Chapter 4 ~ Florida, March 2, 2012 ~ Ridgeport Medical Center

"Unbelievable," utters Nurse Lisa Bryer, chewing the unlit cigarette that has somehow found its way back to her lips, "do you really believe that Margaret Mitchell, THE Margaret Mitchell from Gone with the Wind saved Frank's mother's life?"

I chuckle, "I don't know what to believe anymore, Frank was quite a raconteur. Everything is possible though…"

"Do you know if he has any family left in Philly?"

"I don't think so," I deplore, "while he told me at length about his parents and childhood, he never mentioned a sibling or any other relative."

Once I agreed, however reluctantly, to take over Frank's disposition, Nurse Lisa noticeably warmed up to me. I promptly signed the documents relinquishing Frank's remains to my custody and bade her farewell.

"Where do you think you are going?" she'd challenged.

"Well, you mentioned how busy you were… so I'll see myself out and go…" I'd scanned the documents in my hand for a list of procedures and subsequent steps.

"Sure, just go ahead and see my assistant, Suzy Sue, she'll walk you through it."

"Where would I find her?" I'd gingerly asked.

Lisa had erupted in laughter. "You're kidding, right? You don't really believe that I have staff at my disposal?"

"Well, I know that most hospitals are scrounging for good nurses…" I'd rationalized.

"Good? I'd settle for breathing!"

That's when I realized that Lisa's blunt demeanor didn't stem from an absence of compassion, but rather from a lack of time and resources.

"Ironically," Lisa pontificated, "at a time when many Americans are in desperate need of a job, the field of nursing will soon be in desperate need of Americans."

"The nursing shortage is nothing new," I argued, "for years now, hospitals have jumped through hoops to find and retain talent."

"That may be so, but the problem is quickly compounded by an aging baby boomer population as well as a generation of aging nurses who will soon retire. Unless the current conjecture changes drastically, needed nurses will exceed available ones by over half a million in a few short years."

"It won't get that bad," I reasoned, "with the job market in the shape it is right now, many people will flock to nursing schools and the problem will resolve itself."

Lisa shook her head in disbelief. "Applicants are not the problem," she specified "admission is. Last year alone, nursing schools turned away over seventy-five thousand qualified applicants due to budget constraints. All this at a time when an additional thirty-two million Americans gained access to healthcare through the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act."

"Thus giving them access to something that is virtually unavailable," I concluded.

"You said it, not me."

"Given the circumstances, why do you even care about the disposal of a dead body?"

"I like the dead," she joked, "they don't complain! Seriously, in my line of work - gerontology - I see too many ailing patients with no one to lean on. A quick and painless death is a positive outcome for many of them. Whenever possible, I like to send them off with dignity… I like to believe that somehow, somewhere, these old folks mattered to someone at one point in their lives."

I find it unsettling and rather menacing that a nurse would rather deal with the dead than the living. Lisa noticed my growing unease.

"Don't worry; I'm not some angel of death going around unplugging respirators. This hospital is faring better than most in the nursing department; they caved in and started importing nurses from the Philippines."

"Importing nurses?" I exclaimed in disbelief.

"Si, seňora, es la verdad. The Filipinos are picking up the slack in the inadequate American labor pool," Lisa mournfully contemplated before shaking her resentment and tackling the task at hand, "and that leaves me some time to play detective! Has Frank shared anything else over that sandwich that could help you identify a next of kin?" Lisa is gleefully sleuthing; piecing together scattered clues to solve what I believe is a nonexistent mystery.

"It wasn't a sandwich," I correct her sternly, "it was a Philly Cheesesteak like the ones they made in Philadelphia back in the 40s." I can't stifle a smile at the thought of Frank's storytelling. I am convinced that he granted himself quite an ample poetic license.

An additional stack of papers shoved in front of me brings me back to reality.

"This being said, it looks to me like I can't help you much further right now," Lisa apologizes, "as far as you are concerned though, I'll need you to sign a release to have Frank's body moved since you'll be assuming custody of the final disposition. Morgue space is at a premium on swamp land," she humorously concludes.

"Where do you expect me to move him?" I voice in sheer horror.

"There are always a couple of funeral home representatives hanging by the morgue," she briefs me. "Have them give you a quote for transport. Make sure to get the quote in writing before you accept; some reps have been known to act rather unscrupulously toward grieving relatives," she casually explains, as if we were discussing moving a piano.

"I told you before: I really don't know what Frank's wishes were for his final arrangements. I need some time to look for relatives. Can't you keep him here? I wasn't planning on spending any money…"

"You don't have to," she interrupts, "you are well within your rights to transport Frank yourself. A pick-up truck or even a large SUV should do the trick."

As hard as I try, I cannot detect the slightest hint of sarcasm in her voice. Apparently, she's not kidding.

"Keep in mind though," she continues, "that Florida law requires that a body be buried, embalmed, or refrigerated within twenty-four hours of death. You'll simply have to keep Frank on ice or turn your air conditioner way down. If that's not practical, most funeral homes have coolers for such purposes."

Unwittingly, the tag line of 'Weekend at Bernie's' comes to my mind: Two morons. One corpse. And the plot thickens…

"Fine," I relent, "I'll splurge for professional refrigeration. How much time do I have before I need to make a definitive decision regarding Frank's final disposition?"

"State law allows a funeral home to discard human remains, without ceremony, after four months. You should have something figured out by then."

Somehow, I doubt it. However, I feel relieved at having a deadline - never has a pun resonated so true. Regardless of the outcome, Frank will be off my agenda in four months. I absentmindedly leaf through the stack of paperwork.

"There's the release form for the M.E.," Nurse Lisa starts explaining, "the form for the Office of Vital Statistics, an obituary template form, and the Social Security notification form."

"This is all so formal," my lame attempt at humor poorly disguising my growing discomfort.

Lisa doesn't even crack a smile. I dutifully sign every required document next to the ubiquitous 'x'. My signature, in total sync with my nerves, is shaky and uncertain. The task completed, I lean back, drop the pen, and sigh loudly.

Lisa unceremoniously hands me a clear plastic bag containing Frank's library card, Timex, and set of keys. I notice an object I have never before seen in Frank's possession: a hunter-case pocket watch.

"There you go," she announces victoriously, "it's all yours."

The trade seems unfair: a stack of paper three inches-high worth of obligations, exchanged for a pathetic sandwich bag. Out of curiosity, I open the bag and take out the pocket watch.

"Are you sure this is Frank's," I ask Lisa, "I've only seen him wear the Timex. Why would he carry two watches?"

"It beats me," Lisa distractedly answers, already busy with another patient file.

I flip open the case and realize that the watch is banged up and doesn't keep time; however, a black-and-white photograph of a woman is pasted inside the lid.

"That's not Frank's," I insist, shoving the open watch under Lisa's nose.

"It was on his person when he was brought here, that's all I know. Maybe he stole it, who knows."

"Are you sure…"

"Positive. Don't forget to pass by the morgue," she dismisses me.

As if I could forget.

"And listen," she hands me a business card, "I know I seem cold at times, but it's the only way I can get through each day. Keep me posted, and let me know if I can help in any way."

My skepticism must be written all over my face, for she continues:

"I mean it, really. I may be able to help you. I still have investigator-friends at the M.E.'s office. Not only would I be able to help you, but I would love to. You're not alone in this."

I hesitantly take her card. She seems sincere enough.

"Expect me to take you up on that," I conclude as I wave the card in her direction, and make my way out of her office. My steps are uneasy as I descend to the morgue; rigor mortis - the stiffening of the recently deceased's muscles - has taken a hold of me as well.