CHAPTER 7 LOSS
LOSS
Lots of people prefer wake services be held on Sunday mornings.
That means Saturdays are usually prep days or private viewing days, but this particular Saturday is different.
We don’t have anyone scheduled till Monday.
As a habit, I’m up at eight but instead of slipping into a black or gray pantsuit, I throw on some sweats and decide to get ahead of the game.
I set up the front room and call the local police department to confirm an escort to Kings Cemetery for the guests who are being interred there next week.
When the front room is prepped and the phone calls are done, I sit down at the desk in my dad’s office to reorder supplies.
The room used to be a walk-in pantry, but he converted it into an office so that he isn’t ordering embalming equipment at our dining room table.
His desk is neatly organized with stacks of labeled file folders, billing worksheets, and pens and pencils stuffed into a plastic cup.
I get comfy in his chair and take out my phone to text Noah.
ME: Guess what?
I wait a few seconds for him to respond. The clock in the upper right of the screen says it’s nine thirty.
ME: I didn’t have the dream last night. I didn’t have any dreams. Weird, right?
My mom sets down a stack of papers and I notice her nails are pale pink today and so is her blouse.
“Could you look through these and make sure our obits are in there for the week?” she asks.
“Yup,” I say, pulling the stack of newspapers toward me. We submit all our guests’ obituaries to the local paper and even though most people prefer digital copies, families sometimes like to keep the paper copies as mementos.
“If you’re doing some ordering,” Mom says, “please add a new set of straps for the body lift. The other set is stretched out and we need to replace them ASAP. I cannot be responsible for dropping somebody’s granddaddy on the floor.”
“You want me to order more Smithfield’s too?” I ask.
Mom glances at the computer screen. “We can always use more, right?”
“I mean yeah, always, but have you been out to the storage shed? We’re down to two extra cases. I brought one inside because we were running low downstairs.”
She straightens up and gazes toward the back door. “I thought we had four extra boxes.”
“Nope. But there’s some empty boxes out there, maybe they got miscounted.”
Mom sighs. “Can you add twelve new cases to the cart and see how quickly we can get them here?”
“Twelve?” I ask. “That seems like a lot.”
“It is. But supply chain issues are slowing things down. I thought we had more but . . .” She trails off, then shakes her head. “It’s my fault. I should have been better prepared.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I can do the order and I think we have enough to cover the guests we already have scheduled.”
I click across the screen and open the supply ordering app. I scroll through, looking for the Smithfield’s logo when something catches my eye. We order so frequently from the site that the products we’ve previously ordered scroll on a ticker across the bottom of the screen.
Hunter’s Mortuary wax—3 cases—last ordered
November 6—Want to reorder? Click here to add to cart!
As the words tick by, I expect to see our last order of Smithfield’s from back in November but instead I see something else.
Smithfield’s Mortuary Spray Paint—2 cases—last ordered
January 5 —Want to reorder? Click here to add to cart!
“We just ordered some two weeks ago.” I look at the screen again to make sure I’m seeing the quantity and dates correctly.
“That can’t be right, can it? I didn’t even see that shipment come in.
We definitely don’t have that much extra out in the shed.
That’s, like, two cans every day. We haven’t had that many guests. ”
“We’ve had a lot of guests, baby,” Mom says, peering over my shoulder at the screen.
“Maybe my count was off last time I did inventory.” She sucks her teeth and shakes her head.
“No. I don’t usually make mistakes like that.
My inventory is always on point.” She narrows her eyes at the screen.
“Let me ask your father. Either we have a stash somewhere I don’t know about or somebody’s stealing it from us. ”
“Thieves like dead body paint?” I ask. “Weird.”
Of all the places to try and rip off, a funeral home wouldn’t have been at the top of my list. Mom looks genuinely confused as she continues to study the computer screen.
“I’ll just order the straps for now, and then we can double-check with Dad later,” I say.
Mom shakes her head. “Babe!” she calls down the hall. “Did you order more Smithfield’s?”
“What?” my dad calls back. “I don’t think so. Maybe. Give me a minute.”
My mom’s brow furrows. “You said you didn’t see the shipment come in? And it’s not in the shed?”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
“I don’t like being so low,” she says. “How soon can we get a new shipment here?”
I click through a few fields and check the “expedited shipping” box to get an idea of how long it might be.
“Looks like, if we order today, it’ll take ten days to get here.”
Mom chews at her bottom lip. “We have six guests scheduled to come through in the next ten days.”
“Oh, okay, so we’re good?” I ask. “There are fourteen cans in each case and a few more downstairs. That should be plenty.”
Mom still looks worried, but she shrugs. “Your father isn’t allowed to do the ordering anymore. Let’s get that order in ASAP.”
“I’ll do it right now,” I say.
Mom kisses me on top of the head and goes out of the room.
Before I start the new order, I thumb through the newspapers to check the obituaries.
Mrs. Lang’s is in there and so is Mr. Kelsey’s.
Names and dates are correct and then, near the bottom of the page, I see an obituary for an older woman by the name Margaret Lindsey Hayes.
I’m drawn to the name because it sounds vaguely familiar.
Sometimes I come across someone I know—a teacher or even a classmate. I read through her obituary.
Margaret Lindsey Hayes, lifelong resident of Ithaca, passed away on January 5, 2025, from natural causes.
She is survived by her son, Mark Douglas Hayes, and her daughter, Marie Hayes.
She is preceded in death by her beloved husband, Dr. Albert Hayes.
Funeral services will be held at St. Anthony’s on January 10 at 6 pm.
In lieu of flowers, the family requests donations be made to the Celiac Disease Foundation, an organization Mr. and Mrs. Hayes felt strongly about.
It occurs to me that this is the obituary for the wife of my mom’s doctor. I look over it again, reading one part aloud.
“Preceded in death by her beloved husband, Dr. Albert Hayes.”
Doctor Albert Hayes.
“Hey, Mom,” I call. “Isn’t that doctor you’re seeing named Albert Hayes? The one for your stomach?”
I search the page for his name. Maybe they died close together, from an accident or something, but I don’t find anything.
The doorbell rings. A little stab of panic ripples through me as my mom bobs past the office door.
“Is there a service today?” I’d prepped for the upcoming ones, but if somebody is here for a service now, it means I forgot to do something.
“No,” Mom calls. “I’m not expecting anybody. Let me see who this is and what they want. I was really looking forward to some peace and quiet today.”
I pick up my phone. Still nothing from Noah.
A sudden, agonized cry splits the air.
If anybody else had heard it, they might have jumped out of their skin, but I’ve heard cries like it so many times it doesn’t faze me at first. That’s the noise you’re supposed to make in a funeral home.
It’s the sound of grief exiting the body.
“Oh god,” my mother’s voice sounds among the audible sadness.
I stand.
My dad hurries past the open office door.
For some reason, I feel like I can’t move.
The crying—no—the wailing builds on itself until it’s a frenzied cacophony of gasps and choking sobs.
A few moments later my dad staggers into the office doorway, his eyes wide, lips slightly parted.
He grasps the doorframe like he can’t stand up on his own.
“Dad?” I ask. “You okay?”
He only looks at me like he’s trying to memorize something about me.
“Meka, baby,” my dad says. “Come here.”
My mom calls me baby. To her, I’m always her baby. But my dad almost never calls me that. A rock falls into the pit of my stomach and the shock wave ripples outward through every limb.
I step toward him but it feels like I’m moving through quicksand. He reaches out and pulls me close, crushing me to his chest so hard we stumble out into the hallway. As we find our footing, I catch a glimpse of the person who’d been wailing so mournfully.
It’s Miss Cliff. Noah’s mom.
Her eyes are puffy and red. Her sandy hair is pulled into a messy bun on top of her head.
She’s in her pajamas—a pair of tattered sweats and an oversize T-shirt—all bundled inside her big winter coat.
House shoes, no socks. She’s not like my mom, who is always done up, but I’ve never seen her in pajamas.
She looks like she just got out of bed. She clutches a tissue to her mouth like she’s trying to keep in the terrible sounds.
My mom turns to me and her bottom lip is trembling.
“Miss Cliff?” I ask from the confines of my father’s arms. “What happened? Are you okay?”
She doesn’t look at me. She keeps her eyes locked on my mom. “I—I can—I had to—I can tell her—”
“No,” my mom whispers. “I’ll do it.”
Mom comes toward me with her arms out and suddenly everything changes. Her strides are long and slow. The clock in the hall sounds like it’s ticking at half time. Ravens have gathered on the outside perch and their caws are long and lingering. Even the frantic beating of my own heart seems slower.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” It’s my voice, but I feel like it’s coming from somewhere outside myself. It’s muffled and unnatural. When my mom reaches me, she cups my face in her hands.
“I need you to listen to me,” she says. “Meka? Do you hear me?”
I can hear Miss Cliff’s sobs. My dad’s ragged breathing sounds like he’s desperately trying to keep some terrible sound from clawing its way up his throat. My mom takes me by the arms, holds me firm as she speaks softly to me.
“Meka, baby, something has happened.”
“Okay,” I say, my gaze flitting to Miss Cliff again. “Is Miss Cliff okay?” I step back and am about to go to Miss Cliff to put my arms around her, but my mom stops me. My dad puts his hand on my back. He’s trembling.
“Miss Cliff and Noah went home after they left our house last night,” Mom says. “At some point Noah must have gotten hungry and he had some food brought to the house and—”
“I know,” I say. “He told me he was ordering food.” My heart is beating so hard it hurts. “Where’s Noah?”
Nobody says anything but the silence is loud. It cuts through my brain like a knife.
“ Where’s Noah? ” I repeat. Maybe they didn’t hear me. Maybe I’m not saying it clearly. “We’re going to lunch. I’m gonna pay because he paid last time. So, where is he?” I look out the open front door. Maybe if I can ignore what my gut is telling me . . . ?if I can just push it away right now . . .
“Baby,” Mom says, her voice a strained whisper. “Miss Cliff found him late last night.”
“Found him?” I ask.
I can’t breathe.
“Yes. He was outside.” My mom takes a deep breath. “He must have gone out to grab the food he ordered. It was icy. He slipped and hit his head. Meka, baby, he—he didn’t make it.”
Miss Cliff cries out again, and this time, the sound seeps into my head, into my bones. It curls around my heart and for a split second, I think I might be having a heart attack.
“Didn’t make what?” I ask. “What do you mean?”
My mom shakes her head. “Baby, I don’t know how to tell you this.” She tightens her grip on me. “Baby, Noah is gone.”