“We were supposed to be on a plane going home,” I told him.
“I understand. And I am very sorry.”
I nodded, unable to absorb the full weight of what was happening.
“This is your mother, yes?”
My eyes filled and overflowed, like a dam busting during a hurricane. “Yes.”
“Please. Follow me this way.” Edwin walked into the living area and motioned for me to sit down in one of the two chairs at the table there. He sat across from me and set the clipboard down on the table.
“Let me get you some water.” He went to the kitchenette and produced a glass from the cabinet. He filled it from the tap. He grabbed the roll of paper towels from next to the sink and brought that over as well.
I took a square of paper towel from the roll and blew my nose into it with massive force. I didn’t care what I looked like or sounded like; I would never stop crying anyway, so what difference did it make?
Edwin slowly, carefully led me through the motions as my mother was closed back into the bathroom. With nothing more for the emergency personnel to do, they left the room and took their stretcher back outside to the ambulance. Meanwhile, Edwin took my name and contact information, along with my mother’s name and basic information—birthdate, height, weight, what little of her medical history I was able to produce in my state of distress. Then, once I was a bit more composed, he helped mepack our things. He was kind enough to remove all of the toiletries from the bathroom so I wouldn’t have to go back in there, and he shut the door afterward.
It was clear she collapsed many hours before I got home, likely on the earlier side of the night before, since the bed was made. If she’d gotten up this morning and made the bed, she would have packed her things as well. The bed would have definitely come last. Mom was always a “stumble to the shower first thing to wake up” kind of person who saved bed-making as the final chore before leaving the bedroom for the day. But nothing had been done. She wasn’t showered. Still in her pajamas. Nothing had been packed. Her clothes were still neatly folded in the drawer, and her garbage bag of dirty laundry sat squat in the corner of the bedroom.
Also, the temperature of her skin was so cold it felt as though she’d spent the whole night in a refrigerator.
I couldn’t unfeel it on my hands.
A doctor would need to come, Edwin explained, to officially pronounce her deceased. Following that, a coroner would come to remove the body and transport it to a funeral home of my choosing. There were three on the island, he told me. Aurora Funeral Home was the closest.
“What about an autopsy?” I wondered. “Since she died alone, wouldn’t that be required?”
“Do you suspect a crime?” Edwin asked.
I shook my head.
“Aruba does not have a forensic pathologist. The only way to get an autopsy would be to bring one in, but given your mother’s heart condition, it wouldn’t make sense to do that unless we believed there was evidence of a crime,” he explained. “There was no forcible entry. No theft or robbery. And there is no evidence of substance abuse or…”—here his voice wavered—“suicide.”
“No,” I agreed.
“So we must assume this happened due to natural causes. A doctor will come and confirm the death, and the coroner will follow. For now, let me help you gather your belongings.”
Edwin and I worked quietly; I was in a complete and utter daze. Once the bags were packed, I remembered to empty out the safe, which held our passports and an envelope of money. I shoved all of that into my purse. I packed my mom’s purse in her suitcase. As we were getting ready to leave the room, it hit me that I was leaving my mother behind, covered by a sheet on the floor of the bathroom. Nausea set in. Still, we left. One foot in front of the other.
Edwin carried our bags to the elevator.
At the front desk, he was greeted by a manager whose expression was grave. They spoke in hushed tones, a foreign language. Papiamento, I guessed. “I’m very sorry for your loss,” the manager finally said to me. “We will keep your bags here in the office for you while you go to the funeral home.” I nodded. “I will print out your guest folio and keep it with the bags. Please don’t worry about it right now. Everything has been charged to the card on file.”
I said nothing.
“When you return, your bags will be here. If you need to extend your stay, we will find you a room.”
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?”
I thought about asking if the hotel had Beckett’s phone number on file or if there was a way to get in touch with him, but I instantly doubled over, as if I’d just been punched in the gut.
“Melody? Are you okay?” Edwin asked.
“Is there a restroom I can use?” I replied.
“Of course,” the manager said. “Follow me. It’s right over here.”
