Citrus and Decay

Mara peeled the orange with surgical precision, her fingers stained with juice, her mind three thousand miles away. The hospice unit's break room smelled of coffee and antiseptic, but for a moment, the sharp citrus scent cut through everything.

She'd been called a zombie twice this week—not by patients, but by colleagues who meant it as a compliment. "Nothing fazes you," they said, as if emotional hollowing was a superpower rather than a survival strategy. Thirty-seven years old and already learning to metabolize grief like any other bodily function.

Her phone buzzed. David. Again.

"You okay?" he'd asked yesterday, watching her sit through an entire dinner without really speaking. She'd wanted to say: I'm bearing witness to twelve deaths a week. I'm holding hands while people take their last breaths. I'm learning to recognize the rattle of fluid-filled lungs, the particular shade of gray that means hours, not days.

Instead she'd said: "Just tired."

The orange segments separated cleanly in her hands. Perfect little wedges, each containing seeds she'd have to navigate around. She thought of Mrs. Chen in room 304, who'd been an architect before her mind hollowed out into geography-less wandering. Yesterday, Mrs. Chen had Mara's hand and said, "The bears are coming to visit," with such certainty that Mara had checked the window.

Maybe bears were coming. Maybe the dead returned in animal forms.

The break room door opened. Dr. Patel, his eyes rimmed with exhaustion. "Your mother's on line two. She says it's important."

Mara's mother, who still lived in Mara's childhood bedroom, who'd been dying of the same slow cancer for seven years. "I'm fine," she'd say each time Mara visited. "You don't need to come so often."

But she'd stopped asking Mara to visit six months ago. Now she just said, "I dreamed about bears last night," or "The oranges at the market were beautiful," small offerings because she'd forgotten how to say I'm lonely.

Mara wiped her sticky fingers on a paper towel. She'd become a professional at being present for other people's endings while postponing her own. Zombie skill, really. Bear the weight of everyone else's grief while letting your own calcify.

She picked up the phone, determined to actually be there this time, to not let herself hollow out completely. The orange lay forgotten on the counter, its bright scent already fading into the room's sterile air.