The Old Lady
An older lady in my apartment complex died today. The fire truck showed up first. It parked in front of the complex next door, so I thought nothing of it. Then the police car parked in front of our place. I heard talking downstairs, looked out the window, and saw the owner standing with a police officer. Figuring it was the perfect time to drop my Netflix in the mailbox, I went downstairs.
That’s when I found out what had happened and who had died. She lived in a studio on the opposite end of my apartment, overlooking the courtyard. Sometimes she would have her TV on full blast until late into the evening. She often looked scared of people, or would shy away from interaction. I wondered if she was a recluse, locking herself away from the world and only stepping out to go grocery shopping. As time passed, I saw her coming in and out pretty regularly. Someone would usually drop her off. It made me happy to know that she wasn’t the quiet, anti-social, angry old lady of my initial impressions. She never said hello as she’d walk by, but one time I offered to help her with her groceries. I carried four bags up the stairs for her. She seemed almost surprised that I even offered. After that she would give a quiet “hello” or at least a nod whenever passing.
So it’s not like I knew her. I asked the owner what had happened after dropping off my movies.
“I didn’t even know. She died.” He said.
It sounded liked he was as surprised as anyone that it happened. I stood there beside him and the police officer, looking up at her apartment. One of the other neighbors was standing uncomfortably in her doorway. I couldn’t help but wonder how long it had been. I don’t remember the last time I heard the TV blasting at night. I didn’t see her come back from a walk the last couple of days. Had it been this morning? Had it been Monday morning?
The coroner showed up shortly after that. I only knew because he rang my doorbell. He had his grim face on and, “I’m sorry for your loss,” sat on the edge of his lips. I pointed him in the right direction, but it flustered him being at the wrong door. He walked up, stood outside, looked at me and pointed, “this one?” and then finally knocked again. A coroner can only knock on so many wrong doors in one day.
That has to be a tough job. Sure, we all know through “Six Feet Under” that it is, but seriously, you’re dealing with dead people all the time. He might’ve been laughing while eating a sandwich for lunch and then he gets the call. When I’m near a death, it completely changes my mood. For this guy, it means he has to hurry up and finish his sandwich. How does he do it?
I didn’t want to stay any longer and see them carry out the body. He was awkward enough introducing himself. I can’t image how he’d perform bringing the body down the stairs. The same stairs I helped her carry up her groceries. One second here, the next gone. Imagine that.