Chapter 6 Zoey
ZOEY
“Privately owned funeral home seeks experienced mortician. Must be capable of handling all aspects of running a funeral home independently…”
My fingers hover over the trackpad as I stare at the listing.
I’ve been job hunting for a while and so far, this is the only one that’s caught my attention.
Almost every other job opening would mean a huge pay cut and much less responsibility.
In other words, they’d be boring and incapable of allowing me to survive.
This listing though… It’s short with no wordy description, no list of benefits or fake, corporate nonsense about joining a ‘family’. But on the surface, it’s exactly what I’m looking for.
I scroll to the top of the listing to read it again, making sure I’m not missing anything.
DEATH’S DOOR FUNERAL HOME – TACOMA, WA
Privately owned and operated.
Seeking one (1) qualified individual capable of performing the following duties independently:
Funeral Director
Mortician
Autopsy preparation and postmortem care
Full operational management of facility
Requirements:
Experience preferred. Must be confident working alone and able to handle high-pressure situations.
Position must be filled immediately.
There is currently a decedent requiring care. Funeral cannot proceed until the position is filled.
Housing included.
Call for details.
There’s a phone number listed at the end but no name for a contact person. My pulse picks up as I relax against the back of my couch and chew on my bottom lip.
One sentence plays on a loop in my mind: There is currently a decedent requiring care.
I’ve never seen a job posting in my field that’s this honest. Normally, death is rarely mentioned because, while my career is death, it’s not a topic most are comfortable with.
Add to that the fact that it reads like someone Googled what should be included and used the bare minimum.
The longer I stare at the post, the more excited I get.
Tacoma, Washington isn’t just away from Chicago, it’s far away.
Moving there would mean no surprise visits, no unexpected visitors when I don’t answer my phone, no more in-my-face pressure to accommodate my mom. My gaze drifts back to the words full operational management. I’d be responsible for everything. I’d be alone, autonomous.
A flicker of something I haven’t felt in years ignites in my chest. It’s not fear—okay, maybe a little fear—but possibility. It’s everything I want, everything I’ve worked for, everything I was told by everyone besides Mr. Benz I couldn’t handle.
And they need someone for the position immediately.
How immediate? Days, weeks…
An image forms of a waiting body, a family desperate for closure. Both stuck in a place that doesn’t allow for moving forward, for healing.
Before I can second-guess myself, I grab my cell off the coffee table and dial the number.
It feels like a lifetime before someone answers, but in reality, it only rings twice.
“Yeah,” a deep voice says by way of greeting.
I take a deep breath, allowing the silence to stretch.
“Who the hell is this?” the man demands.
“Hi,” I finally say. “My name is Zoey, and I’m calling about the job posting for Death’s Door?”
There’s a brief pause, and just as I’m about to pull my cell away from my ear to make sure the call wasn’t dropped, he asks, “You qualified?”
“Yes, I am,” I reply. “I can send you my resume if you’d like.”
“No time.”
“Oh, okay then. Well, I have a degree in Mortuary Science and completed my
apprenticeship at Rest in Peace Mortuary in Chicago which is also where I currently work as a funeral director and mortician.”
“Autopsy prep?”
“Yes.”
“Embalming?”
“Yes.”
“Any problems handling pickups?”
“No.”
“You panic easy?”
I’m panicking a little now.
“No.”
He’s quiet for a few moments, and I can practically feel him assessing me and my responses through the line.
“When can you be here?” he asks.
The question isn’t what I was expecting, and I release a pent up breath. It makes moving real and not some hypothetical scenario to get away from my mom.
“I’d have to relocate,” I say, the first hint of hesitation in my tone. “I’d also have to put in my notice with my current employer. Two to three weeks, at the earliest.”
“Two,” he says.
“Um, okay. I can make two weeks wo—”
“Days. You start in two days.”
“What?” I snap, my grip tightening on the phone. “I can’t possibly get there in two days. Besides, I don’t even know all the details yet. Pay, hours, bene—”
“Can you do the job?” he interrupts, his voice commanding yet… tired.
“Yes, of course, I can, but—”
“Then you’re hired.” There’s a finality in the statement that I’m not sure what to do with. This wasn’t exactly an interview, and he didn’t ask for references or even want my resume. The entire process is just… done. “My name’s Lyric,” he adds. “I can go over everything else when you get here.”
“Wait,” I insist. “I need more information, more time.”
“Look, Zoey, this position needed filled fucking yesterday,” Lyric bites out. “Either you want it or you don’t. It’s that simple.”
My mind flashes back to the image of a waiting body, a desperate family.
“I’ll text you the address for Death’s Door. If you’re there in two days, great. If not, then I’ll have a lot of pissed off people because they’ll have to wait even longer to bury a good man.”
With that, he disconnects the call, and I’m left stunned. Before I can even form a coherent thought, my phone pings with a notification, and I look at it to see an address in Tacoma along with the words ‘See you in two days’.
Did I really just get hired? Just like that?
There’s no way. Two days isn’t enough time.
I’m about to call Lyric back and tell him that I can’t take the job unless he gives me more time, but my phone rings. I glance at the screen and groan.
Mom.
I take a deep breath and square my shoulders. “Hello?”
“I need you,” she snaps, not bothering with pleasantries.
“What for?”
“There’s a sale at the mall,” she says with the same urgency that someone who’s standing in a burning building would have when they call nine-one-one. “Parking is going to be a nightmare, and you know how I get in crowds. I need you with me.”
Her words, her selfishness provide a clarity I didn’t have two minutes ago.
“I can’t.”
“You’re not doing anything important,” she shoots back. “It’s your day off.”
“How do you know that?”
She sighs dramatically. “Because I tried to call you at your office. That man, Victor, told me.” She sneers my colleagues name. She’s never liked Victor. Not because of something he did but because he didn’t respond to her advances. “Surely, you can spare a few hours for your mo—”
“I’m moving,” I blurt, and as soon as the words are out, the weight I’ve carried on my shoulders for years disappears.
She gasps. “What?”
“I’m moving,” I repeat. “I got a job. Out of state.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she snaps. “Why would you do that?”
“Because I want to,” I say.
“You have a job here.”
“Yes.”
“But I need you,” she insists even though we both know she doesn’t.
And there’s the problem.
She doesn’t say she’ll miss me or ask why I want to move. She doesn’t give two shits about what I need or why I need it. It’s all about her, always and only about her.
“You don’t,” I counter. “You don’t need me any more than I need you.”
“You’re making a mistake,” she says coldly.
“Maybe,” I admit. “But it’s my mistake to make.”
There’s a pause, one long enough that my muscles tense and dread forms in the pit of my stomach because I’m fully expecting a fight. But it doesn’t come. Instead, the line goes dead.
I lower the phone slowly, puzzle pieces clicking into place as I will away the insane urge to call her back and apologize. That would be the worst thing I can do, especially since her call only solidified what I need to do.
After opening my email on my laptop, I type in my landlord’s address, and start writing.
Hi,
I’m writing to let you know that I will be vacating my apartment due to
a job relocation. I will be moving out immediately and will ensure
everything is left clean and ready for inspection.
Thank you,
Zoey
I read through it once before hitting send. The whoosh of the sent email is like music to my ears. It symbolizes a decision made, a fresh start, a new beginning.
There’s no going back now.
I close my laptop before setting it on the cushion beside me. Standing, I glance around my apartment, the place I’ve called home for the last few years. I built the life I have here, piece by piece, and I’ve been happy here… mostly.
It’s time for a change. And that change starts right now.
I grab a box from the closet, set it on the floor in the middle of the room, and start packing.
Tacoma, Washington, here I come.