Becoming Death

by Melissa Brown

  Becoming Death

  by: Melissa Brown

  Copyright © 2015 Melissa Brown

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents depicted in this collection are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously.

  Cover photo- Little Black Riding Hood by Rene de Ruijter

  Typography Cover Design by The Scarlett Rugers Design Agency www.scarlettrugers.com

  Author photo by Stuart Hellingsworth

  Chapter art by Devin Collier

  Edited by Playle-Editorial-Services http://playle-editorial-services.com/

  Get in touch with Melissa Brown at:

  Website: https://melissarbrown.wordpress.com/

  Twitter: @MRBrown_author

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Melissa-Brown-author/515818468469866

  YouTube: Lonegungal17

  Email: melissabrown_author@yahoo.com

  Dedication

  For my grandmother, Aceleta Nichols, who taught me to read and write.

  Chapter 1

  Linda Woodward died of hypothermia in a walk-in freezer and it was all my fault. She’d still be alive today if I’d remembered to tell her the freezer had malfunctioned during my shift, or if I’d encouraged her to skip one of her covert cigarette breaks that disobeyed the Burger Hut’s no smoking policy. I tried to remember how she’d been when she was alive, but I couldn’t forget how she’d looked when I found her. Linda had been hunched over a box of frozen burgers with her arms crossed over her chest and a cigarette butt still stuck between her lips. Her skin was as gray as her hair, and her eyes were fixed in a blank stare. Gone were the pranks we'd played on the fry cook, our shared love of comic books and our late night ratings of Hollywood hunks. There was only death. She’d been right all along: lung cancer wouldn’t kill her.

  Linda was the third person I’d seen die. I was starting to get used to it. My stomach lurched as I stood in front of the wooden casket containing the body of my former boss. This was goodbye. I shuffled forwards, my fingers clawing at the cigarette pack as I tried to lay it on the mahogany casket. My eyes burned from lack of sleep and I struggled to keep my focus. My hand hovered above the wood for a few seconds before curling into a ball around the pack and retreating to my side.

  “Can you give this to her?” I asked the priest, handing him her last pack of Morleys.

  He stared at the object with confusion. “They were her favorite,” I assured him.

  I drew my limbs close to my body as I walked heavy-footed back to my seat. I leaned my elbow on the back of the church pew and balanced my chin in my hand. A blonde woman stood in front of the casket with a rose. She looked like a ’50s Hollywood starlet with her pinned-back hair and her deep-red lipstick. She belonged at an audition, not a funeral. Everything about her was perfect but the expression across her face; it reminded me of a look I knew too well, that deep sadness that my mother still wore after ten years.

  I hated funerals but there I was, back in the place I’d vowed never to return to after being forced by guilt (i.e. my mother) to attend my third funeral at the age of eighteen.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t want to give Linda a proper goodbye, but the whole idea of a funeral seemed odd to me. A celebration of someone’s death— why did society insist on something so morbid? Think about it, people dressing in black, crying their eyes out if they liked you, or sharing your deepest secrets as gossip if they didn’t. Seriously. Weird.

  “It isn’t fair!” shouted the starlet. She stood at the podium next to the casket with her arms raised. “My sister was a wonderful person. She touched so many people’s lives. Now she’s gone. Forever!”

  My eyes darted between the oversized picture of a smirking Linda next to the coffin and the much younger woman giving the speech. Sister? More like daughter, but even that connection seemed a bit of stretch. Linda with her short curly hair and plump stature seemed alien next to this leggy blonde with hair straight out of a shampoo commercial.

  “My sister,” the blonde whimpered against the back of her hand, a pained expression in her eyes. She paused before digging into her cleavage to pull out a handkerchief like it was part of a magic act. She folded the cloth and dabbed the corners of her eyes. “Linda packed so much into her short time, including achieving her life’s dream of becoming a Burger Hut franchise owner. Owning her own business was what she always wanted, so I’m glad she was able to tick that off her bucket list.”

  My mouth hung open. Seriously? Linda had despised the Burger Hut. She’d said it smelt like wet dog and was painted the color of day-old puke. She’d told me that when she won the lottery she was out of there for somewhere tropical where she could marry a toy boy a third of her age and learn to water-ski. I stared at the rest of Linda’s family crying in the front pew. Had they even known her?

  I pinched at the pantyhose covering my legs, trying to scratch the tingling skin beneath them without creating a run. I felt ridiculous in this outfit but my mother had insisted that I dressed like a grown-up today. She and my older sister had arrived unannounced at six a.m. to drop off appropriate funeral attire for me. Although I hadn’t been living at home for months, I couldn’t be trusted to dress myself. I might have shown up in one of my superhero t-shirts or a tiny dress that showed too much cleavage, like Linda’s sister. Instead, I was trapped in a black sack with long sleeves and no neckline that was identical to the dress I had worn to my father’s funeral.

  A whistle came from my bag and I cursed myself for forgetting to turn off my phone.

  “Is there a bird in here?” the elderly woman next to me asked, looking towards the ceiling.

  I shrugged, grabbing the bag as another whistle sounded. I pulled out my cell phone and muted it before checking the screen.

  Aaron: Hope it’s going ok. Here if you need me.

  Aaron: Pizza for dinner? My treat… but I choose the toppings. Muhaha. ;-)

  I checked that the woman next to me was still distracted, looking for birds in the rafters before I typed: I hate this place. It hasn’t changed since my dad was here. I still can’t believe Linda’s gone. Can I get a hug when I get back? Btw you better get pineapple or I’ll kick your shins.

  The elderly woman cleared her throat and folded her arms.

  “Sorry,” I said, throwing my phone back into the bag and dropping it on the floor.

  I raised my eyes back to the blonde woman who was still talking at the front.

  “My sister and I were close. I could feel it when she died, like a piece of me had disappeared. If only I could have been there to say goodbye.”

  I wondered if she’d be upset to know that Linda’s last words were, “You’re in charge, kid. I’m going to the freezer for a smoke.”

  “I don’t know how I’m supposed to keep on living without my family,” the woman said, her bottom lip shaking.

  My eyes began to water. Her words hit home. I looked away from the woman and tried to focus on my surroundings; the wooden floors and tacky green wallpaper hadn’t changed since I had been sat in this room ten years ago. I rubbed my eyes with my fist. I shouldn’t have come. Sure, I was an adult now, but I still felt like the small girl that had sat in these pews years ago wishing she could speak to her daddy one last time.

  Suddenly, the woman screamed, throwing herself on top of the coffin in hysterics. A couple of guests at the front tried to
coax her off the casket, but she held on tight and kicked her high heels at them. The scene was straight off a bad soap opera. For a moment I half expected Linda to sit up in the coffin declaring she wasn’t dead, but had only been in a coma.

  “No!” Her sister shrieked as other guests begged her to take her seat. She sobbed against the dark wood, pounding it with her fist. “I’m so sorry, sis. I know it couldn’t have been an accident. I’ll find whoever was responsible for your death.”

  My eyes widened and I looked around the room. The audience seemed shocked, and some of the members of Linda’s family went to the coffin to comfort the woman. I stood up slowly and made determined strides towards the exit.

  I stopped to give Linda’s coffin one last look and whispered, “I hope you got your toy boy.”

  I allowed myself a few tears on the journey across Juniper Bay but stopped myself as I parked my wheezing purple Beetle in the driveway of my childhood home. My mother’s home was a two-story colonial style house in the middle of suburbia. The outside was pristine white; the only thing that set it apart was the Tardis-blue front door my father had insisted on when they moved in. Two skinny cherry trees and a spattering of pink flowers had appeared in the front yard since I had been here last, and I wondered how my mother had convinced the homeowner’s society to allow them.

  I reached for the envelope on my dashboard and peeled back the seal so I could read the text again. My eyes were drawn to the phrase “fired due to lack of attendance.” Even with the hygiene concerns, the Burger Hut regional manager had been less than pleased when I had refused to finish my shift after finding Linda’s dead body. She was more concerned about the Red Ribby burgers I had burnt during the ordeal than my dead co-worker. Now I couldn’t seem to force myself back through the doors. Not only had Linda been a friend, but the whole incident brought back unpleasant memories of my father’s death. It had been a decade since it had happened, but I could remember the screeching tires of the black pick-up truck as it plowed into our car. He hadn’t made a sound when he died, or at least I hadn’t heard him over my own screams. I think my mom still blamed me. She was always more distant after that day. After all, I was the reason he was driving, to pick up my reward ice cream for winning my soccer game. I don’t eat ice cream anymore. It doesn’t taste the same without him to share it with.

  My fingers shook as I wiped my eyes with a discarded Burger Hut napkin and attempted to fix my smudged mascara in the rear view mirror. I half-heartedly ran a brush a couple of times through my hair before giving up and letting the strands hang haphazardly over my eyes. Sometimes it seemed I had my mother’s fiery locks, and other times the color could be mistaken for my late father’s drab brown. Red had won today.

  My legs were still itching like crazy under the dreaded pantyhose as I walked up the path. I wanted to rip them off and burn them for good measure but I sucked it up. I needed my mother on-side and dressing the way she wanted could only help. No job meant no money. With rent and bills to pay, it was time for my second grovel of the year. Being an adult sucked.

  I stared down at the welcome mat, chiding myself for being the bad daughter. Why didn’t Clarissa ever have to go through this charade? The thought of going to the Burger Hut and begging for my job back crossed my mind, but everything there was tarnished by death. I’d prefer my mother’s disappointed stare to the memory of Linda’s blank one.

  My mother opened the door straight away. She had probably been tidying the entranceway. She greeted me with a smile meant for strangers, but when she saw me her lips lowered and she fumbled with the pearls around her neck. “Madison, sweetheart, is everything alright? How was the funeral?”

  I looked down at the wooden porch, already feeling ashamed of my predicament. “It was fine, I guess. I feel bad for Linda. Her family didn’t really seem to know her very well.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” my mother said, picking a piece of lint off her seafoam-green cardigan.

  “Anyway, Mom, could I stay for lunch? I need to talk to you about something.”

  My mother’s smile returned. She opened the door fully and gestured for me to come inside. “I always have time for one of my girls.”

  I jumped forwards, hugging her. She gasped, patting my head. I had forgotten how beautiful my mother looked when she smiled. Her pale skin complemented her green eyes, and her stunning red hair was secured in a bun. Her clothes looked new, freshly ironed, and she walked with an air of confidence in each step. Since my father’s death, my mother had adopted the persona of a Stepford widow. She was proud of her accomplishments: she had been head of the PTA, ran her own book group and had won a blue ribbon for her blueberry pie recipe. Her social circle thought she was perfect, but I knew better.

  Although my father hadn’t lived in the house for years, I could instantly smell his aftershave haunting the rooms. Our last happy family photo still hung in the hallway. Sometimes I wished my mother would move on, but a deeper part of me willed her to continue to cling to his memory. I walked into the living room and automatically let out a relaxed sigh. Something about my parents’ house always made me feel like a child again. The carefree feeling of having no responsibilities and time for anything made me feel better already.

  I glanced at the adjoining dining room and noted a pile of files littering the dining table. I had forgotten it was April, tax season. I examined my fingers for mascara smudges before I sat down carefully on the bulky cream sofa.

  “All those late filers keeping you busy?” I said, cocking my head towards the dining room.

  My mother rolled her eyes before closing the adjoining doors. “Don’t mind that mess. Death and taxes, the only certain things in life. At least it keeps me out of trouble.”

  “You forgot one.” I picked up a form from the side table titled R1P.

  She snatched it from my hand and shook a finger at me. “Client confidentiality.” She placed the form in a folder on the sideboard.

  My mother sat down next to me and folded her hands in her lap. The silence was heavy, as I had exhausted my knowledge of my mother’s profession.

  “I don’t suppose you could squeeze in my taxes if I bring them over at brunch on Sunday?”

  My mother raised a disapproving eyebrow and fiddled with the pearls around her neck. “Yes, I suppose, but promise me next year you won’t wait until the last minute. Clarissa had her taxes filed months ago.”

  “Clarissa’s an auditor, she lives and breathes numbers. I’m a fry cook. There’s a tiny bit of a difference.”

  “Maybe if you’d paid more attention and applied yourself instead of reading those silly comic books when I gave you both lessons, you’d be studying accountancy now,” my mother said.

  I turned away and examined the nearby wall.

  “You really do look lovely in that dress. So grown up,” my mother said, rubbing my shoulder.

  I nodded politely. I looked down at the dress convinced a trash bag would be more elegant.

  “It’s more tasteful than your normal attire. Maybe I could tag along on your next shopping trip. Give you some pointers. My treat, of course.”

  I groaned inwardly. “If you really want to.”

  “Great, it’s a date. You must be starving. What can I get you to eat or drink? I have some freshly squeezed lemonade or a piece of cherry crumble? It’s cooling on the window sill.”

  I could feel an ulcer building in my stomach. “Actually, I’m not feeling very hungry anymore.” I scratched the arm of the sofa, wishing this was over with already.

  My mother lowered her hand to my thigh and patted it reassuringly. “What’s troubling you, sweetheart? Is this about the funeral?”

  I curled my fingers inwards, staring blankly at the duck-egg blue rug. I didn’t want to tell her about the letter. Being fired was another check mark to add to the inferior child list. No college or job. I was a failure.

  “I don’t think I can go back to the Burger Hut. It reminds me too much of Linda. I miss her.”

>   My mother pulled me close, wrapping her arms around my shoulders. “Sweetie, you’ll be fine. You’ll forget it ever happened after a while… You always do.”

  I felt my mother shiver and I glanced up at her. Letting the tears appear at the corners of my eyes, I shook my head. “Mom, seriously, I can’t get her dead body out of my head. I haven’t slept in days. Every time I close my eyes, she’s there, just like Dad was.”

  My mother’s bottom lip quivered. “Then you need to move on. It’s never easy to get over tragedies like Linda’s death. Have you tried applying for anything else? I’m sure you’d be able to get another position quickly if you put your mind to it.”

  I wiped my eyes, smearing mascara on my fingertips. ‘I can’t right now. I just need a little more time. I want to find something I’m good at and somewhere I belong.”

  “Maybe your sister could help you get a job at her office?”

  “Mom, please don’t bring Saint Clarissa into this.”

  My mother smoothed the top of her khaki-covered thighs. “How much do you need?”

  “Oh, thank you, thank you!” I shouted, lunging at her from across the sofa and wrapping my arms around her.

  She shook me off as she rose from the sofa. My mother lifted her eyebrow as she looked down at me. “But this is the last time. Next time it’s a loan with twenty-five percent interest.”

  “Don’t worry, I plan to pay you back as soon as I can. I promise this time I’ll start saving as soon as I get something.”

  “I look forward to it. How much is this loan for?”

  “I need about three hundred to cover my share of the rent and if I want to eat this month another two hundred for that, but I guess I could cut back to one meal a day if I had to. I’ve been meaning to start a diet anyway.”

  “Alright, you’ve guilt-tripped me into it. I’ll get my checkbook,” she said, making her way towards the stairs in the hallway.