Rest and Be Thankful by Emma Glass

Author:Emma Glass [Polly Samson]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing

Do I Have to Believe You

The linen cupboard is the brightest room on the ward. The lights are always on. People come in here to cry. They come here for the comforting heat and scent of freshly washed and pressed linen. The sheets are folded and stacked in great piles. Light bounces off the white, heavenly stacks of patiently waiting neat and tidy ghosts, waiting to unfold.

I come in here not to cry but to find the box. The dark towels are kept on the bottom shelf, hidden away so as not to be used by mistake. When I kneel down and pull out the towels, the box is tucked all the way at the back. I sit cross-legged with the box balanced on my knees. I touch the white lace ribbon which holds the lid in place.

It is dusty. There hasn’t been a death for a while.

I untie the ribbon and lift the lid.

The prayer cards are yellowed at the edges where age has eaten away at them. The lettering is still gold and holy.

I unfold the tiny white cotton gown, plain and pure and previously worn. It has the same starched smell of the sheets surrounding me. There is a bonnet with a single white ribbon bow at the front. And two pairs of booties in different sizes. One pair is very small and the other pair is tiny.

At the bottom of the box there is a pile of lacy doilies. They cover a small white leather-bound bible with wafer-thin pages edged with silver. There is a small crystal flute and a single silk rose.

I put everything back in and tie the ribbon. I drape a little pile of dark towels over my arm and take the box, but I pray on the way back to the nurses’ station that the towels won’t be needed. I walk slowly. I am bringing a makeshift funeral parlour. The box feels flimsy, the lace is fake, everything worn, I wish we could do better.

I set the box down on the desk next to Jennifer. She is typing up the handover sheet, her brows are raised high with concentration. She touches my wrist as I go to pick up my notes.

‘Thank you,’ she says, gripping my wrist, typing with one hand.

She looks at the towels. ‘Oh.’

I lean towards her and say in a whisper, ‘These are the things you don’t want to have to run off and look for.’

She nods.

I sit behind her and start to write up my notes. Samantha is hovering above me, watching me write.

‘Wow, black towels! What are those for?’

Hairs bristle on my neck as I feel her ponytail swishing, disturbing the air around me.

‘They’re not black, at least we don’t call them black. They are dark towels.’

Jennifer halts her typing, she can hear the irritation in my voice. She picks up the conversation for me, I bend my head and continue writing. My eyes are stinging. Her words are my words and I say them along with her in my head.

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