While she worked, wind whistling and sun glaring, she wished at least one person had been buried out here, so she’d have someone to converse with. But this far from the actual grounds, two ancient oaks and their root systems prevented it. Well, prevented it for the once-living.
As a little girl, she’d laid to rest three of her favorite dolls out here. Miss EmmyLou, who’d developed advanced, incurable Cooties. Lady Agnes, who’d caught the dreaded Cattywampus fever. And Prince Snugglebug, who’d “accidentally” fallen out of a tree. Jane had always entertained suspicions about the incident. Pops, Grandma Lily, and Lily’s best friend Fiona Lawrence had attended the funerals, wiping pretend tears from their eyes as Jane led the services. Afterwards, the four of them planted wildflowers atop each mound. The buttercups, verbena and thimbleberry now grew in abandon, the blooms a wonderful reminder of favorite childhood memories.
Another sweltering wind kicked up, snatching the sunhat from Jane’s head. The wide-brimmed beauty tumbled over bushes before her mind gave the command to give chase. Which she did. Though she flailed and leaped, a new gust carried the hat over a wrought-iron fence and out of sight.
Argh! Earlier, she’d lost her sunglasses. What would be next? Her good sense? Her dignity? Or had she already parted with those?
Sighing, she returned to the thorn apple. Only two stalks to go. After carefully maneuvering one into the trash bag, she turned to the final abomination. The wind blustered again, and the stem bent, slapping her in the mouth. She gasped as a small pellet-like object shot across her tongue. In reflex, she swallowed.
Please be a bug. Please, please, please. But what if she’d ingested thorn apple?
Jane leaped to her feet, her mind dispensing rapid-fire reminders. Incontinence. Hallucinations. Hostility. If you survive. Panic set in, deluging her veins with fire and ice. What should she do? What the heck should she do?! Make herself throw up, just in case? Yes, yes. Better safe than sorry.
Jane tore off her gloves, uncaring about the sweat glistening on her fingers. Deep breath in. “You are a Ladling, a caretaker of the dead, and you can do anything. Even this.” So. Down the hatch. Except, though she tried her best, she expelled nothing, merely gagging a couple of times.
The panic worsened. She keyed up Grandma Lily’s notes to gloss over suggested precautions. Come to terms with your impending death. Drink plenty of water.
Water. Yes! Jane raced for her canteen—and got nothing, not even a drop. Empty. She whimpered. Best go home to die then. Trembling, eyes welling, she strode… jogged… sprinted home to say goodbye to Rolex. The thought of her beloved pet sparked hope. If she survived this journey, she would guzzle gallons of water straight from the faucet. And maybe she’d call 911 along the way. Or Fiona, who’d become her dearest companion after Grandma Lily passed. Or Beau, a childhood friend who’d moved away in elementary school, only to return a few months ago. Or Conrad, who probably resented her by now. He’d recently attempted to initiate a meaningful conversation about their relationship, but she’d bailed faster than a cat in a room of rocking chairs, as Grandma Lily liked to say. For reasons! Amazing ones. The best. Another whimper escaped.
The ten trillion-mile voyage home zapped her of strength at the halfway point, and she tripped to a halt. Oh no! Her heart galloped with abandon, thumping against her ribs. Wasn’t that a symptom of thorn apple consumption?
What if she died of cardiac arrest?
Huffing for every breath, Jane decided to do it. To notify 911. Except, she paused before pressing the final number. The second she made this call, word would spread throughout town. Jane Ladling, that weird cemetery girl, is doing drugs with the dead. No thank you. She’d rather die.
She pulled up Fiona’s number instead. Except, once again, she hesitated to dial. The dear woman was a worrier. At sixty-two-years-youngish, the grandmother of two didn’t need the added stress. And what if Jane died in the middle of the conversation, huh? Could she truly leave her beloved Fiona with such an atrocious memory?
Beau might be the better choice. Since returning from his last tour of duty, he’d acted as Jane’s sidekick, helping her with a murder investigation. Long story. Anyway, he tended to exhibit unflappable calm in all situations. A trait gained from his military training. But…
He might need a break from all things death. Which left Conrad, the prime-cut slab of grade A beefcake. He was her boyfriend, but not really her boyfriend, even though technically he was, in fact, her boyfriend, even though he wasn’t truly her boyfriend. Whatever. It made sense in her head.
Except, Conrad the Concerned would insist on calling an ambulance and giving the emergency vehicle a police escort. As a special agent with Georgia Bureau of Homicide, he could do it. What if she experienced incontinence while they were together?