Yesterday, I Cried_ Celebrating the Lessons of Living and Loving - Iyanla Vanzant [96]
Rhonda had been at Daddy’s house for twelve hours before the medical examiner’s office came to remove the body. Before they arrived, neighbors and friends came and went. Each one voiced their shock as they crept into the bedroom to look at Daddy; and each one expressed some version of “He doesn’t even look like he’s dead. He looks like he’s asleep.” The landlord came, the mailman and the garbage man came, and neighbors from every floor in the building came by for a peek.
When Grandma arrived, Rhonda braced herself. She wasn’t sure how Grandma would react, and she wasn’t sure what she would do if Grandma broke down. Like everyone else, Grandma crept into the room and stood silently at the foot of the bed where her only son lay dead. She shook her head from side to side, then put her hands over her mouth. Her voice was muffled, but Rhonda could clearly hear her say, “He looks like he’s asleep.” Slowly, Grandma walked out of the room and into the kitchen, where she spent the rest of the day greeting people and ushering them through the apartment.
Ray never went beyond the kitchen. When they took the body bag out of the bedroom and out of the apartment, Ray stayed in the bathroom. Nett, of course, did not come by.
Rhonda sat on the sofa the entire day, refusing Edna’s insistent request to go get her children “so they could see Grandpa” before they took him away. Rhonda was trying to find some sense of grief or loss somewhere in her body or in her mind. She sat there, trying to cry for her father. When Edna announced that there would be no autopsy, Rhonda agreed. Still, she did not feel a sense of loss at the thought of strangers dissecting her father’s lifeless body. He was, after all, a yogi, a disciple of sorts, and it really didn’t matter why he was dead, he was dead. According to his faith, an autopsy was unnecessary. Besides that, they all knew how and why he died. They knew, but no one said a word.
The next day when she got the call that she would have to go to the morgue to identify the body, she was angry, not sad.
“Why do I have to go?”
“Because you are the next of kin,” Edna said, her voice displaying her attitude.
“Well, you’re his wife.” Edna was silent because she knew Rhonda knew the truth.
“What time do we have to go?”
“Sometime before noon.”
“I’ll pick you up at 10:30. Did you tell them about the autopsy?”
“That’s why we have to get there before twelve so that you can sign for the body before they start cutting on him. I found the cup with the stuff in it.”
“What stuff?”
“I don’t know what it is. Whatever herbs he mixed together. He went out to the park the other day and brought back all this stuff he said he wanted to bathe in.” Edna’s voice was starting to waver. “I should have known what he was doing. It was too much stuff to bathe in. He knew all along that …” Feeling her chest begin to tighten, Rhonda cut Edna off.
“There is no way you could have known what he was doing. He was always mixing herbs and stuff. I’ll pick you up at 10:30.” Without saying good-bye, Rhonda hung up, and still she didn’t cry.
The waiting room at the morgue was freezing. Perhaps, Rhonda thought, that is why the attendant looked like he too should be lying in one of the boxes. She told him her name and the reason for her visit.
“I’ve come to identify the body of my father, Horace Harris.”
“I don’t think he’s back yet.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t think … Wait. Black male, sixty-four or so.”
“Horace Harris.” Without responding, the attendant stood up and walked from behind his desk. Several minutes later they heard rumbling. It stopped. The black curtain on the floor-to-ceiling glass door in the room was ripped open to