Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
ERIKA
“Metal or wood?” the mortician, Rick, asked, like he was helping me pick patio furniture instead of a coffin.
“Wood’s the traditional look. Lots of stain options.
We’ve even got eco-friendly versions.” He tilted his head, appraising me.
“You strike me as the environmentally conscious type. Am I right?”
Rick had to be in his sixties. His swoopy dyed black hair looked like early-era Elvis. He patted the casket beside him with pride, as if waiting for applause. Then he winked.
Why was he winking? Was the wink supposed to sell me on a coffin? It wasn’t as if I was going to drive up the street to the competition. Rick had the bodies here…somewhere.
And what exactly did eco-friendly mean here? Cheap? Biodegradable? Cheap wasn’t a bad thing, but I also didn’t want to be remembered as the world’s biggest cheapskate at my father’s funeral. I wasn’t aiming for tree-hugger vibes either.
Sure, I cared about the environment. I’d drive an electric car in a heartbeat, if I could afford it. My dad, on the other hand? There hadn’t been a single conservationist bone in his body. The man had thought recycling was a government conspiracy.
I cleared my throat and stepped back as Rick moved my way.
“Traditional is good. What do you think the Methodist crowd would consider most appropriate?” The service was at the Methodist church—Hope’s church.
She’d converted Dad after they married, though I suspected he’d never completely let go of his Baptist roots.
“Poplar is our most popular option,” Rick announced, like he was pitching a used car. “Do you want matching caskets?”
Before I could answer, he opened the nearest display model and immediately had to slam it shut when it sprang back open. It refused to stay closed. Rick threw his weight onto the lid, wrestling it down in an undignified scuffle, until it finally surrendered with a sharp, satisfying click.
“It’s a floor model only,” he said, slightly out of breath. “Whatever you choose won’t pop open.”
“Glad to hear it,” I muttered, stifling a giggle. “The medical examiner recommended we keep the caskets closed.”
It didn’t stop there—endless decisions. White interior? Red interior? Pink interior? What outfits did I want them to wear? I felt like I was planning a wedding from hell, except the guests were guaranteed not to complain.
I don’t want to think about their clothes. To shorten this visit I announced, “White interior. Poplar. Matching caskets. Closed casket ceremony.”
“We have your parents here, of course,” Rick said, like he was confirming a dinner reservation.
“I’ll need you to bring the clothes as soon as possible so we can press the outfits and all that.
And any jewelry they wanted to be buried with.
Do you want the rings left on or are those heirlooms you want back?
Also, I’ll need photos so we can style their hair. ”
I blinked. “Does it matter? It’s a closed-casket ceremony.”
His eyebrows shot up like I’d just suggested we replace the caskets with trash bags. “Of course it matters. Come with me.” He waved dramatically. “We still need to discuss awning colors for the service. And flowers. Also, don’t forget to put together your eulogy speech.”
I’d have to talk to Marty about what to say about Hope.
I barely knew her, but I wanted to do her justice.
Then my mind snagged on something worse—what she’d be buried in.
I didn’t know my stepmother well enough to choose the clothes her body would lie in forever, and the thought alone made my stomach twist.
I could ask Vinny, but that felt like too much to put on him.
I hoped like hell Rick wasn’t going to show me their bodies. I hadn’t seen them, and I didn’t want to. A viewing was beyond my ability to handle. I didn’t need that kind of closure. I needed distance.
My phone chimed an incoming message.
Unknown: This is Josh. Can you come by the clinic now?
Finally, I could get that dreadful part of today done. We could talk about how I would not be working for him. I would take out a second mortgage on my condo to get him the money owed. I hadn’t yet figured out how to pay for two mortgages. How did he get my number? Maybe from the lawyer.
Erika: I’m at the funeral home. Be about an hour.
Josh: Not much time. Now is better.
Erika: Ok. Will try.
“I’ve got to go,” I called out. “Just choose whatever awning material is appropriate for Methodists. No golds. I trust you to pick flowers within our budget.”
My nerves were shot by the time I made it to the clinic. I decided to go with the angle that Dad forged the signature, and I’d take it to court if he pushed it.
The second I walked in Marty jumped up, “Thank God. Dr. Hurst is about to have a heart attack.”
“I didn’t know he was that anxious about us talking.”
“These people are laying on the guilt,” Marty rushed to add.
“Dr. Hurst already had an awful day. One of his long-time heart failure dogs died. Then we had a lady threaten to take us to court over the fact we can’t get her health certificate back before her flight to Aruba leaves.
As if we control the USDA.” She rolled her eyes.
“I’ve got this woman eating up social media with a bad review over the fact she couldn’t afford her dog’s medication for his skin infection.
Now this.” She grabbed my arm and dragged me to the treatment area in the back of the clinic.
It was a table that could be used to perform an exam or a wash a pet if you took the metal top off.
A man I didn’t know held a sobbing woman. Both looked to be about mid-thirties. She blew her nose on a hand towel and emitted pug-like snorts mixed with choking sobs.
Josh wore light-blue scrubs under a white lab coat and…glasses? I didn’t remember him ever wearing glasses. They softened the sharp lines of his face, giving him a harmless, almost bookish look.
He said to the couple in a gentle tone, “Maybe we should put him down.”
The woman wailed. “We can’t give up on Petey. He was my son’s dog. My boy’s last wish was that I take care of him. How was I supposed to know the neighbors would be practicing archery in their backyard?”
An eighty-plus-pound hound mix lay on his side on the stainless treatment table.
He struggled for each breath, likely from the huge metal arrow through his chest. Out of curiosity, I lifted the dog’s gums to find they were pale pink, not white.
Therefore, he was in shock but not bleeding out internally.
Where was the supplemental oxygen? Where was the tech placing the IV catheter and starting fluids?
It made me jittery not to see an appropriate response to the patient’s state.
Josh waved at me. “This is Dr. Chomping. What do you think?”
“About the patient?” I pointed at the dog.
“You’re the emergency medicine specialist. Can he be treated or should we euthanize?”
Was that a trick question? “He can be treated, but we have to start stabilizing him right now. IV fluids, oxygen…all that. He needs the right doctor to handle the surgery. He needs someone with experience to go into the chest. The risk of death for that kind of procedure is real. Like thirty to forty percent chance of survival.”
“How much would it cost?” asked the man I assumed to be the owner.
Josh met my gaze. His eyebrows shot up.
Does he want me to answer? Okay, I’d answer.
“Rough estimate?” Most GPs, like Josh, freaked out and sent this kind of trauma to us…
to me. I went on autopilot to provide an estimate.
“Five to ten thousand from start to finish. You’d probably need a deposit of three thousand to attempt surgery.
If you’re going to try heroics to save him, it needs to happen now.
Going into this, you have to realize there’s a high chance he could die during the procedure or in recovery.
Or, he might do great once I repair everything.
If he dies, you’ll still be on the hook for however much treatment was provided.
He should probably go to one of the emergency clinics in Raleigh that has twenty-four-hour care for this, but we’d have to call and see if they have a surgeon available.
” I wasn’t one to beat around the bush when it came to this kind of trauma.
That’s where vets got into trouble. Clear rules from the start. Clear expectations.
“Could you do this surgery?” Josh asked me.
“Sure. With the right staff and supplies.” I nodded.
The woman sniffled louder.
The man compressed his lips. “Do it. Do the surgery here. You guys monitor him. I’ll put a deposit down up front with Marty.
Come on, Leigh.” He put an arm around the sobbing lady and guided her back to the lobby.
He suddenly stopped and called out, “Can you do his nails, Doc? He raises hell to cut them at home.”
“Of course, we can do his nails.” Josh gave the man a placating smile.
“How do you want to start?” Josh asked me.
“Did you already give him something for pain?”
Josh nodded.
“Excellent.” I glanced over at the veterinary tech who had just come back from break, using her phone screen as a mirror while she fluffed her hair like she was prepping for a photo shoot.
I called out to her, “I need you to help me start a few things on Petey.” When she didn’t move fast enough, I waved at Josh to hold off the vein after I’d clipped to get in an intravenous catheter.
I ordered the tech, “Start flow-by oxygen and start IV fluids. Run a whole bag into him right now wide open.” That should be enough to keep him stable.
He needed the fluids before we started surgery.
“Excuse us for one moment.” I grabbed Josh’s arm, tugged him into the closest exam room, and shut the door.
“I don’t work here. I’m not even sure I’m licensed in this state. ”