The mere thought of the battered leather book sends a shudder down my spine. It’s tangible proof of how crazy his thoughts can be, and because of that (and the fact that I promised him I wouldn’t), I don’t look into it.
Not anymore.
It scares me too much.
With a sigh, I stare down at him from my bedroom windows, down at the lawns of the funeral home. From here, I can see Finn and my father working on the landscaping, bent over in the early morning Oregon sun as they pull weeds from the flowerbeds that surround the house.
Finn’s arms are skinny, his skin pale as he tugs at the roots, then drops the dusty weeds into a pile of wilted greens. I watch him for a minute, not with the eyes of his sister, but with the objective eyes of someone who might be seeing him for the first time.
My brother is slender and clean-cut, with an array of sandy brown curls haphazardly arranged in a halo. His eyes are pale blue, his smile is wide and bright, and he’s beautiful in an artist kind of way.
You know, the kind of artist who forgets to eat because they’re so passionate about their work… and because they forget to eat, they’re slender and sinewy, all angles and bone. Finn’s handsome though, sweet and quirky.
And I’m not just saying that because we’re twins.
We don’t look anything alike. The only thing we share is skin the color of cream and the same shape of nose, straight, aquiline, with a slight tilt on the end. Otherwise, I have green eyes and dark red hair, just like our mother.
Our mother.
I ignore the lump that forms in my throat when I think about her and I desperately try to put her out of my mind. Immediately. Because whenever I think about her, all I can think about is the hand that I played in her car crash. If I hadn’t called her… if she hadn’t answered…. she’d still be here right now.
Alive and breathing.
But she’s not.
That weight threatens to crush my chest, and so instead of focusing on the guilt that blinds me, I focus on getting dressed. Because focusing on something, concentrating on monotony, sometimes distracts me from the grief.
Sometimes.
I throw some clothes on, yank my hair into a ponytail, and clatter down the gleaming mahogany steps, which incidentally, are the same exact shade as my mother’s casket.
God, Calla. Why does every freaking thing have to come back to that?
I grit my teeth and force my stubborn mind to think of other things, but that’s hard in a funeral home. Especially as I may my way out of the private part of the house and into the public areas.
All I can do is keep my eyes pointed forward.
Because even though no one is here yet today, there are two Viewing Rooms straddling this hall. There’s a body in each one, laid out in their finest for all of their acquaintances to stare at.
They’re dead, of course, with spiked plastic disks inside their eyelids holding them closed and thick pancake makeup smeared on their faces to give them some semblance of living color. It’s a major fail, by the way.
Dead people don’t look like they’re sleeping, as everyone likes to say. They look dead, because they are. Poor things. I refuse to gawk at them. Death strips a person of dignity, but I don’t have to be the one holding the filet knife.
Twelve steps later, I’m out the door and taking a deep breath, replacing the potent funeral home smells with the fresh air of the outdoors. Two steps later and I’m strolling across the dewy grass. My father and Finn both look up, then stop what they’re doing when they see that I’m awake.
“Good morning, men!” I call out with faux cheerfulness. Because something my mother taught me was fake it ‘til you make it. If you don’t feel good, pretend you do because eventually you will. It hasn’t worked yet, but I’m still holding out hope.
Finn smiles, causing the one dimple in his left cheek to deepen. I know he’s faking it too, because none of us really feel like smiling these days.
“Morning, slacker.”
I grin (fake). “It’s a rough life sleeping until ten, but someone’s got to do it. Do you guys want me to run in to the café and get some coffee?”
My father shakes his head. “Those of us who got up at a normal hour are already caffeinated.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, do you want me to take Finn to Group, to make up for my laziness?”
He shakes his head and smiles, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. Because it’s also fake. Just like mine. Just like Finn’s. Because we’re all fakers.