by Lacey Black
Did I always know I wanted to work with the dead? Not really. I always thought I’d be a dentist, but I quickly learned I much preferred deceased people to those living. I have a mortuary science degree and did my apprenticeship right here at this very funeral home under Ernest Hanson. His son, Rob, is also an embalmer, but I’m the one on-call most of the time. Aaron, Ernest’s grandson and the third generation Hanson mortician, chose not to seek that specific license, probably because it required more schooling and training, and less partying.
My career isn’t one most would consider on Career Day. It’s messy, potentially hazardous, and requires you dealing with people on the worst days of their lives. But believe it or not, I find it wildly fulfilling too. I help those people as they deal with their grief, preserving and presenting their loved ones the best way I can. The final time they will see their loved ones is in my hands, and I take this obligation very seriously.
I take everything very seriously.
Just as I make my incision, the intercom buzzes on the wall. “Samuel?” Elma’s gruff voice pipes through the room on this fine Friday morning.
“Yes?” I ask, holding my hand steady as I prepare to inject the preservation chemicals into the body via the embalming machine.
“Your sister is here. She says it’s important,” Elma replies.
I set my tools down, the process on hold for a few moments, and glance at the clock. It’s very rare that one of my siblings actually stops by the funeral home. Usually, they text, knowing I could be very busy at any point in the day. Worried something is wrong, I state, “Please send her down. I’ll meet her in the hallway.”
I don’t know which sister it is, but that doesn’t matter. If one of them is here, it’s important. I head over to the washing station and remove my gown, gloves, and mask. Once they’re disposed of, I scrub my hands and head toward the door. A burst of warmth hits me as soon as I step into the private hallway in the basement of the funeral home. Families never come back this far, as this is where we prepare the bodies for burial or cremation.
My eyes land on Harper and the wide smile on her face. A smile can be deceiving, but hers seems to be one full of happiness, which causes me to pause in confusion. “What’s wrong?” I ask, adjusting my cuff links as I tend to do when nervous.
“Nothing,” she replies right away, still the smile plays on her face. “Do I need a reason to stop by and see my older brother?”
I think for a few seconds about her question. No, technically, she doesn’t need a reason to stop by, however, we’ve never been much for random visits at the workplace. Especially her workplace. In fact, I’ve never casually dropped by. It’s not that I’m against it; it’s just her boutique makes me…uncomfortable. Panties and bras everywhere. I never know where to look.
“Uh, well, no, I guess not. Though, I was just getting ready to embalm Mrs. Portman.”
Harper pulls a face. “Your job is so…weird.”
Again, I adjust my cuff links. “The same could be said for yours.”
She stops and considers my words before bursting into a fit of laughter. “Touché, brother. Anyway, there was a reason I stopped by this morning and interrupted your dead-person time.”
Her blasé statement gets on my nerves at little. My siblings have never really understood why I went to mortuary school instead of dental school, but that’s okay. It’s not for them to understand or like. It was my choice, my career path. “Get on with it,” I state, crossing my arms over my chest and waiting her out.
“Oh! Yeah, guess what?” she asks, her eyes sparkling like diamonds. “I’m getting married!” she squeals before throwing herself into my arms.
A smile crosses my face. A real one. I’m genuinely happy for Harper and Latham. They went to high school together and upon his return from the military, set out to make each other’s lives miserable. Of course, it was a front for their true feelings, which is very evident in the way she flashes a large, gaudy diamond in my face. “Congratulations, Harper,” I reply, awkwardly patting her back.
“Thanks,” she replies, grinning down at the sparkler. “Anyway, I stopped by to ask you a question. You’re off next weekend, right?” She nibbles on the corner of her lip, which is a telltale sign she’s nervous about something.
I mentally pull up my schedule. I’m on-call most weekends, however I’m completely free next. Aaron takes one weekend a month, while I take the other three. I don’t mind, really. This work is my life, and I prefer to be here than at home most days. I want to oversee everything, from the arrival of the body to the services and final resting place. “I’m free. Why? Do you need something?”
“Yes,” she starts, taking a deep breath. “We’re getting married next Saturday. In Las Vegas.”
That gives me pause. Next weekend? In Vegas?
I adjust my necktie, suddenly struggling to pull air into my lungs. “I can’t go.” My words come out slightly strangled.
“Sure you can. The flight is less than five hours.”
“Five horrible hours, suspended thirty thousand feet above the earth. If we fall, it’s a fiery crash.”
Harper gives me a sympathetic smile. “Look, Samuel, I know flying isn’t really your thing,” she starts and steps closer, a sympathetic grin on her face and a look that lets me know she’s about to drop the bomb. “It’s just that, well, I was hoping you might walk me down the aisle.” She swallows and her blue eyes starts to shine with unshed tears.
Little sister goes for the kill.
I clear my throat. “You’re not going to invite him?”
Harper shakes her head. “I know Jensen has talked to him a few times, but I’m not ready yet.”
I completely understand that. I haven’t been ready yet either.
“They serve alcohol on flights,” she adds, as if the concept of getting drunk on an airplane at seven dollars a drink holds any weight with me. I’m sure the look I give her shows my displeasure. “Fine, maybe you could join the mile-high club?” she adds with a laugh. “That’s a surefire way to relieve some stress.”
“Do you know how small those bathrooms are, Harper? And not to mention the germs and whatnot that cover every single conceivable surface. What could possibly be enjoyable about contracting norovirus from an airplane toilet? It’s bad enough I’ll be breathing the same filtered air for five hours with everyone else,” I huff, not really sure why I’m getting myself worked up over this.
Harper raises an eyebrow. “You seem to know an awful lot about airplane sex for a man who’s never been on a plane. Is that like a porn fetish or something? Stewardess Seduction? Bang Me at Thirty-Thousand Feet? Oh! What about The Randy Pilot’s Cockpit?”
I groan, knowing she’ll not drop it now that the door has been opened. “Stop.”
“Maybe Debbie Does It Over Dallas? Or First Class Cum-Guzzlers?”
That one makes my stomach clench. “Fine, I’ll go,” I reply, willing to tell her anything to avoid further discussion about porn with my sister.
“You will?”
“Yes, now please stop talking.”
Harper giggles and throws her arms around me. I return her hug, even if I’ve never been much for displays of affection. That’s how sicknesses are spread, you know? She quickly pulls away and smiles widely. “Thank you so much. This is going to be the best trip ever!”
“If you say so,” I mumble, the panic of my commitment standing right there in front of me, ready to take over.
“It’ll be fun,” she starts, tapping me on the chest. “You’ll see. It’s going to be small and intimate and perfect. Latham and I are flying out Thursday, but you can join us anytime. Mom, Marissa, Rhenn, and Latham’s parents are flying out early Friday, and I think Jensen and Kathryn are taking a later flight.”
“Okay,” I respond automatically, my mind reeling. On one hand, it would probably be better to fly with familiar faces for my first time. On the other, if I freak out, I’d rather they not see my fear in the flesh.
&nb
sp; “I’ll email you the hotel information. We’re all staying at the same one. We booked a chapel on the strip for Saturday night at seven and dinner at the hotel restaurant at eight. Then, everyone has the rest of the evening to do whatever they please. I know what I’ll be doing,” she says, bumping her shoulder into my arm and wiggling her eyebrows.
“Jeez, Harper,” I groan, trying to push that mental image as far from my mind as humanly possible. Hell, another universe wouldn’t be far enough.
My sister giggles a happy little sound and hugs me again. Three hugs in one day; that’s definitely not the norm. “Anyway, I’ll let you get back to your dead person. I’ll email you the hotel info and the flight confirmations for everyone else. Try to get on a flight with one of them. It’ll help,” she says, giving me a sympathetic look.
“Fine,” I state, straightening my necktie.
“Oh, I think everyone is staying until Monday, so it might not be a bad idea for you too. Take a day off work. Live a little.”
Ha. Live a little? I almost laugh out loud. I live just fine, thank you very much. My idea of living isn’t traveling two thousand miles to the fucking desert, surrounded by too many people, all bumping into each other and spilling their drinks on you. And let’s not forget the selfies. Why this is a thing, I’ll never know. I don’t need a hundred photos of myself standing in different places, making stupid faces that resemble animals at my phone.
“Anyway, I’ll let you get back to work. Make sure you get your stuff booked tonight,” she says, hugging me a fourth time before disappearing down the long hallway.
Running my hands over the back of my neck, I let the immensity of our conversation settle over me. Yes, I’m happy my sister is getting married. Yes, I’m thrilled I’m gaining Latham as a brother-in-law. Yes, I’m ecstatic to walk her down the aisle. I’m not so thrilled that particular aisle is in Nevada.
Not-so-pleasant images parade through my mind as I think about getting on an airplane. Statistically, the chances of being involved in an airplane-related crash are one in five point four million. I’m more likely to die crossing the street than in an airplane.
But there’s always that one time…
* * *
The airport is busy on this Friday morning. There are people everywhere, from countries all over the world. I try to blend in, but it’s hard when most are in tropical shirts or what looks like pajama pants. Do people really leave their houses like this? Like everywhere they go, they just rolled out of bed? I straighten my necktie and try not to get caught gawking, but one particular woman in slippers and flannel pants catches me looking.
I guess they take casual flying to the extreme here.
I open back up the newspaper and scan today’s headlines, a cup of black coffee between my legs. The man to my left has his carry-on bag in the empty seat between us, which grates on my nerves. There are people standing, yet this jerk takes up an available seat with a suitcase. Do people really act like this? I can already feel a headache coming on, and I’m starting to think the alcohol my sister was boasting about sounds better and better by the second.
Before I have an opportunity to say anything to the man, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and my body becomes hyperaware of…something. No, not something. Someone.
“Excuse me, excuse me,” the familiar voice sings politely.
I focus on my newspaper, as if it might have the answers to world peace and try not to draw any attention to myself. It’s not working, though. I can practically feel her drawing near, smell her familiar earthy fragrance.
“Yo, move your bag, friend, or I’ll move it for you.”
I glance up to see Freedom standing directly in front of the seat right next to me, staring at the guy with his carry-on in the seat. Her hands are planted firmly on her hips and she taps her foot impatiently. The man glances up, clearly getting ready to ignore her request, but Freedom pins him with a look that could melt the glaciers in Antarctica. Sighing loudly, he grabs his carry-on and places it beneath his seat.
“Well, isn’t this an unpleasant surprise,” I mumble, keeping my eyes locked on the paper as she sits right beside me. If I don’t, then I might notice the way her skirt shifts around her trim legs. Freedom always wears these gaudy, awful skirts that look like they were cut from Grandma’s couch material.
“Don’t pretend to be annoyed with my sudden appearance, Sammy. I know you’re secretly excited to see me,” she sings, setting her bag on the floor between her legs. Instantly, I’m assaulted by her perfume. You know, the one that smells like fresh air and spring rain? My dick actually twitches in my pants.
Finally, I set my paper aside and look her way. She’s pulling a small container from her purse, which is big enough to fit small children, and pops open the lid, holding it up for me. It looks like some sort of bread, but there’s definitely some extra ingredients like nuts, maybe? “What’s that?”
“A snack,” she says, waving it in front of my face. “Try it.”
Part of me wants to tell her no thank you, mostly because I have no clue what the hell those green things are, but then I recall this is Freedom we’re talking about, and she’ll just push harder until she gets what she wants. And apparently, what she wants is me eating her weird nut bread. “What’s in it?”
“Things that are healthy, Sammy. Try. It.”
Exhaling loudly, I reach over and pull off a small piece of bread, carefully examining it first. “Why is it green?”
“I’m not telling you what’s in it until you try it,” she adds matter-of-factly, as she breaks off her own piece and shoves it in her mouth. There’s something oddly sexy about the way she chews, which is a little concerning. No one is sexy when they eat. The last woman I dated used to continually dab at the corner of her mouth with a napkin because she was concerned about residual food, and there was definitely nothing sexy about that. But the way Freedom licks the breadcrumbs off her fingers?
Yeah, that’s alarmingly sexy.
Needing somewhere else to focus my attention, I bring my eyes down to the bread in my hand. The fact that it’s green and has little chunks has my heart palpitating in my chest. I can also feel her eyes on me and know she won’t be able to refrain from commenting much longer, so I slowly bring the questionable food to my mouth and chew.
When it hits my tongue, it’s surprisingly sweet, with just a hint of something fruity. “What’s in it?”
“Do you like it?”
Swallowing, I turn my attention her way. “Yes, Freedom, it’s tasty. What’s in it?”
“It’s pistachio cranberry bread with Greek yogurt and roasted salted pistachios. Oh, and coconut.”
I blink once. Twice. Surely I heard her wrong. My throat starts to tighten. “Did you say…coconut?”
Freedom turns her big, innocent eyes my way. “Yes, why?”
“Dammit, Freedom, I’m sensitive to coconut,” I grit through clenched teeth as I grab my carry-on bag from beneath my seat and start to riffle through it.
“What do you mean sensitive to it?”
Ignoring her question, I look through my bag for the small ziplock I bring, containing some common over the counter medicines. Tylenol, Motrin, cough drops, Neosporin, and Tums. I pop an antacid out of the container and throw it in my mouth, chewing rapidly. I glance down in my bag once more, but don’t find what I’m really looking for.
“What’s happening?” she asks, taking my hand in hers, halting my frantic movements. Her skin is warm, her eyes full of concern as she looks over at me.
“I’ve always been sensitive to coconut.”
“I didn’t know. What does that mean?”
My stomach rumbles and I swallow the extra saliva gathering in my mouth. This isn’t good. “It means I need to go and get something for my stomach,” I state just as my belly turns angry. There’s no way I’ll have time to get to the store before I hit the bathroom, and if there’s one thing I know, I’ll need to find the bathroom fast. Everything in my body is ab
out to come out—very quickly—and I definitely don’t want to be here when it happens.
I stand up, wishing I was at home and as far away from Freedom and her coconut as possible. Unfortunately, the only place I’m going is the public bathroom, in which I will expunge all of my bodily fluids from my ass, while in a multi-stall public bathroom.
Fun.
“I’ll help!” she hollers, surely drawing the attention of everyone around us, as she grabs our bags and pulls me through the gathering crowd at our gate. Even in my pre-disaster ass state, I still wish she’d keep her voice down and her hands to herself. Her touch just…affects me.
“I’m fine, Freedom,” I mumble, yet still allowing her to pull me through the mob.
She stops in front of the bathroom. “You go take care of your problem, and I’ll run down and get some Pepto or something,” she states loudly before disappearing into the crowd, my bag still in her hand.
I’m about to holler after her when my stomach not-so-subtly reminds me that the bathroom usage is imminent. I make my way inside, finding an available stall in the back of the large room avoiding eye contact as I go. There’s no way to hide what’s about to happen, and I can already feel the embarrassment burn my face. My stomach turns once more, an angry howl echoing off the concrete walls, as I lock myself in my stall.
“Attention passengers, American Airlines flight 4382, nonstop service to Las Vegas, will being boarding in five minutes. Please make your way to gate twenty-three for boarding.”
I drop my drawers and pray for a swift death.
Chapter Four
Freedom
I grab everything I can from the small pharmacy selection available.
Everything.
How was I supposed to know he had a sensitivity to coconut? I mean, who actually gets the squirts from coconut? I pull out my phone, carefully juggling all of the over-the-counter products in my arms, and Google search coconut allergies. It’s actually quite rare, however a person can be sensitive to just about anything. Figures Samuel would be sensitive to one of my favorite add-on ingredients.