17. We Are Gathered Here Together #3
“I’m gonna go talk to the family.” Greg spat the words through tight lips and shook off the man’s sweaty palm. An exhale puffed hard through his nose as Greg marched down the aisle’s red-and-gold-patterned carpet, stopping behind a mom in a way-too-tight-for-a-funeral black dress.
For the first time, Greg caught a glimpse of the body. Oh, God, there was an actual body.
He’d never been to an open-casket viewing before.
Most Jewish services included a closed, no-frills pine box or maybe cremation.
But this girl was just lying there, out in the open, like Snow White on display for a goddamn prince.
And her skin was so fucking pale. Obviously, there was no blood in it, from the embalming process, but still.
He’d never seen skin so white. And her lips were rosy, maybe too rosy, and shaped in a grin.
Or a smirk. Had they been sewn into that expression?
Greg couldn’t comprehend a family standing next to their smirking, dead daughter. He averted his eyes. This is not my fault. This is not my fault… What was he supposed to do when he got to her? Pray over her corpse?
Someone coughed behind him, and Greg realized the line had moved forward a few paces. He was holding it up. He was causing a problem, of course he was.
I can’t believe they just lost their CHILD. There were no words for this. Stephanie struggled to imagine what she’d want someone to say to her in this situation, then she immediately stopped, because she didn’t want to risk putting that thought into the Universe. Whoosah.
She clutched her pack of travel tissues.
They were the cheap kind without lotion, and they were making her nose redder (her concealer was totally gone).
But the little packs fit perfectly into her evening bag.
In retrospect, she should have realized that the funeral home would plant tissue boxes around.
Her aunt’s service had been held here three years ago.
No, wait, Stephanie had the Ford back then, so it must’ve been four years ago.
Anyway, her cousins had ordered this arrangement of giant calla lilies, the white ones with the curling petals that had been in her aunt’s bridal bouquet.
It was a beautiful touch, and they’d placed the wedding photo right next to the blooms so everyone could see how perfectly the arrangements matched. The little details mattered.
Though did teenagers really like birds-of-paradise?
It could be Puerto Rico’s state flower. No, Puerto Rico wasn’t a state.
It was a country, or a territory, or something like that.
Whatever. The strange décor was only accentuated by a lack of pictures.
There wasn’t a single framed image of this girl.
No programs or mass cards. It could be a money thing, but if that were the case, and the Mendezes couldn’t afford a proper burial (Stephanie had no idea what they did for a living), then the school really should have stepped up.
Frankly, it was embarrassing that they hadn’t.
Stephanie should set up a GoFundMe when she gets home. The family probably needed it.
God, she was next in line. The teens in front of her were sweet, shaking hands and offering condolences.
That looked like Harper White. Her mom must be around here somewhere.
Stephanie’s eyes scanned the room. Didn’t they go through some sort of scandal recently?
Something to do with that other Latina girl.
What was her name? Nancy? Natalie? It was in the newspaper.
Stephanie had been homeroom mom for Brett’s second-grade class, which included Harper and that little Spanish girl.
She had the wildest curls! The newspaper had said that those two Latina girls were friends, which made sense.
Damn, what was her name? And where was Brett?
Stephanie took a cleansing breath. She should go to yoga after this.
That would feel so good. It was only 11 a.m., so if this ended quickly enough, she might be able to make her regular class.
She should text the group chat. So far there was no sign of a priest or rosary beads.
You would think the Mendezes would be Catholic—Latinos were supposed to be religious—but whatever, it just meant Stephanie would get out of here faster.
The line inched forward, and the body came into view.
Stephanie’s breath quickened. There was a dead girl a few feet away, and the mother was standing beside her.
The woman wasn’t even crying—not a single sob!
If that were Brett, Stephanie would be a puddle on the floor.
Yet there was this woman, utterly emotionless, next to an open casket holding her baby.
But Jiminy Cricket, the girl was gorgeous.
What was that quote about dying young? You leave a good-looking corpse?
Not that Stephanie would ever want anyone to die young.
That was awful. But Sabrina’s skin was glowing, like Nicole Kidman after a spa day, which made her bright red lip even more audacious.
It was the wrong shade for a fifteen-year-old.
Stephanie stepped into a cold pocket, her spine shuddering, and smelled…
not flowers, but perfume. From the body.
She’d never smelled a corpse before. She’d expected a stench of embalming fluid, something akin to cleaning chemicals, but this scent was sugary.
And the girl’s cheeks were rosy. Her lips practically smiled.
And her skin… wow, it was so perfect. Stephanie couldn’t remember what it was like to have skin like that.
Gradually, her hand lifted, drifting a little closer.
A diamond bracelet swung on her wrist. Stephanie’s arm stretched.
That skin must feel like silk, the good kind, used for wedding dresses.
Her fingers extended, and her pink nails twitched slightly.
The smell, it was… honeysuckle. Stephanie leaned on her toes, inhaling deeply, her body drifting.
Then someone clasped her hand. Stephanie jolted.
Holy bananas, did she almost desecrate the body? Yes, she’d just tried to touch a corpse! And the mother had to stop her! Oh, gosh darn! Stephanie’s cheeks flamed. A pearly-white hand clutched hers. Stephanie regained her senses.
“Oh, Ms. Mendez, I’m so sorry for your loss,” Stephanie muttered, stumbling forward, her hand still in the mother’s grip.
The woman wore a vintage hat and black veil that was very Jackie Kennedy–esque.
Stephanie pumped her arm, trying to turn the awkward moment into a handshake.
“I can’t imagine what you must be going through.
” Stephanie tried to release her grip, but the woman clung on, alabaster knuckles tightening around Stephanie’s bones.
“Um, my thoughts are with you.” Stephanie tugged, but the woman’s fingers crunched harder.
“Are you okay?” Stephanie asked, yanking once more, her words gasping. “Is there anything… I can do?”
Her gaze flitted for assistance. Greg Cohen was standing behind her. Wasn’t he the guidance counselor who dropped the ball with this girl? Stephanie locked eyes with him, gesturing to her hand. Hello? A little help here!
The man did nothing, completely oblivious. Maybe he deserved all the rotten press he was getting.
Stephanie gave a massive pull, elbow jerking. No result. “Excuse me, miss. Are you all right?”
Only it was the teen boy beside the mother who reacted.
His head snapped up, his brimmed hat falling behind him.
What teenager wears a hat from a black-and-white movie?
Then he dashed—no, sprinted? Is he floating?
—through the jam-packed funeral home, right toward a pretty reporter entering with a microphone in hand.
The grip around Stephanie’s digits clamped so unbearably tight that her head flung back. Her eyes rolled, lashes fluttering, and a howl escaped her lips. Her bones were cracking. Breaking.
A door slammed shut. A bolt clattered. Even with the crushing pain in her hand and the blubbering funeral chitchat, the boom of that locked door echoed with finality.
Her attention shot toward the exit. The teenage boy, dressed in an ill-fitting black suit meant for an undertaker on a horse-drawn carriage, was standing…
No, he was definitely floating. Couldn’t anyone else see this?
Stephanie’s eyes darted frantically, then immediately flung back to the piercing throb in her right hand and to the grieving mother who wouldn’t let go. The woman’s veil was gone. Her pale skin was stretched unnaturally tight over the sharp bones of her cheeks. But her eyes…
All her muscles locked tight, and Stephanie’s mouth fell agape. Her spit dried, and the overwhelming anguish in her hand was abruptly gone. Or different. Insignificant?
The mother’s eyes were fire engine red. Lipstick red.
Blood red. A cruel expression twisted her remarkably white face.
Aren’t Latinos supposed to be tanner than this?
Her crimson lips curled up. White fangs descended from slobbering gums. Yes, they were fangs.
Recessed lights glinted off the razor points.
The entire bereaved family showed their faces now, hats and veils gone. Their matching scarlet eyes were on display.
Then the coffin stirred. The metal stand beneath it squealed. Wood rattled.