CHAPTER 14 TERRIBLE TRUTHS
TERRIBLE TRUTHS
I examine the edges of my mom’s wound as I pull on a pair of sterile gloves and hang an apron around my waist. Noah stands near me.
“Should we just staple the edges closed?” I ask. “The cut was clean. No jagged edges.”
“No,” she says. “Wounds don’t heal and I don’t want to walk around with a bunch of staples. We have to stitch the layers closed one by one with the nylon thread. You have to recreate the internal structures, if that makes sense?”
“The wounds never heal?” I ask in disbelief. “Ever?”
She shakes her head. “No. Every papercut, every nick or scrape I’ve had in the last ten years is covered under mortuary wax and paint and Smithfield’s.
” She touches the branch of the scar on her chest. “Even these. They’re not really scars.
” She picks at the marks and painted mortuary wax peels off in little flecks.
There is nothing but sadness in her tone. I touch her undamaged shoulder and gently press my forehead against hers.
“I love you,” I say.
“I love you more,” she says. “And I’m sorry you have to be here to see this.”
“Better me than, well, who else could do it?” I ask.
Mom shakes her head and the wound on her shoulder opens itself up like a gaping mouth. “I guess you’re right. Still, it shouldn’t be you.”
I cut away the ragged stitches she’d made as she had tried to repair herself. The holes where the needle had looped through her skin don’t close.
“Noah, can you hand me a curved needle and the thread from the top drawer of that cabinet?” I ask.
Noah finds the supplies and hands them to me. I begin to stitch the innermost layers of her tissue closed and realize there’s a problem.
“The shoulder bone is dislocated,” I say. “The skin won’t come together cleanly.”
“We can pop it back in,” my mom says. “Put your hand here.” She presses my palm to the curve of her neck just above where the injury begins. “Hold it steady.”
She reaches down and grabs her left arm with her right hand. She yanks it up in one smooth motion and the joint pops into place with a loud crack .
“Does that hurt?” I ask, feeling a little queasy.
“Not at all,” my mom says. “Nothing does.”
“Nothing?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Meka, baby. I—I’m so sorry. I know how all of this must sound.”
I feel like I’m teetering on the edge of a chasm. If I stumble, I’ll fall into it, into confusion so thick I don’t think I’ll be able to pull myself out. I can’t let that happen.
“I was always so worried I was gonna lose you,” I say.
“Sometimes, even though you were right in front of me, I felt like I already had.” It was that strange feeling of not being able to sense when she was in the room with me.
Like when she’d been sitting in the dark in the living room or the way she’d just kind of appear out of nowhere sometimes.
And when she sat with me on my bed and I looked at her and felt like that spark that makes us human wasn’t the same in her.
Now I know why and it doesn’t make me feel better. It scares me.
My mom puts her hand on top of mine, and I notice the missing chunk of her finger is filled in with mortuary wax.
She sighs. “You knew, somewhere deep down inside, that it was true.”
“But you’re not gone,” I say. “You’re right here with me.”
She turns her head and smiles but the look in her eyes says yes, but at what cost?
I stitch her shoulder together, layer by layer, then fill in some of the visible divots with mortuary wax. She directs me to use the Smithfield’s to prep her skin and another layer on top to set the wax.
“Wait,” I say. “Is this why our supplies were off?”
My mom grimaces. “Yes. I miscalculated how much I’d need and then we got some new guests. It all just snowballed.”
I’m starting to think of how much she has had to keep to herself. How many secrets she was juggling just to keep up appearances. I’m exhausted just thinking about it.
When we’re done, the wounds look like maybe she’d been out in the sun a little too long, the strap of a bra or swimsuit leaving a slightly less brown strip of skin down the front of her shoulder. She hops off the table and goes to her phone, dialing my dad again. He still doesn’t pick up.
“Let’s get Noah patched up and then we’ll figure out where Dad is,” Mom says. “He went with those people. We need to try and track them down.”
“Don’t you think that’s dangerous?” I ask, as Noah lies down on the prep table and my mom rummages around in the repurposed tool cabinet. “These people came here to kill us.”
“Not us,” my mom says. “Me.”
“They know what you are?” I ask. “Wait. If they know what you are, they know you can’t be killed, right?”
“Maybe not killed,” Mom says. “At least not in the way you’re thinking. We can be destroyed but it would take . . . a lot.”
“What’s that mean?” Noah asks.
“It would involve complete dismemberment,” Mom says. “Our body parts scattered to the ends of the earth, maybe burned to ashes.”
I gasp and my stomach turns over.
“Sorry,” she says. “I don’t mean to be so blunt but that’s what it would take and I think that’s what they were aiming to do. And they saw Noah. Whoever they are, they know about him now too.”
“And that guy who was here, the blond one,” I say. “He’s like you two.”
My mom looks confused.
“You didn’t see his arm?” I ask. “It looked like it didn’t even belong to him. And when we were in the movie theater, I thought I smelled something rotting. I thought it was just the smell from the prep room stuck to my clothes but now I’m pretty sure it was him.”
“I was too busy looking at the knife,” Mom says. “But if that’s true . . .” she trails off, then huffs. “We need to find your dad.”
I stare down at Noah as he looks back up at me. The dent in his cheek is noticeable and needs to be repatched. My mom moves to his side and assesses his leg injury.
“This can be easily fixed,” she says as she pulls back the torn pieces of his pant leg.
The assailant’s knife had made a mess of his leg but again, there was no blood, just the ragged edges of a nasty wound.
“But you’ll need to maintain it,” Mom continues.
“I’ll show you how. It’s tedious and because you don’t have the benefit of living in a funeral home, it’ll be a little trickier for you.
You have to dress the area with formaldehyde, cover up the scent, resew it if need be.
Mortuary wax goes on top, then makeup to match your skin tone.
Smithfield’s at every step of the process. ”
“How long do I have to do all that?” Noah asks.
My mom stares at him and something breaks in her expression. She frowns. Her eyes are sad and shadowy. “Forever.”
Noah shifts and returns his gaze to me.
“I can help you,” I say. “You could come live with us if it would be easier.” I glance at my mom but her expression doesn’t change.
Noah reaches up and puts his hand on mine.
A swell of grief washes over me. I had missed him so much and even though he’s here with me now, I still feel like I’ve lost something I can’t get back.
I gently touch his face, letting my fingers move over the defect on his cheek.
My hand buzzes, not painfully, but enough to make me hesitate for a moment.
Images of him lying in his coffin push their way to the front of my mind. I pull my hand back and inhale shakily.
“It’s just me,” Noah says.
“I know,” I say. “It’s just—”
“This is all weird as hell,” Noah says. “I’m literally back from the dead. It’s not right and I don’t expect you to just be okay. I know I’m not.”
“You’re not?” I ask.
Noah shakes his head. “How could I be?” He looks down the length of his body as my mom makes quick work of repairing the wound in his leg.
Watching her put Noah back together makes me wonder how many times she’s used these techniques on herself.
“Just lie still,” I say to Noah. “I’ll fix this.” I gently touch his face again, and he closes his eyes.
I start by scraping off the wax that is discolored and dried out.
Removing it reveals a defect the size of my fist that goes right down to the bone.
He must have fallen hard into something the night he died, and I wonder if it was the injury that killed him or if it had knocked him out and he’d frozen to death outside his house.
A shudder runs through me and I try to put my thoughts elsewhere.
The tissue beneath the mortuary wax is gray and stiff but nowhere near as decayed as the muscle and tendons under my mom’s skin.
“Use a brush to paint the wound with formaldehyde,” my mom says. “Then spray a layer of Smithfield’s before you lay the wax down.”
I do as she says and the smell of the preservative makes me want to gag. I brush the interior of the wound, then spray it with Smithfield’s. The rosy scent of the spray wafts into my face. I then fill the defect with fresh mortuary wax and mold it to fit the confines of Noah’s face.
“Smile for me,” I say.
Noah’s eyes open slowly. “Anything you say.”
A familiar flutter invades the pit of my stomach. He smiles and I have to tear my gaze away from his beautiful eyes to assess the wax and make sure it looks natural.
“Looks good,” I say.
Noah lets his face relax but the faint remnants of the smile linger.
I match a foundation to the suntanned hues of his skin and cover the wax, using a small brush.
I finish it off with another layer of Smithfield’s and Noah sits up.
My mom hands him a small mirror and he gazes at his reflection.
I don’t know if I expect him to smile or what, but I’m worried when his shoulders slump and he pushes the mirror back toward my mom.
He reaches out and takes my hand in his. “Thanks.”
“Of course,” I say. “Anything you need me to do, I got you.”
Noah lifts his head, and his gaze meets mine. For just a fraction of a second, things between us are the way they were before.
“I’m worried about your father,” Mom says. “I need to get ahold of him right now.”
“What about my mom?” Noah asks.