Chapter 29
CHAPTER
W here are all the dead people?
I’ve never been down here before, in the basement of Chapman and Sons Funeral Home, but I bet this is where they are.
The ones waiting—for embalming, for hair and makeup, for their loved ones to come and cry over them.
And the ones waiting on the other end—bodies done being displayed and the only thing left is cremation or burial.
All of the wakes are held on the main level, two rooms back-to-back.
Sometimes they make it into one, if the person was popular.
Lord knows I’ve come here enough times. It’s the only place of its kind in Minton Parish.
My grandmother’s wake was here—she didn’t need the two rooms made into one.
And Ivy’s dad—he did need the two rooms. When I was younger, my mother used to make me come here with her whenever people from church died.
We’d both put on dresses and pretend we were good Christians.
A thought hits, makes my blood run cold. Was Mr. Sawyer’s wake in two rooms? Did all the town come to pay respect to a man who didn’t deserve respect? I hadn’t stuck around long enough to find out. That fucker probably packed the place.
My musings are interrupted by a voice. “Ms. Davis?”
I stand, practically jumping from my seat.
The man extends his hand with a solemn face. “I’m Kenny Chapman. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
He motions down the hall. “Right this way. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting so long.”
“It’s fine.”
He opens one of the closed doors to reveal an office.
There’s a desk with chairs, some catalogs, tissue boxes carefully positioned on my side.
An archway to my right leads to a bigger room, one full of caskets—display pieces like we’re shopping for blouses at Macy’s.
It makes me wonder, do they come in sizes?
Are there clearance options? Name brands and generic?
Kenny Chapman tucks his chair in and opens a folder. “So your mother already made most of the arrangements.”
I blink a few times. “Excuse me?”
He offers a practiced smile. “It’s common. Parents often want to take the burden from their children, save them from having to make choices during a difficult time.” He slides a piece of paper across the desk to me. “These are the things she picked out. I can still show you them, if you’d like.”
A lump forms in my throat, thinking of my mother coming here by herself—sick, knowing she was dying, picking out her own casket.
I swallow, pushing down the shitty feeling that has threatened to rear its ugly head ever since my phone rang last night.
If I keep moving, the guilt can’t catch up with me.
I lean forward, look down at a full page of typed-up line items. It must be fifteen rows long, each with a price tag at the end:
Base service fee: $2,295
Embalming: $895
Hearse: $350
Full day viewing—two sessions, double room
Of course my mother thinks she needs the double room. I stop reading and scan down to the bottom line. The total is more than $9,000. I point to it. “Did she pay this already, too?”
Mr. Chapman frowns. “No, I’m sorry. She didn’t. We do offer a prepayment option that locks in the rate, but your mother didn’t opt for it.”
For some absurd reason, that makes me smile. It’s just . . . so Mom .
He reaches behind him to the credenza, grabs a board with all different types of wood displayed. “Your mother chose the glossy red oak—it’s a beautiful piece—with the premium white satin liner.”
“It’s very nice.”
“Would you like me to show you a full-sized glossy red oak casket? We have one on display in the other room. Since the bill wasn’t prepaid, there isn’t a formal contract and you can still replace anything that isn’t to your satisfaction.”
I shake my head. “No. But thank you. Whatever she picked is fine. I want her to have what she wanted.”
Kenny Chapman nods with a smile. “Wonderful. Then there’s just the matter of payment.”
“Do you take Visa?”
“We do.”
I dig into my purse, pull out my wallet, and hold the card across the desk. “Here you go. Is there anything else we need to discuss?”
“When would you like the service to be held?”
“I don’t know. As soon you can do it, I guess.”
He slides the invoice back to his side of the desk, takes a convenient credit card machine from a drawer. “We’ll need tomorrow to prep. How would Friday work? Two to five and seven to nine for viewing hours?”
“Okay.”
“And nine a.m. for mass at Saint Matthew’s on Saturday, followed by a short ceremony at the crematory?”
“Sure.”
“Would you prefer to make the arrangements with Saint Matthew’s or have us handle that?”
“You, please.”
“Of course. There’s a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar preparation fee.”
I purse my lips. I don’t know why, especially since the bill is over $9,000 already, but adding another fee to make a phone call just irks me. “Maybe you could use the non -premium white satin liner, and we can call it even?”
Kenny Chapman looks appalled. I don’t care.
He clears his throat. “We’ll absorb the fee as a courtesy.”
I don’t think it will break him. I force a smile. “Thank you.”
He swipes my card, slides a receipt over for me to sign. I scribble my name and stand. “Is there anything I need to do?”
“We’ll need clothing. Her favorite dress or outfit, perhaps?”
“Anything else?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. We’ll make sure the church includes the viewing times in their weekly bulletin that goes out tomorrow so their parishioners are aware of your mom’s passing.”
“Great. So drop off clothes tomorrow and then just come at two p.m. on Friday?”
“You and whatever family members you’d like to invite can come at one for a private viewing. We want to make sure you’re happy with the way she looks.”
I lift my purse to my shoulder. “It’ll just be me.”
He nods, steps around his desk, and extends a hand. “Again, I’m very sorry for your loss.”
Out front, I gulp fresh air. How the heck does that guy spend all day in that place?
It smells weird, and my chest feels scratchy, like I’m breaking out in a rash.
Though outside isn’t much better; it’s thick and soupy.
By the time I walk the twenty steps to my parked rental car, my skin is damp with a sheen of sweat.
God, I hate how sticky this time of the year gets in Louisiana.
Actually, I dislike this place year-round.
I’ve been here less than eight hours, and I’m already itching to leave.
Maybe I should do it—put this crappy rental car in drive and head north.
Don’t stop until I hit Manhattan. But there are things I’m hoping this trip will accomplish, aside from burying my mother.
Like rattling my memory, filling in the rest of the missing pieces.
As if on cue following that thought, my phone buzzes from somewhere in my bag. I start the ignition to get the air going before digging it out. Lucas’s name is displayed on the screen, an incoming text. He is definitely a puzzle piece, so I swipe to read.
Lucas: Hey. Heard you’re in town.
How the heck did he know already? Another text follows before I can respond.
Lucas: You went to the Grind for coffee. New owner since we were kids. Higher prices. Still gossip central.
A memory comes back. I’m not sure if it was repressed, or I just had no reason to think about it until now. But it makes me smile.
Elizabeth: Do you still pour an inch of sugar into your coffee cup before filling it?
Lucas: LOL I don’t. I take it black now. Diabetes runs in the family. Do you still drink yours until it’s ice-cold, yet you despise iced coffee?
My smile widens.
Elizabeth: I do.
Lucas: I just wanted to reach out and say I’m sorry about the way I broke the news to you the other night. I should’ve given you a minute, let you wake up first.
Elizabeth: It’s fine. I appreciated that you called instead of a stranger from the hospital.
Lucas: If there’s anything I can do, just let me know. I work three twelves, so after eight tonight, I’ll be off for four days. If you want a shoulder to cry on, ear to bend, drinking buddy . . .
The drinking part sounds like a good idea, though I’m not sure I can wait until eight o’clock tonight. Today already feels like it’s been a week long, and it isn’t even five in the afternoon. But Lucas might be able to unlock some more memories . . .
Elizabeth: Thank you. I appreciate that. It’s been a long day, so I’ll probably go to bed early tonight, and I have some errands to run tomorrow, but maybe we can get together at some point after the services are over? They’re going to be Friday.
Lucas: I’d like that a lot.
A warm feeling spreads through me.
Elizabeth: Okay, great. I’ll text you.
The door to the funeral parlor opens. Kenny Chapman walks out and looks around.
Mine is the only car in the parking lot.
He lifts a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, gets a look at me, and waves.
I guess I’d better go or he’ll be adding a twenty-five-dollar parking surcharge to my bill.
I put the car in drive and head home. Well, not home—but to my mother’s house.
I’m not looking forward to going inside.
Actually, I’m dreading it. But I can’t stall forever.
Though I can make a stop, pick up a bottle of wine to take the edge off when I get there, maybe two bottles.
I should probably pick up some food, too, but I’m not hungry.
The liquor store is on Main Street, the two-block-long strip of stores that cover basic small-town necessities—Laundromat, grocery store, bank, barbershop .
. . It’s also diagonally across from Liars Pub.
I glance over at the cars in the parking lot on my way in.
None look familiar. No red pickup tonight.
But as I walk out, two bottles in hand and my head still spinning, I remember something Noah mentioned to me in that bar the last time we were there—the place he goes when he needs to clear his mind. Big Devil Bayou.
I return to my car and toss the wine I’ve just bought inside. Maybe the bayou can clear my mind, too. Or better yet, maybe I’ll find someone there who can make me forget my life for a while . . .