The Obituary
By Wesley L. Leigh

(continued)

The light banter at the nurse's station was oblivious to Dr. McKinley who had slowly made his way down to room seven. He passed through the door of the room to find the occupant, Mrs. Dorothea Parks, oddly wide awake.

"So nice to see you, doctor," she softly whispered. "Hardly anyone comes to see me, except to give medicine."

"I know," he replied, settling at the foot of the bed. "They worry about other things."

"Have you seen my son?" Mrs. Parks inquired. "He's not come by to see me lately. It's been two weeks."

The good doctor remained quiet. He pensively stared through the window as she sat perched in bed, studying his face, awaiting his reply. Time passed with no words. He could not bring himself to tell the kindly woman that her only son had suffered a massive stroke two weeks ago and wasn't expected to make it more than a few more days. A healer, nonetheless, he eventually removed from his coat the Good Book. He turned to Psalms and found a verse most fitting. With the full moon glowing through the elongated rear window, he softly recited the chosen verse. Instinctively, Mrs. Parks understood. She bowed her head to pray, a single tear suspended on her left cheek. A few minutes later, Dr. McKinley left the room. He'd follow her son's condition very closely.

The balance of the night was uneventful. Dr. McKinley completed his resident rounds. The nurses performed their clinical duties. A solitary person, the doctor used the nearly empty west wing to dictate his notes. He found the east pavilion too bright and laced with far too many needless distractions. After finishing his last dictation, he scooped up his medical bag and headed down the common corridor leading out. At 1 a.m. he found himself in no particular rush. Like most of his colleagues, he lived in a brownstone only blocks away from the Bellingham, Washington nursing home. Even on cold, rainy Washingtonian nights, he walked or rode his bicycle to and from the convalescent center.

As he neared the main lobby, McKinley stopped along the lengthy corridor pictorially bearing Crescentview's long history. Solidly framed were the board of directors from past to present, as well as the currently selected physician-of-the-year, Dr. Jocelyn Aimes. He considered her an excellent choice given the pool of selectees. He'd once been selected five years in a row before personally removing his name from the candidates. Though as compassionate as his peers described on the plaques, the unassuming physician found the recognition unbearable. Such adulation, he thought, was best reserved for things eternal.

Even so, he much enjoyed the praise of his ailing patients, which he took to be more sincere. He smiled, remembering their pleasant faces tonight. As he continued along the corridor, he fixed his eyes straight ahead toward the lobby door. He made it a point never to look at the final picture on the wall. Some of Crescentview's memories were too difficult to bear.