CHAPTER 6 A KISS BEFORE DYING #2
“Growing up in a funeral home will do that to you, I guess,” Noah says.
I get up, stretch my legs and sit on the edge of my bed. “You know, it’s not like the guests are gonna stand up and come after you or something. I promise. The dead bodies, they stay in the coffin . . . ?most of the time.” Images of the old man sitting up in the back of the hearse flood my mind.
Noah whips his head around and stares at me. “What do you mean ‘most of the time’?”
I hesitate for a moment. “I kind of want to tell you something but I don’t want to freak you out.”
“It’s too late for all that,” Noah says, smiling. “I’m already freaked out so you might as well just tell me.”
I sigh. “A man—a guest—sat up in the back of the hearse while my dad was driving the other night.” I stop as Noah’s face twists into a mask of shock and abject terror. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s—it’s okay,” he says through a forced smile. “I don’t get how that’s possible.”
“It’s usually something that happens during embalming,” I say.
“Sometimes there’s a buildup of gas or fluid or sometimes something goes wrong.
It happens but—” I pause. There is something about what happened that unsettles me.
The whole thing was scary, yes, but this is something else, and grasping it is like grasping at smoke. It just slips away from me.
“But what?” Noah asks.
“I don’t know,” I say, frustrated. “It was just . . . weird.”
“ ‘Weird’ is the understatement of the century,” Noah says. “I’m just trying to think about what that must have been like for you and your dad.” He blows out a long, slow breath. “I would have died on the spot. I would have ascended. You’d be dressing me up nice for my own funeral.”
I slide back down onto the floor next to him and lean my head on his shoulder. “Didn’t mean to freak you out.”
“Don’t even worry about it,” Noah says.
“You let me tell you all my weird stories about dead bodies,” I say. “I think that means you like me. A lot.”
Noah drapes his arm over my shoulders. “I more than just like you. You know that, right?”
“I know,” I say. We’ve been dating for over a year and we’d been friends since way before that.
We’re both right on the edge of taking things further but the nerves—my god—the nerves get us every time.
“I feel the same way about you,” I continue.
“I just don’t know what I’m supposed to say.
I don’t want to say the wrong thing or do the wrong thing. What if I ruin what we have?”
“Why would being a little more serious about how we feel ruin anything?” Noah asks gently as he traces my knuckles with his fingers.
I shrug. “I’ve heard people say when that word starts getting thrown around, things change and I don’t want things to change.”
Noah huffs. “I mean, I don’t think we should say it if we don’t mean it or if we’re not sure.”
I nod but I know how I feel. It’s not about meaning it or not being sure. It’s just the feeling of being so open that scares me a little. “We have time for that,” I say. “That word—it’s not going anywhere.”
Noah smiles, then reaches into the pocket of his hoodie and pulls out something wrapped in blue tissue paper and sealed with a piece of clear tape. He sits it in my hand.
“Your present,” he says.
I’d almost forgotten that Noah had promised me a gift. I tear open the paper like it’s Christmas and find a small, beaded bracelet with a silver clasp coiled inside. On a wide flat bead in the center is an engraving, M jars of formalin cream, canisters of Vis-O-Guard gel, and boxes of Paulex powder and Lanol Care are neatly organized on shelves in the temperature-controlled storage area.
I find a case of Smithfield’s Mortuary Spray Paint and lift it off the shelf only to find it empty.
There are a few more empty boxes on the shelf and two full ones.
I’d noticed our supply in the prep room was low, but it looks like we’re low on the overflow supplies too.
I scan the shelf from top to bottom. Maybe not everything is low.
It looks like we have plenty of extra wax ligatures and there are lots of cases of embalming fluid, eye caps, and disinfectant.
The only thing we seem to be getting low on is the Smithfield’s.
One full canister can do a body and there are fourteen canisters per case.
I try to tally up the number of guests we’ve had since our last big supply order.
It seems like we should have more spray paint, and I make a little note on my phone to check with Mom so that we don’t run out.
I grab one of only two full cases of the Smithfield’s and lock up. As I cross the driveway the dark descends around me like a shade and the cold is numbing, but something makes me stop.
From the far side of the house—a sound, like air escaping a tire but in quick short bursts. I know the sound. I set the case of Smithfield’s down on the step and move toward the side of the house. The little window in the prep room is open and the light inside is on.
Three more quick hisses.
It’s the smell that pulls it all together.
The flowery rose scent of mortuary spray paint.
The sound is a Smithfield’s nozzle being depressed.
I hear the sound almost every day, but I’ve never heard it from outside the house before.
The little curtain covering the prep room window is drawn, obscuring the figure inside.
I don’t need to see inside to know what’s going on.
My parents must have started the prep of the car crash victim early, but I wonder if maybe he’s already been embalmed.
That happens sometimes. Guests come in from other funeral homes after they’ve been prepped to get the signature Redwood Funeral Home hair and makeup. The thought makes me oddly proud.
I leave my mom to her work and grab the box of supplies off the step, then duck back into the warmth of the house. I stow the Smithfield’s in the hall, then go to my room. I get under my covers and text Noah.
ME: Wish you could have stayed longer.
Noah responds almost immediately.
NOAH: We’re just pulling up to my house now. My mom is dead tired but I could walk back if you want me to?
I think for a minute. I’d like that but it’s getting late and he’d have to walk back home in the freezing cold. He doesn’t have a license, so he doesn’t drive. He says he prefers walking or a bike anyway but bikes are no good in the Ithaca winters.
ME: No, it’s okay. What are you about to do?
NOAH: I’m gonna order some food and knock out probably.
ME: You just had dinner at my house!
NOAH: I’m still hungry! Don’t judge me Meeks.
I laugh.
ME: Not judging. See you tomorrow? Maybe we can get lunch or something?
NOAH: Yup. It’s a date.
ME: Enjoy your late-night snack.
Noah texts me three pink hearts.
I lie still in the dark, listening to the sounds of my house. The knocking of the baseboard heat kicking up, the quiet hum of the space heater, and somewhere outside the cawing of a raven.
That night, for the first time in months, I don’t dream at all. No nightmares, no good dreams either. Just blackness behind my lids.