All the Forever Things Page 4

  Instead of arguing, I scan the delicate white fringe of the dress Mickey has on, looking for signs of flour or butter or anything else that could ruin the fabric. “Just tell me when you have a plate of cookies for us to take back home.”

  Mickey twists away. “I wore an apron when we were baking. Seriously, Gabe.”

  I raise my hands in defeat and lean against the counter.

  Over-the-top exclamations, in accents that don’t exist, bounce back and forth between my little sister and Aunt Liza. At least they’re having fun. When I was little, I played upstairs alone or in the coffin room. If I went outside, I always had to stay two rows of grave markers close to the house so Mom could keep an eye on me. Aunt Liza was still working at Paradise Hill Funeral Home then and not just collecting money for funeral plots like now. I’m not sure if I’m grateful I didn’t grow up with Aunt Liza like Mickey, or jealous.

  “Would you like one?” Mickey asks me in a French accent that makes it sound like she’s choking on her tongue.

  The smell of chocolate and sugar has pretty much permeated my senses, so I pull a cookie from the top of the pile. “Thanks, Mickey.” I take a bite with a subtle smile because my face still throbs. “See you soon, Liza.”

  She slips off her oven mitts and picks up the cigarette she left burning on the counter. “Will Matthew be working tonight?”

  “Um…I’m pretty sure, yeah.”

  She waves good-bye, one gloved finger at a time, and Mickey follows me out of the house. The plate of cookies rests in one hand, and she smiles widely as she takes an enormous bite. “Why don’t we do fun things like this at our house?”

  I glance down at her sparkling outfit. “Where are your normal clothes?”

  “I’ll get them later.”

  “I take it you two were clawing around in the basement’s massive closet?” The women in our family knew how to dress, and they kept everything. I can’t imagine what the owner of Audrey’s Vintage Boutique would do to get a crack at some of those clothes.

  Mickey jumps and grins at me—a sure sign of an idea I’m not going to like. “You could get your prom dress from Aunt Liza!”

  “I’m not going to prom,” I say automatically. The whole idea of spending an entire day getting ready for a high school dance with a guy I probably won’t still be talking to in six months feels incredibly pointless. Of course, Bree agrees.

  “Why can’t you be normal and like normal things?” Mickey whines.

  I let out a snort. “Normal is boring, and besides, Bree and I have plans that do not include hanging out with high school follower-zombies.”

  Mickey’s face contorts into something equaling me being stupid, but I’m not going to argue about whether or not I’m going to prom with an eleven-year-old, and she seems to know it, so we move ahead in silence.

  “What happened to your face?”

  “I wrestled a biker gang at the library,” I deadpan.

  Mickey scoffs but doesn’t say anything else.

  The sun is about to dip below the horizon, and the shadows stretch long in front of us. I wish that I could spend the rest of the night out here. In the quiet.

  “Gabe! Mickey!” Mom calls. “Hurry up! We need to eat! Services start soon!”

  Mickey and I break into a run. We have a typical meal where we watch Mom shovel in as much food as she can while watching the door that leads downstairs. Dad doesn’t show. He never leaves the guests. Mom finally leaves with a sigh to help Dad. She’s always so hopeful we’ll actually make it together for dinner. Mickey beats me to the remote, and I check my phone again. Still nothing.

  I’m still waiting…I text.

  No response.

  I seriously need some distraction.

  Chapter 5

  Brushing my silver name badge, I put on my best work smile. Distraction achieved.

  Before heading into the lobby, I look up Bryce on every social media outlet I can think of to see if he’s posted anything since Bree hasn’t. Of course he has no privacy settings anywhere, so his stupid grin is easy to find. But nothing new about her—or from her either. Did they both just jump off a cliff after they left the library? Seriously. I need updates.

  I shove my phone into my pocket and push through the office door into the lobby. Matthew sets a tray of cookies on the table for the people milling around, grabs one for himself, and then turns in my direction. My cousin looks pretty great in his suit, but he has such a huge ego and such batshit hobbies that I’m not sure if he’ll ever settle down. Matthew is a traditional early-twenties California hunk—tanned, blond, and I know that he uses clippers to make sure he has the right amount of stubble.

  His brows bob up and down in a hello gesture. I give him a quick wave before checking what snacks we have out and what I might need to bring from the back.

  “If it isn’t the girl with a sarcastic coat of armor around her fragile little brain and cold, cold heart.” He grins.

  “There’s something to be said for someone smart enough to be sarcastic,” I say back.

  “And what’s being said?” he asks, one of his brows shooting toward his hairline.

  “That it’s a good thing.”

  Matthew flips a small shortbread cookie into the air before catching it in his mouth. His eyes zero in on my nose. “What happened to your face?”

  “What happened to yours?” I quip back, even though it makes zero sense.

  “Bad talk-back, cousin.” He runs a finger down his jawline. “This face is perfect.”

  I snort.

  “So? Face?”

  “I ran into—”

  He holds his hand up. “Don’t even finish. You’ll just embarrass yourself.”

  I turn to walk away. “Don’t eat all the cookies.”

  “Like you could stop me,” he whispers just loud enough for me to hear.

  I head in search of Dad and flip off Matthew behind my back. He barks out a short laugh behind me.

  Dad’s talking with a woman whose pinched face tells me she’s probably the family member nominated to deal with the arrangements. He keeps nodding, and I can just make out bits of Don’t worry…and Yes, we’ve taken care of that…

  She seems like one of those people who need to be busy to cope. People like her are why even Bree prefers to be downstairs where the bodies are stored, instead of up here when we have crowds. The deceased are one thing. The mourners? Quite another.

  Why isn’t she answering me?

  “Excuse me?” a girl my age asks. She presses her fingers into her temples and lets out a bored sigh. “Of all the crappy ways to spend a Friday night. We drove all the way up here, and…”

  I plaster on a smile. “Can I help you?” I ask softly. I’m still in my work voice, which is stupid. She’s my age. She could care less if I sound professional.

  “Bathroom?” she asks. “I need ah-way from these people.”

  I point back toward the front door. “Just around that corner to the left.”

  “Okay.” She glances up and down at me, giving me a weird eyebrow raise. “I’m not going to accidentally go into a creepy room or anything, am I?”

  I shift my weight to the side, sort of like she’s doing, but the movement feels awkward. “It’s just the bathrooms there.”

  “’Kay. Thanks.” She spins and walks away.

  It hits me that she’s given up something fun to come here tonight. I have Bree and our blog and our vintage hunts, but my Friday nights are almost always spent here. I slip out my phone to take a quick peek. Still nothing from Bree. Her silence is now officially annoying.

  Dad touches my shoulder, and I jump. “Can you find Matthew and have him refill the hot water for tea?”

  “Yup.”

  “Where’s your mom?”

  “Not sure. She left a sandwich on your desk.”

  I swear Dad’s whole face falls just a bit. “Won’t have time but thanks.”

  He could make time, but Dad rarely leaves the lobby while people are lingering
. The same woman as before stops in front of Dad, and I go in search of Matthew. The deceased woman really knew a lot of people—or her family did. The place is packed.

  I walk in my practiced slow way to the doors of the small chapel. The large silver urn sits up front surrounded by a sea of white flowers. The room slowly fills with people talking in hushed voices. There’s an occasional sniff. Maybe Hartman is right. Maybe this is a sad profession. I’ve been inside it for so long that it’s just…Funerals happen. People die.

  Mom taps my shoulder. “I know you have homework. I found Matthew. Your dad obviously isn’t going to leave.” Her gaze flits to Dad with the look of adoration she always has for him. It’s tinged with worry right now, which is normal. “The food is set. You’re fine to go back home.”

  I nod once, but do a quick scan of the table with tea, coffee, snacks…It all looks very hotel-like and professional, which is what they want. Mom’s right. It’s all in order. Matthew emerges from the offices with another large, silver hot-water container. Guess they have it under control. I’ll have to find something else to occupy my brain.

  Mom points as she studies my nose. “And don’t forget to put some ice on your face.”

  Right, the bruising and swelling is probably worse after all my running around. Of all the stupid things. I make my way through the long faces and back into the safety of our offices. Once the door closes behind me, I rest my back against it. Time for chocolate milk, some good Jeremy Messersmith-type music or Spoon or Guster, and maybe a few episodes of Project Runway. I head through the back door of the offices and into the entryway of our house.

  My phone finally vibrates with a text from Bree. Having an unexpectedly good time. Will give you a full report tomorrow.

  Tomorrow?

  I have to wait? I text. Are you serious?

  Yep! I’m there for work anyway, and you need me to do your brows! It’ll be perfect.

  I can’t believe she’s making me wait that long! I jog up the stairs to see Mickey with a full bag of Oreos.

  A thought for the night—Do you ever feel like we’re missing out on the high school experience?

  It’s one thing to realize a girl stuck at a funeral has better places to be, but really, high school is something to be endured before moving on to better things.

  Nope. And since you’re making me wait, you’d better make it good.

  Promise

  Ok

  This is so…strange. And maybe I shouldn’t have told her to make her story good. Bree sometimes charges into new things feet first and eyes closed.

  Her ex Jacob is proof of that. So is Grant. So is the catastrophe of the red hair she attempted last year.

  But Bree has to be smarter than to jump in with Bryce. I think.

  Instead of trying to catch some sleep, I log onto the website I stared with Bree and click on the History of Us section to maybe tweak it a bit. Bree’s section is short.

  Back when I was given weird looks in middle school for my bright dresses, old shoes, and vintage everything, Gabe thought I was cool. Gabe puts up with my whining. She knows her shiz when it comes to vintage. She can spot a wannabe vintage dress in a heartbeat. She’s smarter about boys than me. When I try to help her with something, she actually takes my help, and wants it. And all of that is great and is why we’re friends, but the main thing is this: Gabe makes me the best version of me, and she always knows when I need a doughnut.

  So much of Bree’s life is a disaster that I get why her write-up is so short. What she didn’t want to say is that when things get rough with her family, she comes here. And stays. Sometimes for days. I don’t question. My parents don’t question. It just happens.

  My section is a bit longer. I’m sure my parents have read it, but I’m pretty sure the rest of my family couldn’t care less about my little website.

  Before Bree, friends didn’t come over often for a lot of reasons:

  1. A certain family member generally embarrassed me by making comments about “growing up” and “becoming a woman” even when I was in fourth grade.

  2. Because where I live is a business, which means the ’rents are always working so no one was around to supervise—back when I needed supervision.

  3. Once my friends knew we had dead people in the basement…that was pretty much the end of them wanting to come to my house unless they thought they’d find a ghost or something equally stupid. So, they weren’t at my house for me, but for a peek at death.

  So when Bree followed me home after school one day, even after I warned her about living in a funeral home, I was panicking. I really thought that would be the end of our friendship—the one that was based mostly on her saving me from my elementary school clothes and PE.

  Instead, we explored the whole upstairs—even the rooms I never bothered to go in. All the places that Mom said were okay. The next day, we explored the whole rest of the house. Even the basement.

  I didn’t understand until she showed up for the fifth or sixth day in a row how much I’d missed out by never having friends over. My life had spread about eighteen times bigger than I imagined it ever would.

  And we’ve been friends ever since.

  Also, she’s a great dresser.

  There’s really nothing to add to this page, though I’m tempted to say she sometimes sucks at updating her social media accounts. But I don’t.

  I close out of my browser. Still nothing from Bree. The universe has tipped today.

  Midnight and I’m blinking at my ceiling, but each time I blink, the side of my head feels a little like it’s splitting apart.

  Sucks.

  After a few more blinks that feel like boxing gloves slamming into my head, I roll slowly out of bed and stumble for the bathroom. The hardwood floors are like ice under my feet, so I end up doing this weird prance, which brings my stinging headache to the edge of a migraine.

  Well, crap.

  Shoving a few Advil into my mouth, I prance back to my room, tug sweats over my shorts, slip on a bra, and tuck my feet into slippers.

  It’s about midnight, and Matthew usually does the embalming at night, so he might still be downstairs. I walk-slide in my slippers to the far side of the living room and open the door to the old back stairs. Having a turret that’s just for stairs seems really, really stupid. But at this moment, and on a lot of other late nights, I’m thankful for them.

  The small, round room is black because no one bothered adding electric lights to this part of the house. I feel along the wall until I find the iron railing. Once I make it down the two flights, I give the metal door a shove. Its newness is glaring next to the worn plaster, even in the near pitch-black. I open the door and step into the storage room. Cold storage lockers line one whole wall. Three bodies rest under sheets and sit against the opposite wall on gurneys.

  The large double doors to outside are closed, so Matthew’s probably not moving in a new corpse. As I step closer to the small embalming room, I hear the distinct sound of the pump that pushes embalming fluid through the bodies and give a quick knock before opening the metal door.

  Matthew’s in full work garb—clear, plastic face mask, scrubs with a plastic bib, gloves, and even his rubber boots. Fits with the sterile-looking room. White walls. White and stainless steel cabinets. Small objects that look something between medical and dental tools on a tray next to the body.

  “What up, Cuz?” Matthew asks as I step inside.

  “Can’t sleep.”

  He points at me, a metal hook in his right hand. “You’re not really dressed to be in here. I’m pretty sure getting body or embalming fluid on your pajamas isn’t something you’d like to have happen. And seriously, we have a good air exchange, but not all these chemicals are things you should be breathing.”

  I roll my eyes because of course I know this.

  “Who you working on?” I ask from the door. Only one of the embalming tables is occupied.

  “A Mr. Clancery.” He peers at the level of fluid in the clea
r pump. “Cool last name, huh?”

  “Very cool,” I agree. It’s amazing the little details about people that Matthew clings to.

  “Wanna guess?” He grins.

  I glance at the man’s face, a little grayish right now, but it will pink pretty quickly once the embalming fluid fills his veins.

  The man is older, but not super old. About ten years older than my dad and pretty overweight. “Heart attack?”

  “Two more,” Matthew says, as he massages the corpse’s fingers. The toes will be next. He thinks the embalming fluid does a better job of making the person seem lifelike when he rubs the extremities. I can’t figure out who would take off a dead man’s socks to look at his toes, but my cousin is happy.

  “Two more…” I mumble. I have three chances to guess right or I lose. Nothing really happens when I lose, but the next time Matthew gives me crap, or pinches me or scares me from behind, he’ll bring this up and say that he “won” the chance to make me mad or freak me out.

  Matthew moves to the feet, and I snatch a small towel and drop it over the man’s privates—dead or alive, I’d rather not see anyone’s bits unless I ask for it.

  “Come on,” Matthew chides. “Don’t think so much.”

  “Maybe…” I tilt my head to the side. The body doesn’t look traumatized at all. Cancer victims are usually much thinner, and sometimes turn a little green with the chemo. “Aneurysm?”

  Matthew’s smile widens, so I know I don’t have it yet. “One more…”

  Okay. I’m not losing tonight.

  I slip on gloves really quickly because I wanna check this old guy out a little before I make another guess.

  I squint at the man’s gnarly toes. Then I move up his side and turn over his hand. There are scabs on his finger pads. Ha. “Diabetes?”

  “Damn!” Matthew laughs. “Got me.”

  “And I’m going to collect.”

  He squints at the pump before flicking it off. “So, why aren’t you sleeping tonight?”

  I point to my nose. “Has to do with the face.” And a certain best friend being weird about a guy.