Page 4 of Grave Love
“I’m sorry, sir,” I say quietly. The words come out stiff, inappropriate, as if I’m over in Rosemary Beach, apologizing for serving a one-percenter the wrong kind of fork with their salad. I just cleaned his wife’s naked body, stapled her mouth shut, filled her with chemical fluids, and used enough makeup to give her the appearance of life. ‘Sorry’ is a little understated.
I glance at the clock on the wall again. It hasn’t moved.
“That’s not good enough,” he says, his words sharp. “I should’ve gone to the city. The funeral home over there has been around longer. They know how to treat the dead with some goddamned dignity. Butshewanted to be buried here, and I—”
The anger quivers, dissolving into sorrow. He slams his fist into the wall, the thud of his punch startling both of us. He’s grasping at rage. It’s easier than the alternative.
He holds his head against the wall.
“I’ll get the director,” I say.
He swats a hand in my direction, his eyes closed. “Don’t bother. Let’s just get on with it.”
I leave the room anyway; the director will find him soon. Technically, I have my embalming license, but our embalmer is out, and I have to fill in. I prefer the crematory. Once they’re in the retort, you click a few buttons, wait for their bodies to cook in the oven, and grind up whatever bones are left. It’s safer. Less to screw up. An automatic habit. Like everything else in my life.
I head to the break room. Yesterday’s coffee is still in the pot—the director must’ve forgotten to toss it out again—and so I dump it myself. Start a new pot. Several spoonfuls of generic grounds. The machine whirs, and black liquid drips from the spout. I breathe out, exhaling as slow as I can, trying not to let any of that madness escape.
But I’m mad.Infuriated.Angry at my boss for forcing me to take over embalming, angry at that client for unloading his frustration on me like I’m responsible for his wife’s death, angry at the fucking world. Angry atmyself.So angry I want to scream.
I think about it again. For the second time today.
What if I never woke up?
The tears form, burning my eyes. I blink and quickly wipe them away, careful not to let anyone see. I’m not suicidal.I’m not.And though I haven’t been to therapy since I was a child, I know I won’t kill myself. It’s not like me. There’s too much effort, and I just want to stop thinking for once.
Instead, I think about it every day.
The pain builds behind my temples, my throat aching. The blood vessels in my face and neck constrict, seizing my chest, my world spiraling out of control.
You’re fine, Ren,I say to myself.Nothing is wrong. You are the definition of one of those millennial snowflakes that can’t tell the difference between depression and a minor irritation. The kind the media always makes fun of. You’re crying for nothing, and yet you can’t stop thinking about killing yourself. You’re pathetic. You’re like a bored housewife, making up issues just to see your husband react. To pretend like he cares about you. Except you’re not even married. You haven’t dated in years. You’re worthless. Who would date you?
My shoulders squeeze. Everything wells up. I swallow it down. Down. Until it gets stuck deep inside of me. Until I can’t dig it up anymore.
A throat clears. In the doorway, Denise, the funeral director and owner of Last Spring Mortuary, stands with a hand on her hip. A sympathetic expression pulls at her lips, her brows angled down, like she’s been there too.
I see through it. It’s the same smile she gives to every mourner that walks through the entrance—a practiced mask meant to entice even the saddest souls to upgrade their loved one’s final arrangements.
“The coffee is done,” she says. “I heard it beep a while ago. Thanks for making a new pot.”
I blink rapidly at the machine. She’s right; the pot is full. I pour a mug, narrowing my eyes at the liquid. There’s barely any steam. How long have I been standing here?
I put the mug in the microwave.
“You doing okay?” Denise finally asks.
“I’m fine,” I say. It’s the same response I give to everyone. It doesn’t matter what you say, because no one—not even me—gives a shit either way.
The microwave beeps. I remove the mug, clutching the warmth in my palms.
“Don’t let him upset you,” she says.
I raise a brow.
“Mr. Johns?” she clarifies.
“Oh. The husband,” I say. Also known as the embalming client that I pissed off earlier. I could tell Denise that he was just the tip of the iceberg today, but I don’t. It wouldn’t matter anyway.
“He was always going to lash out,” she says. “Doesn’t matter how beautiful his late wife looks in this state.Icould’ve screwed it up for him, you know?”
