“No, ma’am.” Edgar had stopped smiling, but he appeared unruffled. “Douglas Pinkman’s service is scheduled for tomorrow. We have Lucy Alexander the following day.”
Sam felt unexpectedly relieved. She had been so focused on Rusty that she had not remembered that there were two more bodies that would require burial.
Edgar indicated a chair to Sam, but she did not sit. He said, “Currently, your father is downstairs. When the service in our Memory Chapel is completed, we’ll bring him upstairs and place him on the podium at the front of the room. I want to assure you that—”
“I want to see him now,” Charlie said.
“He’s not prepared.”
“Did he forget to study for a test?”
Sam rested her hand on Charlie’s shoulder.
Edgar said, “I apologize that my meaning was unclear.” He kept his hands on the back of the chair, his preternatural coolness intact. He explained, “Your father has been placed in the casket that he chose, but we need to move him to the podium, set up the flowers, prepare the room. You want the first time to see him to be—”
“That’s not necessary.” Sam squeezed Charlie’s shoulder to keep her silent. She knew what her sister was thinking—Don’t tell me what I want. She said, “I’m sure you’ve got something lovely planned, but we’d like to see him now.”
Edgar gave a smooth nod. “Of course, ladies. Of course. Please allow me a moment.”
Charlie didn’t wait for the door to close behind him. “What a condescending prick.”
“Charlie—”
“The worst thing you could say right now is that I sound like Mother. Jesus.” She pulled at the neck of her dress. “It feels like it’s a hundred degrees in here.”
“Charlie, this is grief. You want to control things because you feel out of control.” Sam worked to take the lecture out of her tone. “You need to learn how to deal with this because what you are feeling is not going to stop after today.”
“You need,” Charlie repeated. She took a tissue from the box beside the chair. She mopped sweat from her brow. “You’d think with all of these dead people, they’d keep the air down low.” She paced the small room. She kept moving her hands, shaking her head, as if she was having some kind of private conversation with herself.
Sam sat in the chair. This was her chickens coming home to roost, watching her sister’s manic, frantic energy manifest itself in rage. Charlie was right that she sounded like their mother. Gamma had always struck out when she felt threatened, the same way that Sam had, the same way that Charlie was doing now.
Sam offered, “I have some Valium in my purse.”
“You should take it.”
Sam tried again, “Where’s Lenore?”
“So she can calm me down?” Charlie walked over to the window. She bent open the metal blinds to look out at the parking lot. “She won’t come to this. She’d want to kill everybody here. What do you use on your neck?”
Sam touched her fingers to her neck. “What?”
“I remember Gamma’s neck was getting crepey. Like, the skin was starting to wrinkle. Even though she was only three years older than I am now.”
Sam did not know what to do but carry on the conversation. “She was out in the sun all of the time. She never used sunscreen. None of her generation did.”
“Don’t you worry about it? I mean, you’re fine now, but—” Charlie looked in the mirror by the window. She pulled at the skin of her neck. “I put lotion on it every night, but I think I need to get a cream.”
Sam opened her purse. The first thing she saw was the note she had given Rusty. The odor of cigarette smoke lingered on the paper. Sam resisted doing something melodramatic, like holding the note to her face so she could remember what her father smelled like. She found her hand cream beside Ben’s USB drive. “Here.”
Charlie looked at the label. “What’s this?”
“It’s what I use.”
“But it says ‘for hands.’”
“We can Google something.” Sam reached for her phone. “What do you think?”
“I think …” Charlie took a short breath. “I think I’m losing my shit.”
“It’s more likely you’re having a panic attack.”
“I’m not panicking,” Charlie said, but the tremble in her voice indicated otherwise. “I feel dizzy. Shaky. I might throw up. Is that a panic attack?”
“Yes.” Sam helped her sit down in the chair. “Take some deep breaths.”
“Jesus.” She put her head down between her knees. “Oh, Jesus.”
Sam rubbed her sister’s back. She tried to think of something that would take away the pain, but grief defied logic.
“I didn’t believe he would die.” Charlie grabbed her hair in her hands. “I mean, I knew it would happen, but I didn’t think it would. Like, the opposite of when you buy a lottery ticket. You’re saying, ‘Of course I’m not going to win,’ but then you actually do think you might win, because why else would you buy the damn ticket?”
Sam kept rubbing her back.
“I know I still have Lenore, but Dad was—” Charlie sat up. She took a jittery breath. “I always knew that, no matter what, if I had a problem, I could take it to him and he wouldn’t judge me, and he would make a joke about it so it didn’t hurt so much and then we would figure out how to solve it together.” She covered her face with her hands. “I hate him for not taking care of himself. And I love him for living his life on his own terms.”
Sam was familiar with both sensations.
“I didn’t know that Ben brought his clothes.” She turned to Sam, alarmed. “What if he asked to be dressed up like a clown?”
“Charlie, don’t be silly. You know he would’ve chosen something from the Renaissance.”
The door opened. Charlie stood up.
Edgar said, “Our Memory Chapel is clearing out. If you would give me another moment, I could place your father in a more natural setting.”
“He’s dead,” Charlie said. “None of this is natural.”
“Very well.” Edgar tucked down his chin. “We’ve temporarily placed him in our showroom. I’ve put out two chairs for your comfort and reflection.”
“Thank you.” Sam turned to Charlie, expecting her to complain about the chairs or make a sharp comment about reflection. Instead, she found her sister crying.
“I’m here,” Sam said, though she did not know if that was a comfort.
Charlie bit her lip. Her hands were still clenched into fists. She was trembling.
Sam peeled open Charlie’s fingers and held on to her hand.
She nodded to Edgar.
He walked to the other side of the small room. Sam had not noticed a discreet door built into the wood paneling. He turned the latch, and she saw the brightly lit showroom.
Charlie would not move on her own, so Sam gently led her toward the door. Though Edgar had called this the showroom, Sam had not been expecting to find an actual showroom. Shiny caskets painted in dark earth tones lined the walls. They were tilted at a fifteen-degree angle, their lids opened to display the silk liners. Spotlights illuminated silver and gold handles. An assortment of pillows was in a spinning rack. Sam wondered if mourners checked the softness before making their decision.
Charlie was unsteady on her high heels. “Is this what it was like when your—”
“No,” Sam said. “Anton was cremated. They put him in a pine box.”
“Why didn’t Daddy do that?” Charlie looked down at a jet-black display casket with black satin lining. “I feel like we’re in a Shirley Jackson story.”
Sam turned, remembering Edgar. She mouthed the words, “Thank you.”
He bowed out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Sam looked back at Charlie. She had come to a standstill. All of her bluster was gone. She was staring at the front of the room. Two folding chairs draped in pastel blue satin covers. A white casket with gold handles on a stainless steel cart with big, black wheels. The lid was open. Rusty’s head was tilted up on a pillow. Sam could see the peppered gray of his hair, the tip of his nose, and a flash of bright blue from his suit.
Charlie said, “That’s Dad.”
Sam reached for her sister’s hand again, but Charlie was already moving toward their father. Her deliberate stride tapered off quickly. She stuttered to a stop. Her hand went to her mouth. Her shoulders began to shake.
She told Sam, “It’s not him.”
Sam understood what she meant. This was clearly their father, but just as clearly it was not. Rusty’s cheeks were too red. His wild eyebrows had been tamed. His hair, normally sticking up in every direction, was combed into something resembling a pompadour.