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.
“Actually,” he eyes me, sizing up me and my mood. “That’d be great. I’ve got someone coming in today, so I’ll be tied up.”
By someone, he means a body to embalm, and by today, he must mean soon because he’s already standing up and wiping off his hands.
I nod quickly, willing to do anything to get out of here.
Years of watching bodies come and go wears on a person. I’ve seen it all… accident victims, elderly people, still-births, kids. The kids are the hardest, but eventually, it’s all hard. Death isn’t something that anyone wants to think about, and no one wants to be surrounded by it all of the time.
My father might’ve chosen his profession, but I certainly didn’t.
Which is why I’d rather take Finn to his therapy any day.
It’s something my mother used to do, because she always insisted that it was better for Finn if someone was there, in case he wanted to ‘talk’ on the way home. He never does, and so I think she just wanted to make sure that he went. Either way, we keep up her tradition.
Because traditions are soothing when everything else has gone to hell.
“Sure. I can go.” I glance at Finn. “But I’m driving.”
Finn smiles at me angelically. “I called it when you were still in bed. It’s the price of being a slacker. Sorry.”
His grin decidedly says Not Sorry. And this time, it isn’t fake.
“Whatever. Do you want a shower?”