We shambled onto the sidewalk, but it was clear Adam couldn’t go on. He gestured toward the lawn behind Zmira’s hedge. We stumbled over to it, and Adam sank to his knees, taking me down with him.
“It’s your wound, isn’t it?” I said.
He nodded, his face pale and ashen in the light streaming from Zmira’s kitchen window.
“We’ll get help back at the house.”
“I’m not going to make it.”
“Sure you will,” I said. “I’ll help you.”
“Lily, it’s okay. I’ve known since that day you found me sitting by the apple tree that my time was running out.
Heartwood and the dying tree. That’s what that was all about. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want you to stop me from seeking my revenge for Neil’s death. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t take a life, not when mine had meant so much to . . . my father.” He paused to take a labored breath. “Besides, I still had a promise to keep, and now with the check from Devlin you can save the mortuary or choose another profession.” He smiled.
I’d been waiting all this time for him to crack so much as a grin, and he picked now to smile? Panic welled up in me. I understood what he’d done. He knew his body was failing, so he changed the plan in order to confront Devlin. But by sparing him, he not only proved his humanity, he’d ensured that I could have the freedom to choose my own path.
Well, I wanted to walk the path with him.
“Dammit. I won’t let you do this. Get up, Adam. Get up!” I seized him by the arm and pulled. “You may be ready to throw your life away, but I’m not.”
But he had neither the strength nor will to rise.
How was this happening? The wound on his chest was deep but not that deep and with no signs of infection, so it was not a fatal injury. There was something I’d overlooked . . .
The tattoo.
Emet meant truth, but hadn’t he just lied to me about crying? I wracked my brain, thinking back to the story of Judah Loew ben Bezalel. What happened to the golem at the end? The rabbi . . . he destroyed the golem when it was no longer needed. He removed the first character of the word emet, which left just met—
Oh Christ. That’s what Adam had been trying to tell me when he woke from his delirium. “Met means death. That’s it, isn’t it?”
Adam blinked. Yes.
Instantly my eyes started to sting. Damn reflex. This was no time for tears. “Tell me what to do, Adam. More bandages? A doctor? I’ll call an ambulance.” I reached for my phone, forgetting that in my rush to find Adam I’d left it at home.
“Make it emet,” he mumbled.
“What? I can’t embroider skin. You’re not a pillow. I’ve never—not on a living person. I mean, Tony let me . . . with a needle on a cadaver once, but that was . . . that was completely, completely different.”
“Not so different.”
“You want me to—on Zmira’s front lawn? There’s no way!”
A shadow passed in front of the kitchen window. Adam tried to lift his arm to point, but even that was too much effort. “Trust him.”
“What if I fail?”
“You won’t.”
“But if I do?”
“Moriar.”
I will die.
RULE #40
EACH DEATH HELPS TO MAKE US MORE HUMAN.
I pounded on the front door, hoping Zmira could hear me over his blaring television. The sounds of explosions and rapid gunfire were silenced but quickly replaced with muffled dog yaps and Zmira’s shout of “Don’t you people know what time it is?” The porch lamp flicked on. A second later the dead bolt unlatched and Zmira’s face appeared in the crack of the door. “Lily? What in the name of—”
“Mr. Zmira. Adam’s hurt. I need your help.”
He unfastened the chain, poked out his balding head, and spotted Adam slouched beside the hedge. “Let’s bring him inside.”
Together we dragged Adam into the house, where we laid him out on the sofa. Adam was babbling in unfiltered English and broken Latin, calling for Neil. Zmira flipped on the nearest table lamp. Its dusty, incandescent bulb barely cast a shadow from my hand as I placed it over Adam’s forehead.
He was as cold as a tombstone in January.
Mr. Puddles stretched up to lick Adam’s chin. Adam smiled ever so slightly.
Zmira scooped up the mop dog. “So what happened?”
“We were next door. There was an accident. If I can’t stop the bleeding, he’ll die.”
“I’m calling 911.”
“No!” I shouted, louder than I intended. “They can’t help him.”
Zmira looked confused. “Well, if they can’t, how can you?”
“I just . . . can,” I answered, less than confident. “You’ll have to take my word for it.”
I waited for Zmira to lug the mop dog into another room before unzipping Adam’s hoodie the rest of the way. His T-shirt underneath was soaked through. I grabbed hold of the hem and ripped it to the neck.
It was worse than I imagined. The wound gaped, as raw and deep as it had been the day the rusty barbed-wire fence tore into his flesh.
Zmira peered over my shoulder. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Yes, blood.”
“I may be colorblind, but I can see that. I meant the tattoo.”
“A birthday present from his father,” I explained, not bothering to hide my disgust.
“His father tattooed him with the Hebrew word for ‘truth’? Well, I’ll be damned. You know, most Jews don’t think too favorably of tattoos.”
“His family isn’t Jewish. Hold on—you can read that?”
“Four years of Hebrew school. That tattoo is straight out of a golem story. He told me his father had a thing for ancient texts, but if you ask me, that’s taking it to the extreme.”
“You have no idea. Here, I need you to apply pressure.”
“I don’t do well with blood.” He retreated several steps as if to prove it.
“Fine. I’ll do it.” I did my best to slow the bleeding, but it was the damage to the inked lettering that concerned me most. The first character has been sliced down the middle.
“I still say you should get him to a doctor. That boy needs stitches.”
“I can do it, but I need a needle and some thread.”
“Think I can rustle up a sewing needle, but the only thing I’ve got close to thread is fishing line.”
“That’ll do. The finer the better.”
Zmira headed for a back room.
“Hang on,” I told Adam. He blinked. Good. He was still with me, but for how much longer?
The oven clock ticked off the minutes. In the time it took Zmira to find what I needed, Adam’s eyes began to drift and his pulse weakened further.
“Mr. Zmira, any luck?”
“Got it!” he yelled. A moment later he was back at my side, needle and line in hand.
The bleeding had slowed significantly, but with each twitch came a gush of syrupy orange ooze. “Try not to move, Adam.” I coached.
I can do this became my silent mantra as my quaking hands attempted to thread the needle in the lamp’s dim light. I didn’t want Adam to see my nervousnes, but staying calm isn’t easy when you’re pumped up on adrenaline.
Finally the needle was threaded, the line knotted at the end. “This is going to hurt,” I warned him. “I’m sorry.” He inhaled sharply at the first prick of his flesh. Inflicting pain had never been a concern for me until now, and it rattled my confidence. But there was no other way, so I slid the needle deeper and drew the fishing line through to make the first stitch. One down. Many more to go. Each time, the tug and pull caused the bleeding to worsen. “I can’t see what I’m doing. There’s too much blood. I need a towel.”
“Keep sewing. I’m on it,” said Zmira. Doing his best not to look, he blotted up the blood, no questions this time.
I worked more steadily now, pulling together the flesh, meticulously matching up the
edges. It had to be perfect. Finally I tied off the last suture and sighed. I’d done it. Each tiny stitch was exact, the tattoo fully restored. Now, with Zmira huddled over my shoulder, all I could do was wait for some sign that we’d been successful in saving him.
Adam’s eyes remained shut, and he lay so still. Too still.
“Adam? Adam, can you hear me?”
“I am Adam,” he mumbled mechanically.
“I am.”
“I.”
Blink.
I placed my ear to his chest. His heartbeat was barely audible. “I don’t understand. It should work. It’s supposed to work.”
“Give him some time. The boy’s been traumatized.” Zmira checked the clock.
Ten agonizing minutes went by before Zmira picked up his phone. “I’m calling 911.”
“No, one more minute, please. I’m missing something.” I wrung my hands and scanned the room for an answer, a clue, anything that would guide me. Again and again my eyes were drawn to a framed needlepoint propped in the middle of a crowded bookshelf. It was an odd piece, adorned in symbols like the ones comprising Adam’s tattoo. One character in particular seemed strangely familiar. Then I remembered Christian Tomopolo’s pendant.
What if I’m wrong? I can’t afford a mistake.
“Mr. Zmira, can you bring me that needlework? The framed one with all the symbols?” He brought it over. “What’s that one mean, right there?”
“The chai?”
“Yes, that one.”
“It means ‘life.’”
I compared it to the arched symbol on Adam’s chest. One of the characters was nearly identical. “That’s it!” I said. “Truth won’t save him.” I didn’t bother explaining. “Quick. I need permanent ink and a clean razor blade.”
“I have an old bottle of India ink in my den, but a clean razor blade? I don’t think I have one. How about an electric razor?”
“What? No. A sharp pair of scissors then. Hurry!”
I turned back to Adam. “Blink if you can hear me.”
Nothing.
“Here, found them—and the ink,” said Zmira, once more at my side. “Not sure how sharp they are. They were my mother’s sewing scissors.”
“They’ll have to do.”
With two fingers to Adam’s wrist, I felt for a pulse that was no longer there.
I began to cut.
RULE #41
THE LAST AND MOST IMPORTANT RULE: RULES ARE MADE TO BE BROKEN.
Three months have come and gone since the shelter collapsed. That night was the last time I spoke to Miles Devlin—until today.
I flipped over the news tabloid lying on my dresser with a certain satisfaction. There was Jim Sturbridge’s startled mug, plastered front and center. Behind him was the Eternal Memorial Services, Inc., facade with its emblem of a setting sun, a symbol that’s taken on double meaning now that charges have been filed. Seems an anonymous tip to a certain reporter named Mae Wu prompted an investigation into EMS concerning the illegal processing and sale of cremains to Neil Lassiter. The resulting storm of bad press derailed Sturbridge’s political ambitions, shut the doors on EMS, and sent more business our way than we’d handled in years. I couldn’t hold back a smug smile.
I guess speaking up has its benefits after all.
It was funny, thinking back to the day I said goodbye to Helen Delaney. I’d thought it was the end of an end. Instead it was the start of a whole new beginning—but not for everyone. Today was another goodbye.
I slipped into my finest black dress and slingbacks, then stood before my new full-length mirror. The dress would do. My bedroom door creaked open; Evan’s polished black shoes preceded him. “Tony says he’s ready, but Mom and Dad thought you might like a minute alone with him before the service. And Lily?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t talk his ear off. People are waiting.”
I lobbed my embroidery hoop at him as he dodged out the door. With a swipe of Midnight Madness mascara, a brush of Royal Ruby lip color, and a pat of powder to set it all in place, I was ready. Rachel still wasn’t over the fact that I’d put a streak of aqua through my hair. When she asked me why, I told her I wanted to try something different for a change and that I was already considering deep magenta for next time. She dutifully rolled her eyes, but secretly I saw her smile.
Propped on my desk was a manila envelope. I tucked it into my handbag and headed out.
Downstairs, Sinatra’s “My Way” was already wafting across the yard from the chapel. I choked up—I always did—but today there would be no tears. There were none left to shed. I retreated to the prep room and its welcome serenity.
He lay in the center of the room, enveloped in tufts of white satin. A silk pillow embroidered with a simple chain stitch supported his head. I’d taken extra care with this one. It was the least I could do after all he’d done for me. The casket’s cherry wood complemented his skin tone; I was glad I went with the Rose Hue foundation instead of Beige Wonder like I’d originally planned.
I let out a long sigh and relaxed my hunched shoulders. My only consolation, if there was one, was that his passing had finally ended a long suffering. I straightened his tie and adjusted the rosebud in his lapel, a soft pink one I’d picked special from the garden, courtesy of ‘Queen Elizabeth’. The tie was ridiculously old-fashioned. I’d told Rachel not to go cheap on this one, but she couldn’t help herself. Not after all those lean months.
“I tried,” I told him. “Rachel isn’t in the habit of taking my suggestions yet, but we’re getting there. Be glad we were able to rehire Tony. He’s the best, but I intend to give him a run for his money as soon as I complete my mortician certification.”
Mallory rapped on the door. “It’s time, Lily.” She’d given up the idea of joining the cheer squad. No time for it, not after I begged her to come work for us. Now she handled the billing—under Dad’s tutelage, of course. She still avoided the back end of the house where the prep and cold rooms were located, but we were working on that.
Mal and I were good now. I’d promised to confide in her more if she promised to listen. And she and Evan did decide to test out the whole relationship thing in the end, thanks partly to me. I explained to my brother that he’d be a fool not to give her a chance. Unlike some people—namely Dana—Mal calls ’em like she sees ’em. Not such a bad thing. They didn’t get to see each other much with Evan off at college, but they were on the phone constantly. Perhaps distance does make the heart grow fonder. Of course, she was thrilled he made it home this weekend.
“Shall I escort you to your waiting audience?” I asked my client. I unlocked the wheels and lowered the casket lid. “I’m going to apologize in advance for hitting the wall. The new gurney is on back order—”
My apology was interrupted by the sound of someone entering the code into the prep-room keypad. I didn’t need to turn around. I knew who it was—as did my heart, which was on autopilot and beating wildly.
“You’ll never guess who’s here.” Adam’s voice was as playful then as it was those afternoons we spent in the orchard together.
I turned to face him. “Who?”
“Veronica.”
“She read your letter?”
“She did, but she’s still getting used to the idea that I’m her son, at least in part. It will take time. The important thing is she came.”
He moved to hold the door for me.
“Wait. Before we go, I have something for you.” I handed him the manila envelope from my purse.
He weighed it in his hand. “What’s this?”
“A gift. Open it.”
Adam undid the clasp, withdrew the single sheet tucked inside with a piece of sturdy cardboard, and read. “A birth certificate?”
“Better late than never,” I said.
“But I thought all my records were destroyed. How . . . ?”
“When we found out about EMS’s shady dealings, I had a hunch that someone over at the County Recorder’s Office
has been fudging documents. I bluffed them into thinking I knew more than I did, and my hunch proved right. I got them to draw this up on the condition I keep quiet. As you know better than anyone, that’s my superpower.”
“One of many,” Adam interjected. He grinned, and I couldn’t help but be equally amused by the boyish humor that lit his dark, gold-flecked eyes. “So I officially exist now,” he said with a wave of the certificate. “That reminds me, I have something for you, too.” He set the document and envelope aside and reached inside his front vest pocket to pull out a simple square black box tied with a red ribbon. “I was going to give this to you later, but—”
“What’s that on your neck?” I said, distracted by a small round bandage.
He blushed. “If you can believe it, I cut myself shaving this morning.”
I closely examined the Scooby-Doo bandage. A bright red spot of blood had seeped through the pad. In its own way, that spot was the gift. Adam was human now—as human in body as he was in soul.
The gift box was featherlight in my hand. “Open it,” he urged, more like the boy I remembered high up in a tree than the young man he was now.
Lately he’d made a habit of giving me small trinkets, so I untied the bow and lifted the lid, expecting another packet of seeds or a particularly pretty pebble. Instead I found a porcelain sand dollar pendant on a silver chain. The charm was as round and milky white as the moon under which we found the sand dollar Adam broke. I shook it and, to my delight, heard distinct tinkles from inside. “How did you . . . ?”
“That company you found that makes custom urns? I asked them to make it special. Turn it over. There’s an inscription on the back.”
“Amplae vitae simul,” I read. “Latin?”
“Of course.”
“Translation?”
“To a long life together.”
“A proposal, then?” I teased.
“Not a proposal. A promise—for now,” he said, quite seriously. “Te amo etiam.”
No translation needed there. “You love me.”
“I think I always have.”
“Since that day I found you in the fallout shelter?”
He shook his head.
Mortal Remains Page 28