The steady beep lead me along the toasted rice floors, through the barren hallway, to the stark bleached room.

Thanksgiving was Aunt’s event. One year she confided in Mom that she had stayed up the entire night before folding and refolding the cranberry cloth napkins. Years later slight compulsions came through in her children. It took her daughter 35 minutes to make a bed. Neatly pressing out each layer in a methodic smoothing motion with her left hand as the right held the top taut. Relatives would shake their heads: She sure liked to talk about that rat, its menu of honeydew, strawberries, carrots, and Oreos. They couldn’t believe how she went on about that rat.

Her skin was dried now and translucent. The spidery blue veins that familiarly laced her legs now stained her face. Frantically, she thrust her body from left to right, slits of eyes revealed. A long, curved bruise-colored nipple attached to a flat ribbed chest hung out of her shirt. Mom pulled the threaded blue cotton to cover her. For some time we pretended she was reacting to our voices. No one eat the beans. I’m saving them for the homeless. They just love beans. I’ve got at least 50 cans, and there’s more downstairs.

I washed my hands, pulled on the turquoise gloves, and walked through the hanging plastic ribbing from the hallway into Isolation. The body was no longer pale. It was undertow blue. One visitor offered her prospective diagnosis: Now, doctor, could it be a spider bite? The doctor respectfully shook his head. Uncle scowled and moved restlessly. No, it’s not a Goddamn spider bite. How long do we wait? To pull the plug? The doctor stiffened.

When the beeping stopped, those of us standing in the hallway tried not to make eye contact. Go in there. You need to pay your respects. You’ll always punish yourself for not going back in. I resisted. I had been in with her on multiple shifts. Seen the transformation. Said goodbye. You need to go make peace with this. I was shoved into the room. Streaks of brickish fluid stained Aunt’s cheeks. The blood ran from her eyes, nose, and corners of her mouth. Her thin frame had turned into an explosion of bloated tissue. Plum-colored blemishes feathered across her flesh. Purplish skin stretched over eggplant shins, feet, and wrists. Her marbled eyes, wide and wave blue, were open.

She’d scrub the linoleum until it was raw, sometimes forgetting to feed the girls. Christmas presents took several days to wrap. Bathroom towels were folded in six creases before they were hung.

I stumbled back into the hallway. Uncle gripped my shoulder. No use getting sick over this kid. I think I’ll have a bowl of soup.

COURTNEY KILIAN is a native southern Californian who is environmentally inspired by its bearded palm trees, undulating tides, and hues of avocado and citrus produce in a region tormented by Santa Ana swept fires. She has been drawn to write about the aberrant in families, in death, and in health issues that plague humankind. Her interests include the biology of cancer, health and illness, experimental prose, weather patterns, writing communities, and Native American and Tribal Government studies. She will be a part of UCSD’s MFA program’s inaugural class this fall.