10. Laney
The following morning, I wake early.
There’s something I have to deal with, even though the thought of it cuts me to the soul.
I need to reclaim my mother’s body and arrange her funeral.
I assume the state will have held on to her body. It’s not as though she’s an unidentified homeless person who has no known family. She had me, and she had Reed. The authorities know that.
I catch a cab to the coroner’s office. It drops me off in front of the imposing red brick building. There’s no point in the driver waiting. I have no idea how long this is going to take.
The noise and movement of the city is making my head spin. There’s too much, too much of everything. How did I never notice it before? Has the city always been this busy, this noisy? Everyone in a hurry?
Someone on a motorbike zooms past, and I practically leap right out of my sneakers. I’m jostled and knocked by people walking by, and it’s almost comical the way I’m practically turned in the wrong direction by the force of everyone around me.
Putting my head down, I hurry toward the building, desperate to get inside and off the street.
The office is air conditioned, and a shocking chill compared to outside. I wrap my arms around myself, partly to keep warm, and partly for comfort.
I’ve never had to do something like arrange a funeral before.
I really have no idea where to start, but I’m hoping someone here will point me in the right direction.
There can’t be much to it—buy a burial plot in a cemetery, have someone say a few words over her grave.
For the first time in my life, I actually have money in the bank, and I want to spend it on her.
I want to get her a pretty headstone, too.
She wasn’t a religious person, but I know she’d like that.
Besides, it’s partly for me as well. I want somewhere I can go to visit her.
I think she’ll be a better listener in death than she ever was in life.
A man in a collared shirt sits behind the counter.
Are people staring at me? I’m horribly self-conscious.
Do they recognize me? Are they talking about me behind their hands?
I resist the urge to turn and bolt and hide back inside my trailer.
I wish I’d taken Reed up on his offer to come, but then it’d be even worse.
I’d be worrying that people would be questioning the relationship between us.
I’d be conscious of every word spoken, of every glance, of every touch.
“Good morning,” the man says. “How can I help you?”
“Hi. I need to reclaim my mother’s body.”
“What’s her name, please?”
I tell him, and he types it into his computer.
He looks up at me. “And your name?”
My cheeks heat. I’m going to have to explain who I am, or he’s going to wonder why I’m only just coming in now. I don’t want him asking questions about my experience. It feels as though nothing I say will be right.
“Laney Flores. My mom died a little over a month ago.”
“A little over a month ago?” he repeats. “I’m afraid we don’t hold on to bodies for that long.”
His words send a jolt of alarm through me. “What do you mean? Where is she? I want to bury her, to give her a funeral.”
“I’m sorry, but the state took care of disposing of her.”
“Disposing of her? You make her sound like she was a bag of garbage you had to get rid of!”
He at least has the grace to appear embarrassed. “My apologies. I didn’t mean it to come out that way. What people often do in this situation is a memorial service for their loved one.”
“I don’t want a memorial service. I want a funeral. I want to bury my mom.”
“I’m afraid that’s simply impossible. In cases like this, when a person has no family—”
“She had family. You knew she had family. I was the one who found her goddamned body and called in the authorities.”
He clears his throat. “Well, yes, but your whereabouts were…unknown.”
“You mean everyone thought I was dead?”
“Your whereabouts were unknown,” he repeats.
“You could have waited. How long did you hold on to her before you decided to give up.”
“Two weeks.”
“Two weeks?” I bark my dismay. “That’s all? I could have easily been found in that time.”
“I’m afraid we simply don’t have the funds to store bodies indefinitely when we’re unable to locate families.”
“Indefinitely?” I’m starting to sound like a parrot. “Two weeks can hardly be considered indefinite.”
“I’m sorry. There really isn’t anything I can say or do that will change anything for you. We do have her ashes stored at the cemetery, and those can be returned for you to scatter. I suggest you consider a memorial so you can say your goodbyes.”
I back away, shaking my head. I’m breathless, like someone is crushing my lungs in their fist. Why hadn’t I even considered the possibility of this happening?
It simply had never occurred to me. It wasn’t as though my mother didn’t have any family.
She had me. They knew that, and yet they still cremated her.
I don’t know why this has hit me so hard. I guess I always thought I’d see her again, get the opportunity to say goodbye. Being handed an urn of ashes isn’t how I’d imagined it would happen.
It’s only a ten-minute drive between the coroner and the cemetery, so I grab another cab rather than walk it. I enter the building, feeling as though I’m in a daze, and approach the front desk. I explain the situation to the man behind it.
“Do you have some ID?” he asks.
I nod, numb with grief. I’d brought my new passport with me, just in case, so I hand it over.
“Wait over there,” he says, nodding to a bank of plastic seats.
Fifteen minutes pass before a woman in her sixties approaches me carrying a large white box, which I assume contains what remains of my mom.
“Miss Flores?” the woman asks.
I get to my feet. “Yes.”
She pushes the box into my arms. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
The cannister of my mother’s ashes is far heavier than I’d anticipated.
I don’t know what I’d thought—that it would be a little pot I’d be able to sprinkle somewhere—but instead I have to use two hands just to hold it, the weight straining my arm muscles.
I can’t believe this is what she’s been reduced to.
Where am I supposed to sprinkle these? I imagine other daughters would have happy memories of the times they spent with their mothers on the beach or hiking in the hills, but I never had that relationship with her.
She never did any of the things regular moms did.
If someone asked me what place had been special to her, I’d probably have said the bar, and it’s not as though I can go and tip her ashes under her favorite vodka bottle.
I’m instantly hit by a wave of guilt for thinking such a thing.
I’m sure I can conjure up somewhere special to do a memorial.
Who would come, though? Reed, obviously, though Cade and Darius never even met my mom.
Who else was in her life? A string of men who were as messed up as she’d been.
I definitely don’t intend to track any of them down.
After the way they treated her, they don’t get to come and act all upset about her death.
Besides, I don’t even know how to contact any of them outside of hanging around the same bars she did, and with my newfound notoriety, I don’t plan on doing that either.
We have neighbors here at the trailer park, but I doubt any of them would want to pay their respects.
The complaints we got about her late-night parties, and the screaming fights that followed, were enough to mean they’re probably glad she’s gone.
I leave the building, grab yet another cab, and take her home with me.
I take her out of the box and place her on the fold-out table.
I sit opposite and stare at the urn. My mom wasn’t the greatest of parents—I’m sure even she would have admitted to that—but it isn’t as though all I have are bad memories.
Her mood swings had sometimes been frightening, but when she’d been on a high, she’d been vibrant and alive.
She’d seemed to glow from the inside, and anyone who was nearby would notice her.
Wherever she went, she drew every eye in the room.
I remember being small and staring up at her, and thinking she was the most beautiful person in the world. But then the light and the happiness would vanish, like a curtain drawn down, and the anger would take over, and the dark moods, and the staying in bed for days at a time.
It kind of reminds me of myself now. I wonder what she went through in her life that I never knew about. How much had she protected me from? I guess I’ll never know now.
Fresh tears slip down my cheeks.
It feels as though all I’m doing is crying.