Page 22 of Remy

We don’t cry.

We have to be strong.

Always.

My mother’s words ring in my head, the rule of our family business having been drilled into me since childhood.

If I cried every time something sad happened around here I would’ve lost my mind long ago.

And it’s not like the forensic examiner hadn’t warned me about Amisha’s circumstances. But there’s rarely a more heart-wrenching sight than that of a baby who’s never taken its first breath, resting in the arms of a mother who only got to hold her child in death.

I set up my equipment in silence, turn the air-conditioning down a smidge lower, and let the gentle hum of my music console me as I take my time preparing their bodies.

I barely notice when Ivy wheels Alexandra’s casket back into the cool room. I’m too busy washing Amisha, describing out loud how beautiful her precious daughter is in case she can hear me in the afterlife.

It’s a tough end to an exhausting day—one I don’t realize has passed quicker than normal until I glance at my watch and see it’s close to ten p.m.

“Shit.” I raise my face shield and rub my tired eyes with the back of my gloved hand.

It’s been a long week.

An even longer six months with my father’s newfound love for taking days off. If this is his subtle way of preparing me to take over the business, I don’t like it. I much prefer when he’s the workhorse, putting in the long hours beside me.

I stretch my back, my muscles aching as I massage my thumbs in a circular motion over Amisha’s wrist, kneading away the stiffness to make her limbs more pliable. “I’m going to have to call it a night.”

I continue the gentle manipulation farther along her arm up to her elbow. A yawn hits me, forcing my eyes closed and the mask over my mouth to stretch. “Yep. I definitely need a nap.”

I place Amisha’s arms over her middle, holding them together with a material bandage, before nestling her daughter back against her chest. “I promise I’ll finish up once I get a few hours’ sleep.”

I cover them both in a clean white sheet, yawning the entire time, then wheel them back into the cool room.

I remove my protective gear. Switch off the air conditioner and light. Then drag my heavy feet into the hall. I’d been in an enthusiastic mood for exercise this morning and rode my e-bike to work. There’s no way I’m going to risk returning home the same way at this time of night.

I make my way to the break room, every step like the final yards of a twenty-mile mountain climb, and dramatically collapse onto the two-seater sofa.

I lose consciousness as soon as my head hits the stiff polyester cushion.

The next thing I know I’m jolted awake, my body snapping alert before my brain can catch up.

It takes a few seconds to get my bearings. For the lumbering weight of grogginess to leave my head, and the kink down the right side of my neck to announce itself with a twinge of pain.

Why do I do this to myself?

I should’ve knocked on my dad’s door and asked to sleep in my childhood room. Better yet, given that I’m on-call, I could’ve driven the damn van home instead of thinking I was stuck here because of my bike. “Idiot.”

I shove to my feet. Eye the coffee pot. Check my watch—two a.m.

I could go home to my fabulously comfortable bed… or I could finish preparing Amisha and her daughter so I don’t have to return over the weekend.

I sigh, trudging my feet toward the coffee pot when a loud rumble followed by a weighty smack rumbles through the building.

I freeze. My pulse kicks.

Was that the delivery van door?

I leave the break room and make my way down the hall.

Did I miss a pickup? Or did Ivy take on-call duty even though I told her not to?

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