The Gesture

For eleven years, Ada cleaned the examination rooms after the day staff went home. She knew which trolleys had a bad wheel and which drawer held the spare gloves. She knew not to look too long at anyone under a sheet.

On Thursday, the man in room three raised his left hand.

Ada had already signed the cleaning log beside his case number. She had seen the doctor's time of death. She stood with a spray bottle in one hand and watched his fingers open, one at a time, as though testing whether each still belonged to him.

The hand settled again. She called the duty doctor. He came down, examined the body and explained residual muscle activity. Ada asked why the hand had waited until she was there. He said it hadn't. She had happened to be there when it moved.

He was kind about it. That was worse.

The next morning, she woke with her left hand held open above the pillow. Her fingers ached. In the bathroom mirror, she watched them close one at a time. She had not meant to make a fist.

She worked the fingers until they obeyed her again. At the bus stop, her hand lifted towards the kerb before she heard the engine. A second later, the bus pulled in. At work, she reached for the drawer of gloves just before the duty doctor asked her to open it. Each movement was small enough to dismiss on its own.

On Saturday night, she asked the security guard to show her the footage from room three. She told him she wanted proof the doctor was right. He found the clip. Ada watched herself enter with the spray bottle, turn towards the body, and stop.

On the recording, she raised her left hand first.

The man beneath the sheet raised his a moment later. Finger after finger, matching her. She made the guard play it three times. He saw only what she had seen: a cleaner lifting her hand, a body answering. Ada remembered the order the other way around.

She took Sunday off. She kept both hands in the pockets of her coat and sat on the sofa until afternoon. When she reached for a glass, the reflection in the dark television reached before her. It was already holding its fingers in the shape of the glass.

She put the glass down. The reflection kept its hand raised.

Ada pulled the plug from the wall. The screen stayed dark and reflective. She covered it with a blanket. In the kitchen window, her left hand tapped twice against the glass while her real hand lay flat on the bench.

At dusk, there was a knock at the door. Her sister had brought groceries and was calling through the wood. Ada wanted to open it. She wanted very much to hear another person in the flat.

She told her sister to leave the bags outside. Her sister asked if she was ill. Ada tried to say yes, because illness was a word that could be understood and treated. Instead she heard herself say, 'Come in.' The voice was hers. She had not decided to speak.

She was on her feet and halfway across the room before she knew she'd stood up. Her left hand turned the lock.

The door opened a few centimetres. Her sister looked in, saw Ada at the kitchen bench and frowned. Then she raised her own left hand, slowly, as if showing Ada it was empty. Ada watched each of her sister's fingers open.

She could not tell who had begun the gesture. Her sister set the groceries down and took a step towards her. Ada made herself say, 'Stay there.' Her sister stopped. Both of their left hands kept moving.