I can barely hear what you’re saying right now.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m what?”
“I don’t need a hearing aid,” Dr. H said. “I’ll have a listen.”
He started to lean in toward the man’s chest, then stopped suddenly.
“That’s…not a linen shirt, is it?”
“It’s a linen blend, yes.”
Dr. H. drew back. “I’m quite allergic to linen.”
The man glared at him. “Then I’ll take it off again.”
“I’m sorry, sir. It’s no good. The fibers. I can’t.”
“The fibers?”
“The stray fibers that remain on the skin.”
“Stray fibers? You’re sure about that?”
Dr. H. shrugged. “I really am quite allergic.”
“You’re what?” Dr. M. shouted. “He’s what?”
“Fine!” The man resumed buttoning his shirt. “That’s just fine. I think we’re done here.” He scowled at them. “Thank you for your time.”
“If you wanted to come back-”
“And yet somehow I don’t. Really. It’s fine.” He sat on the table with his back to them and put on his pants. “You’ll have to excuse me, I’ve got a million things to do and I really have no more time for idle conversation.”
“What? What’s he saying?”
“Please, sir-”
“If I were dead I suppose less would be expected of me, and my many important duties would fall to someone else. But I’m not dead, or so you say.” He looked as though he wanted to spit on them. “So the work falls to me, and me alone. And unless you’re planning to do it for me, I really must be off now.”
He was fully dressed now. The doctors fidgeted and stammered until he pushed them aside. “Out of my way! Life is waiting!” He stormed out the door. “The living man has work to do!”
