The Interview (with Death)

She arrived five minutes early.
Wearing a green blazer.
She smiled.

“We’re looking for custodial staff.
Someone to keep the hospital clean.”

“I worked at an ice cream shop. I made the cones.”

“I love ice cream,” I said.
“And the job before that?”

“Grocery store bakery.”

She spoke softly.
She smiled often.

In one arm she pretended to hold a bowl.
She whisked with the other.
She smiled and laughed nervously.

We both did.

A horse charm hung around her neck.
Her hair was in a high ponytail.
When she turned it obscured my view of the clock.

It was directly behind her.
I arranged it that way.

Both hands pointed to 3.
The last interview of the day.

“Do you have any questions before we finish?” I asked.

She leaned forward.
Her eyes narrowed.

“What happens after an animal dies?”

A crease appeared between her eyebrows.
She looked at me as though she were waiting for the rest of the story.

I looked at my watch.
The date was wrong.

We were in the dog kennel room.
Rows of stainless steel cages.
Her head was inside one before I heard the cage door open.

“Do they always scratch there?”
She pointed to the corner of the cage.
Then said, “A lot of dogs must be scared when they first come in.”

I spread the protective shoe cover open.
She slipped her small foot into it.
We entered the surgical suite.

She placed her hand on the surgical table without permission.
The stainless steel reflected beneath her fingertips.
They moved across the table as if she already knew it.

“I wonder what it feels like to lay on it?” She said.

Her gaze remained fixed on me.
Then her expression changed, though I couldn’t say how.
“Is this where they all go?”

She said it softly.
Almost a whisper.
Like she didn’t want to wake it.

The room was small.
The freezer wasn’t.

A clipboard hung from the wall.
A pen dangled.

There were urns on the shelves.
Some were wooden.
Others pewter.

Suddenly the room felt dusty.
I wiped something off my scrub top.

The freezer door opened.
Cold air rushed out.
The air was foggy.
My mind wasn’t.

Bodies were neatly organized.
Stacked on top of one another.
Paws were tagged.
Frost collected on fur.

I recognized the dog on the top shelf.
My hand moved before my lips.

“That yellow Labrador. That’s Marley.
Splenic tumor.
Two liters of blood in the abdomen.
His owner brought a whole rotisserie chicken the last day.”

“He didn’t eat the gizzard,” she said.

A nurse walked by on her phone.
I looked at her.
She said nothing.

I pointed to the cat beside Marley.

“Rosa.
Stage four kidney failure.”

“You almost cried after this one,” the girl said.

“What?”

My mouth felt dry.

Two people walked by talking about a television show.
I recognized their faces.
I couldn’t remember their names.

Suddenly she was beside me.
We lifted another body.

“This is Jasper,” I said.

“Aggressive carcinoma.” 

She said it before I could.

I stopped looking into the freezer.

A nurse walked by eating a sandwich.

That has far too much lettuce, I thought.

She stopped.

The nurse pointed to the girl’s necklace.
“I have one just like that,” she said.
I heard the words a second later.

“Tell me about this one,” the girl said.

The freezer appeared larger each time I looked in it.

“This is Gus.”

“You bandaged your left hand after he bit you,” she said.

“How did you know—” 

“Stop pretending you don’t understand,” she said.

She smiled.

This time she did not look nervous.

I looked at her again.

“Where is the girl I was interviewing?” 

“I thought this was your interview,” she said.

Jarrod Moss is a veterinarian, hospital owner, and lecturer with more than twenty years of experience in clinical medicine and surgery.

A Song for Jarrod