Chapter 2
If looks could kill a piece of technology, the laptop on Cecil’s desk would be dead and buried. Somehow, the fact the lid is covered in all kinds of random stickers—from merch logos to cartoon animals—only makes it more aggravating that clocking out is this difficult.
“Maybe you should—”
“Shut up, Mary,” I groan. "Your time is coming, you know?”
“Right,” the dead woman agrees, sitting on the embalming table where her body had been. “Because you’re going to pop that little pill waiting in your medicine cabinet, then I’ll just fade on out, won’t I?”
“And hopefully I’ll forget your face so you don’t make a return visit.” I smack the enter key once. Then twice. Then thrice, trying not to slam down on it as the little wheel on the screen spins and spins.
I am just trying to fucking clock out. It should not be so difficult.
“Let it never be said that Eleanor—”
“Nell—”
“Collins shied away from getting her hands dirty. But also never let it be said that she’s a master of technology.”
Finally, the wheel stops spinning, and after a few more seconds, I’ve successfully clocked out.
“Good night, Mary. Sorry you died,” I sigh as I meet her eyes where she’s sitting on the embalming table.
She just looks at me with her head cocked, her eyes pale in the fluorescent light that buzzes above us.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think she’s real.
But unfortunately, my psychiatrist and I know better.
By the time I flip off the light and shoulder my backpack, she’s vanished, though I don’t even consider that she might be gone for good. I worry that tonight, the only way to get my guests to stop showing up will be by chemical intervention.
In my car, I lean back, closing my eyes and just let myself sit there in the near-quiet of the night.
Cecil was right. Any storms tonight had blown by quickly, aligning with the weatherman’s warning that the real storms are still starting tomorrow and no one in the area should get comfortable enough not to expect them.
Instead of going straight back to my apartment, I find myself pulling into the parking lot of Honey Clove, unsurprised to find it almost dead at nearly 4 am.
And yet, even though most of their customers eat between seven in the morning and nine at night, the diner always remains open.
One time following a hard nightshift, Cecil decided I was too pale, so brought me here to "get some food in you and offer support. "
Support for who? I remember asking, gazing at the old, laminated menu that had seen way better days.
Us. The cops. Anyone who has to work this late.
It’s easy to get a booth to myself in the corner considering the fact there are only three other customers inside. I sit down with a sigh, not really hungry, but not wanting to go home. Not yet.
Not quite yet, though I don’t have a real reason tonight for wanting to stay out. I’m not really hungry. Not really dying for a caffeine fix, but—
“Mornin’, Nell,” my waitress greets, making me jump with how she so easily snuck up on me,
“Jeez, Betty,” I murmur. “Warn a person next time.”
The older woman with perpetual lines around her mouth from pursing her lips around a cigarette eight times a day snorts. Her mouth crooks up into a dry grin, and she lays a menu down in front of me with a little slap to the laminated surface.
“Coffee? Cherry Coke?” The fact she knows my drinks of choice makes me wonder if I come in here too much.
But with this being the only diner in this town, the next town, and the town on the other side of that…
I don’t really have a choice if I want to eat late.
It isn’t like daytime, where I have the choice of Honey Clove, the coffee shop, or the tea company in the next town over that makes the best sandwiches known to man.
God, I could really go for an egg salad sandwich right now.
“Uh, yeah. Let’s go with coffee and a water? Umm…” I scan the menu, trying to land on something that sounds good, but failing. I’m really not hungry.
Just restless.
I should go home.
“Just a plate of hash browns with cheese?” There’s nothing in life that can’t be improved by potatoes, and I hope tonight’s restlessness is one of those things. Betty nods and takes the menu from me, though she doesn’t leave right away as she scribbles on her notepad.
“Cecil left on his trip by now, I’m assuming?” she comments instead after shoving the notepad in her shirt pocket. “How long’s he gonna be gone?” Even though we don’t live anywhere near the southern part of the United States, somehow she still has a drawl of epic proportions that warps her words.
“Uh, yeah. He left a while ago, and he’ll be gone for a week.
Maybe eight days, he said, depending on what they do after the wedding.
” It’s not like it’s a secret. Ever since he got the invitation, Cecil carried it around town for the sole purpose of brandishing it under the nose of anyone he could corner.
Betty was one of his first, and least enthused, victims.
“Ain’t it scary being in Kindred Pines all by yourself?
” She’s not even trying to look busy anymore; she’s just standing there like she doesn’t need to put my order in.
Luckily for both of us, I’m really not in a hurry.
But I don’t know her well enough for this conversation to be anything other than politely awkward. “You’re what? Twenty-four?”
“Twenty-six,” I correct automatically.
“Don’t you think you’re too young for all that woo-woo shit?” She waves a hand at me, speaking as if I’m playing with the devil every night, instead of just embalming bodies and getting them ready for a funeral or cremation.
“Too young for what?” I give her a confused glance, tearing my gaze away from the napkin I’m tearing into little pieces.
“Death? Embalming bodies? It’s just another job.
” I try to play it off like I believe my own words, hating that I’m fidgeting and giving off bad vibes from this impromptu lecture.
Thankfully, Betty doesn’t really notice. She just shrugs and shakes her head, mumbling about Kindred Pines being bad for the psyche of a twenty-something year old woman. But I know better than to argue, even if her intentions are grating.
I can make my own decisions, I want to tell her firmly. None of you here know me well enough to know what’s good for me or not.
But I just smile politely and decide on a few pieces of toast in addition to my hash browns. That won’t hurt my endeavors to sleep and get my guests to go away. And it gives me an excuse to sit here for a little while, just existing.
Thankfully, when Betty brings me my cream-laden coffee and water, she doesn’t stick around with more of a lecture.
She just smiles at me in an almost comforting way, though the look doesn’t seem natural on her pinched, leathery face.
I thank her quickly, relieved and able to relax once she walks away, instead of being subjected to more of her opinions.
And frankly, thank fuck. Because I’m too tired tonight to be convincing enough for her to believe I appreciate whatever she has to say about my career.
When the chime on the door clangs, I look up to see an older woman and a teenage girl who look alike enough to be mother and daughter.
For some unknown reason, they sit only two booths away from where I am, as if there isn’t a whole restaurant to pick from.
Or worse, as if they don’t know late-night diner etiquette.
Doesn’t everyone know to leave at least four tables between you and other customers? After midnight, people are mostly here to indulge in an existential crisis or a midnight breakdown. Not to sit and chat while having to be aware of the people near them.
I could move, I suppose. I also have a whole ass restaurant that I could pick another seat in. If I wanted, I could sweep past the chattering mother and daughter with my drinks in hand, announcing to Betty that I'm going somewhere else, and just go.
It feels very dramatic in my head, and I doubt the reality would live up to the expectation. So I just lean against the cushioned backrest, head tilted as my eyes shutter closed.
Maybe I should’ve just gone home, I think to myself as the news plays on the television behind the bar counter.
Or I could’ve gotten something to go. If I did that, I would’ve avoided Betty’s nosiness and whatever fresh hell these two are, now that their voices are rising in excitement over their shared gossip.
“No, I swear, I’m not—”
“She told me it was one hundred percent settled. Her dad said he was paying.”
“Frank won’t pay!” the mom snorts. “What the hell is she thinking? She’s going to have to pay every bridesmaid back!”
“The others want to get a lawyer. They said—”
Betty interrupts them with all the grace of a tumbleweed, cutting off their talk that’s about as interesting as the dusty ceiling fan.
I open my eyes as she takes their order, only to groan with frustration when I see I’m no longer alone in my booth.
Mary has made another appearance, her birthmark almost seeming bigger than it was at Kindred Pines.
Or…is it? Maybe it was always this big, and my subconscious has it right.
Or maybe my delusion of her is the incorrect thing here, and the birthmark actually is smaller on the face of the real Mary, who lies deader than a doornail back at the mortuary.
“Go away.” My voice is soft and frustrated. “Come on. I didn’t see you enough to take a mental fucking picture. Can’t you just go away?”
Betty stops in front of my table, not looking up from the pad she’s scribbling on. “You say you needed somethin’, Nell?” she asks absently.
I shake my head fervently, kicking myself because I know better than to talk to my “guests” when someone else is around. That’s asking for another trip to the psych ward that did way more harm than good the first time.
…And the second.
I’m definitely not looking to go for round three anytime soon, so I just give Betty my biggest, most reassuring grin.