“Sure. I’ll have whatever you’re having,” Dare answers.
My father is gone for a minute, and comes back out with a beer. “You looked like you could use something stronger than lemonade.”
Dare almost looks relieved, and takes a big gulp. “Thanks.”
As Dare wipes his mouth with one of smashed up hands, my dad eyes the damage, but doesn’t say anything.
It’s strange how everything is socially acceptable and comfortable, despite the fact that Dare’s hands are mangled and everyone is ignoring that fact.
“Let’s go find the first aid kit,” I tell Dare. He nods and sets his beer down, and dad heads into the kitchen.
“The crabs will be ready in five,” he calls over his shoulder.
“We’d better hurry,” I murmur to Dare as I lead him through the halls. We pass the Viewing Rooms and the Great Room and never once does Dare say anything about the Funeral Home smell.
After we quietly walk the length of the halls leading to the basement, I gently push him into a seat outside of my father’s Embalming Room. “Be right back,” I tell him.
I push open the door, and ignore the instant change in temperature that sends goose-bumps forming down my arms and legs. I also ignore the reason it has to be so cold in here. Cold = Death. It’s an equation that was long ago impressed in my head. It’s one reason I’d love to move someplace tropical. Because Warmth = Life.
I dig in a cabinet for gauze and medical tape, rustling around loudly enough that I don’t hear Dare walk into the room. It’s only when he speaks from behind me that I jump.
“So, this doesn’t look that scary,” he observes, his quiet voice loud in the silence.
I whirl around, my heart pounding. “Sorry,” he says quickly, holding up a hand. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s all right,” I tell him. “I just wasn’t expecting to hear a voice.”
He nods, his lip twitching. “Yeah, I guess that would be a bad thing in here usually.”
I nod, still willing my heart to slow down as I grab the supplies I need.
Dare turns in a slow circle, eyeing the wall of coolers, the metal tables in the middle with the run-off trays, the sterile walls, the medicinal smell.
“This room is creepy,” he announces, focusing in on the run-off trays. “I don’t see how your dad can do what he does.”
“I don’t either,” I agree, as I pull him from the room. “I hate being in here. The last time I was down here was when they wheeled my mom in.”
She’d been in a bag, completely covered by black canvas. I thought she needed me with her, to hold her hand, so she wouldn’t be alone. But I’d only lasted until the zipper reached her chest, and I saw her yellow shirt turned red with blood. Then I was out of here like a shot.
I poke a long swab of iodine at his knuckles, and Dare doesn’t even flinch. “Surely your dad didn’t… your mom…” his voice trails off as he realizes how sensitive that subject is.
I swallow hard. “He did, actually. I have no idea how. But he said he couldn’t trust anyone else to take care of her. I don’t know why he bothered. The casket was closed, anyway.”
My chest clenches up, and I dab, dab, dab at Dare’s cuts and then wrap his hands with gauze and tape.
He looks into my eyes, a long, slow look. “I’m sorry. It was thoughtless of me to ask. I’m not usually so clumsy with words.”
I shake my head. “It’s ok.”
He examines my hands, moving deftly to bandage his. “I’m not going to ask how you learned to do this so well.”
I can’t help but smile. “Smart. Although I have to say, it’s nice to work on someone living.”
I snort when Dare does a double-take. “Kidding. I don’t work on the bodies. Ever.”
He exhales and I laugh, and then put the supplies away. When I turn back around, Dare is trailing a finger down one stainless steel cooler door.
“Are there any… I mean, is anyone in here?” He doesn’t even sound nervous.