Chapter 11 Whiz
WHIZ
Itake a deep breath before stepping outside and striding toward her car. The trunk pops open when I press the button on the keyfob, and I stare at the meager contents like they hold answers to questions I refuse to let myself ask.
There isn’t much. Two suitcases, a couple of boxes, taped shut and labeled in neat handwriting.
One box is marked books, and another is marked supplies.
Everything fits in what appears to be a methodically packed space.
It’s like she packed having made a decision that wouldn’t allow for her to second-guess or look back.
I start unloading, letting the task at hand ground me in a way it shouldn’t. It’s movement, purpose, something to pull my mind out of the darkest pits it’s been in since last week.
One trip after another across the gravel path that leads to the small cabin tucked behind the trees at the back of the property. It’s hidden enough for the occupant to have some privacy, but not so hidden that she’ll feel isolated.
The door creaks when I push it open, and the lingering smell of bleach and disinfectant hits me square in the face.
There isn’t much here, but the couch and chair in the living area make it livable.
I know there’s also a bed and dresser in the one bedroom, and the kitchen is stocked with the basic essentials. It’s sparse but functional.
I drop her bags just inside the door, then begin stacking the boxes against the wall. She didn’t come with much, and I can’t help but wonder if this is all of her worldly possessions or does she have more being delivered.
It doesn’t fucking matter.
I take one last look before pulling the door closed and walking back to the main building. For days, Death’s Door has been home. It’s provided me with a mix of torture and comfort. Now, when I step inside, it provides a buzz, a hum of something… different.
Ignoring the unfamiliar feeling, I head straight for the basement, straight for Undertaker. Straight for her.
Zoey stands at the stainless steel table, her back to me, hands moving with precision as she works on Undertaker. There’s no hesitation in her now, no trace of uncertainty. This is where she belongs, and it shows in every move she makes.
She hasn’t noticed me yet so I stop and watch.
Her focus is locked onto the task in front of her. She leans in slightly, adjusting something I can’t quite see from where I stand, and her shoulders are relaxed, steady. Controlled.
She says something so quietly I almost miss it. I can’t make out the words, but the tone is clear enough. Whatever she said was respectful. It wasn’t clinical or detached.
Her caring lands somewhere deep within me, somewhere I’ve been avoiding all week, and I hate the way my heart thunders against my ribs.
Zoey continues to work, talking under her breath like my brother can hear her, like her words matter. Maybe they do, maybe they don’t.
And therein lies the problem.
I clear my throat, the sound cutting through the silence, and she startles with a squeak before turning around to face me. Her glare is hard, irritation flashing her eyes, and her chest heaves.
We hold each other’s gazes for several long moments, and then I stride across the room and sit in the chair she moved earlier. Once I’m seated, she returns her attention to Undertaker, muttering about assholes and shoving a scalpel up mine.
Her movements settle again after a minute as she falls into the same rhythm as before. Watching her utilize so much care almost feels reassuring, and that’s yet another thing I hate about her being here, about what she’s doing.
Nothing about this should feel anything but horrible.
I have no clue how much time passes as she works and I watch, neither of us saying a word. Every once in a while she’ll glance at me as if trying to determine if I approve of her actions.
I don’t.
And I do.
Eventually, she takes a few steps back, and her expression is one of satisfaction.
I make no move to stand, not yet, as she pulls her gloves off, then her protective gown, and tosses both in the trash.
She returns to Undertaker, and I observe as she lets her eyes travel from his head to his toes and back up again before pulling the white sheet up to his chest.
Then she looks at me and waits, not that she has to say anything. I push to my feet and take a deep breath before walking toward Undertaker and coming to a stop on his other side.
Staring down at his face, seeing how normal he looks is like someone is slicing up my heart with a butterknife. It’s excruciating because I know that underneath the makeup, underneath her work, lies a man who’s dead because of me.
Guilt, regret, and fury lash at me from the inside out, and I’m uncertain of my ability to contain it so rather than try, I step back. The minimal distance does nothing to calm the hurricane brewing beneath my skin, so I turn away.
I tilt my head back, scrub shaking hands over my face only to dig my fingers into my skull in an effort to override the pain of loss.
Spoiler alert… it doesn’t work. Nothing does, and I’m absolutely certain that nothing ever will.
Zoey slides the tray back into the cooler, and I appreciate the fraction of privacy as she tends to any final tasks. When the door shuts with a click, the sound seems to echo, and I know that it will continue to echo in my brain until my last dying breath.
It’s done, finished.
She moves around the space, cleaning and disinfecting every surface whether she utilized it or not. I imagine these are things she’s done a thousand times before, and I’m no stranger to this side of death, but this is different.
For me, at least.
“I’m hungry.” Her voice pulls me from my thoughts, but I don’t respond.
In fact, I do nothing but stand there and stare at the now closed door blocking Undertaker from my view. I’m dimly aware of Zoey’s footsteps, of her leaving the room and heading upstairs.
I grab the chair and move it to where I had it before she arrived. Then I sit, facing the cooler. For a moment, I wish I’d had the forethought to bring the whiskey downstairs with me, but it passes quickly as tears form.
Instead of doing what I always do and shoving my emotions down, I let myself feel them. Tears stream down my cheeks, and my shoulders shake with sobs.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “It’s my fault you’re in there, and I’d give anything to trade places with you.”
Undertaker’s voice rings in my head. “Quit making this about you.”
I stand and flatten my palm against the cold metal door. “This one’s on me, brother.” I hiccup through my crying. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
There’s no response, no joke or taunt. There’s just…
Nothing.