What We All Want

by Michelle Berry

  She walks around the room.

  She stands by the window, looking out.

  What can she do? There is nothing she can do.

  She leaves her mother’s room and goes downstairs to the living room. She pulls a box out of the cupboard beside the TV. One of many puzzles she has collected over the years. She takes it into the kitchen and sits down at the table. She shakes out the puzzle pieces. A photograph of the completed puzzle on the box cover shows Leonardo da Vinci’s painting, “Annunciation.” Hilary loves this puzzle. She found it one day at a garage sale when she was coming home from school. She bought it for a quarter. She loves that look in the Madonna’s eyes. What is it? Wariness? Apprehension? Hilary imagines that she would look that way if someone were to tell her she was pregnant right now And the angel kneeling before the Madonna is beautiful but frightening. His eye in profile is blank, white, and the effect is terrifying. As if he has nothing inside of him. No soul. He holds his fingers out to the Madonna in a gesture that reminds Hilary of Thomas when he would lecture Billy. And the Madonna holds one hand up, saying “Stop,” and the other hand rests crooked, arthritic looking, on a large book she is reading.

  Hilary’s mother used to work on this puzzle. When it was completed she wouldn’t let anyone take it apart for days. She used to spend hours staring at the Madonna’s face, her lips, her eyes, nose. If she had put it together on the kitchen table, they would have to eat on top of it; on the living room floor, they would have to walk around it. Then she would dissect it, piece by piece, and put it away for another six months, a year.

  Hilary works from the left corner and soon completes the frame of the puzzle. Her hands are shaking. She steadies them by holding them together in her lap. She looks at the hallway, at the steps leading up to her mother’s room and she holds her hands tightly. Thomas has taken the bus to buy cleaning supplies for the house, to pick up boxes. He said he was going to talk to Dick Mortimer and Hilary wishes she were there with them now She would like to see Dick again She still hasn’t forgiven Thomas for saying those things yesterday, but she will try to forget. No one else took care of her mother. No one could. How could she expect Thomas to understand?

  Hilary looks everywhere for the piece with part of the angel’s wing. She finds it and adds it to her puzzle.

  “The lady should have the wings,” her mother said once about the Madonna. “What does a man need with wings?”

  Hilary is cold and damp. She tries to concentrate but her hands are suddenly shaking and her eyes are beginning to tear.

  Thomas is walking through the suburbs in the rain. He’s been walk-ing for hours. He decided not to take the bus and now he regrets his decision. It feels as if he can’t get anywhere. He is passing house after house, strip mall after strip mall, but he can’t get anywhere he wants to go. He is tired of holding his umbrella high. He thinks this is why he moved away from here. Where he lives you can walk one direction, any direction, and happen upon what you want. He wonders if he should go back to the house.

  Thomas has been thinking about his father and why his father left them. He’s been thinking, wondering, if he would have done that—left three small children and a wife. Thomas thinks he couldn’t have done that. No matter how bad the situation.

  Now Thomas is standing in front of Mortimer’s Funeral Home. He wants to talk to Dick about finances. He wants to do this without the others around. Make some decisions. Get going on things. And suddenly he wants to see his mother. He wants to see her face. Last night he dreamt about the last time he saw her, at Billy’s wedding, about how she struggled out of his arms when he tried to hold her tight because she said he looked too much like his father.

  Thomas enters the funeral home and strolls down the long, polished hallways looking for Dick Mortimer.

  “Hello?”

  There is no one around. Just dead air.

  “Hello?” he says again.

  Dick Mortimer comes out of his office. “Hello. What can I do for you?”

  Thomas looks at Dick.

  “Thomas? Thomas Mount?”

  “Yes,” Thomas says. “I’d like to talk to you about finances, about the cost of my mother’s funeral.”

  “Of course. How are you? I haven’t seen you in so long.” The men shake hands.

  “Come into my office.”

  “And I’d like to see her if you don’t mind. I’d like to see my mother.”

  Dick stops walking into his office and turns towards Thomas “What?”

  “I’d like to look at her.”

  “Your mother?”

  “Yes.”

  Dick is caught off guard. He left Rebecca Mount in the preparation room a couple of days ago, a sheet draped over her naked yellow body. He hasn’t been organized lately. He’s been distracted and busy. Besides, Dick figured he had time so he didn’t put on her makeup or fix her. He didn’t even dress her.

  Dick motions Thomas towards a chair in his office. “Let’s go over the finances first, shall we?”

  “It smells a bit in here, doesn’t it?” Thomas asks nervously. “But I guess that’s part of the work, isn’t it?”

  “You’re dead on,” Dick laughs. “I’ve had some people compare the smell to burning or sulphur or burnt cabbage, maybe.” Dick nods his large head up and down. “You get used to it with time. Sometimes I can’t even smell it.” Dick sits in his comfortable chair behind his enormous mahogany desk. He feels a little happy jab in his lower spine, almost a sexual feeling, a feeling of success. His body shivers with delight. No matter how many times he sits in his office, he feels this way. No matter how many people comment on the smell that lingers around him, he still loves his work.

  Thomas feels suddenly tired. Walking through the suburbs in the rain has exhausted him. He feels as if he’s coming down with a cold or a flu. He feels weak and drained.

  Dick hands him a price list. “I’m sure you’ve gone over this with Hilary and Billy, haven’t you? I sent one home with them.”

  “Well …”

  “You really need to decide on a couple of things. First, the casket. Second, the service—where, when, how many.”

  “How many?”

  “Viewings. Guests you might have. Third, the site of burial and all the extras that go with that.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as a grave marker, or if you want cement lining in the grave, or if you want the service to be continued at the site, that kind of thing.”

  “Do you have any package deals?” Thomas laughs.

  “Yes, we do.” Dick hands Thomas another piece of paper.

  “I’d actually like to see her first,” Thomas says. “Then we could sit down and talk. Would that be all right?”

  “Have you ever seen a dead body before, Thomas?” Dick sits back in his chair and places his hands together as if praying. Fingers pointed high, spread apart, just touching.

  “No.”

  “Did you see your mother at the end of her life?”

  “No, I …”

  Dick raises his hand. “No apologies. I’m not here for that. What I’m getting at, Thomas, is that she is quite horrid to look at right now.”

  “That’s all right,” Thomas says. “I’m sure I can take it. I’m an adult, after all.”

  Dick sighs. “I’ll be honest. She’s yellow. She hasn’t been made-up yet. She is naked.”

  “Yellow?”

  “The jaundice from the liver cancer. Her kidneys gave out too.”

  Thomas sits silently. He looks at the floor. “I would really like to see her. You see, I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye.”

  “That’s what viewings are for, Thomas. Wait until her makeup is done, until she’s dressed and prettied up.”

  The two men stare at each other for a minute.

  “Please. I want to see her now.”

  Dick rises from his chair. Thomas rises too. “Come with me then.” Dick has only shown two people their loved ones after embalming and before makeup and both i
ncidents turned out horribly. Families crying, sobbing, howling. But Rebecca Mount was Thomas’s mother and Dick has a policy to respect the families. Just because he has the body in his possession, it doesn’t mean he owns it.

  Thomas follows closely behind. His heart is beating rapidly. He follows Dick down the stairs to the basement where there is a labyrinth of hallways and doorways. Thomas breathes heavily.

  “Just in there.” Dick motions to a door. He unlocks it. Thomas enters. It is dark. Dick flips on the lights. After his eyes adjust Thomas looks around. He sees what looks like a medical room in a hospital, perhaps an operating room. There are empty steel tables and huge lights. Drawers in the wall full, presumably, of instruments. Machines. And there, against a wall, is a table with a sheet draped over the bulk that lies atop it.

  Thomas looks in that direction.

  “You just leave her there like that? You don’t put her somewhere safe?”

  Dick walks towards the table. He rolls the table to the centre of the room and flicks on the overhead light.

  “The room is always locked.”

  “But she’s just lying there.”

  “Where do you think I should leave her? You haven’t chosen a casket.”

  Thomas stands motionless before the sheeted table. His arms hang low by his sides.

  “You can do the honours,” Dick says. He is a little angry. He wouldn’t presume to tell Thomas how to do his job. Dick stands back, waiting for Thomas to pull the sheet off.

  “I…”

  “If you want to change your mind, that’s fine with me.” Dick looks at his watch. “It is your mother. I completely understand.”

  Thomas takes a deep breath. He feels like vomiting. He looks at Dick.

  “What would you do?” Thomas whispers. “Would you look?”

  “Oh, I’ve already seen her,” Dick says.

  “No, I mean—”

  “Look at my own mother, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, I would,” Dick says. “In fact, I did.” Dick lets out a large breath.

  “I embalmed my own mother, to tell you the truth. I made her up and dressed her.” Dick looks down at his shoes. He feels proud about this. It was one of his finest burials. “I didn’t get the opportunity to preserve my father as I hadn’t taken the embalming course when he died.”

  Thomas opens his mouth to say something but he simply can’t think of a thing to say.

  “It was comforting putting my mother to rest. But that is my job, isn’t it?”

  Thomas nods.

  “I mean,” Dick says, “I’m not an average person.” He clears his throat. “I see dead—I mean, expired people every day. My mother. Well . .”

  “I understand,” Thomas says.

  “I’m not like you,” Dick continues. He clears his throat again. “This is my job.”

  “I’m an architect,” Thomas says and takes one large gulp of stagnant air and moves towards the table. “But I am her son. Aren’t I?” Dick nods.

  Thomas pulls the sheet off his mother’s face.

  “Oh, God. She’s so yellow,” Thomas says.

  She has no hair and this fact shocks him more than her colour, than the strange expression on her face, her closed eyes, the way her skin looks like wax.

  “They lose moisture, you know,” Dick says.”That’s why she looks so small.”

  “Her face.”

  “You’ll be surprised what a little makeup can do.”

  Thomas tries to look away but his mother’s face keeps drawing him back. He regrets immediately that he wanted to see her like this. He knows that this is the image that will stay with him forever. Her lips are pinched tight, her eyes sealed shut. Everything about her looks forced, as if her death was something she was fighting.

  Dick clears his throat. “I’ve heard that liver cancer is extremely painful at the end.”

  “Why is she stitched?” Thomas asks. “Did she hurt herself?” “That’s from the embalming,” Dick says. “I’ll cover those marks with makeup.”

  “What’s this?” Thomas points a shaky finger towards Becka’s neck, towards the marks there.

  “I don’t know,” Dick says. “Bruises, I guess.”

  “Bruises,” Thomas echoes. “On her neck.” He puts his hands over his eyes and pokes his fingers into his sockets to stop the tears from flowing.

  “Oh dear,” Dick says. “I knew I shouldn’t have let you see her.” Thomas drops the sheet and turns to leave the room. He feels overwhelmed.

  “This happens every time I let someone see their loved one.” Dick shakes his head. “I really should learn. But I feel that the bodies aren’t mine to make decisions about. The bodies still belong to the families.…”

  Thomas stands in the hallway. “I have to leave now,” he tells Dick. “I’ll come back and talk to you about everything soon.”

  “But —”

  “I have to go now.” Thomas starts up the stairs and then out the door into the rain. He feels as if he’s walking against a wind. When the rain touches his face he feels alive again and able to breathe. He takes gulping breaths and looks around at the bright colours surrounding him: the green of the grass, the trees turning colour, the grey of the sidewalk. Everything seems to glow.

  “Hey,” Dick shouts out the door. “You left your umbrella. It’s raining.”

  Thomas walks away in the rain.

  “We really have to talk about the service,” Dick shouts. “As soon as your family is available.”

  Thomas disappears around the corner.

  Dick shakes his head. Serves him right to show dead bodies to people with weak stomachs. Then Dick smiles. He’s certainly better than the average person. He looks Death in the eye, day in, day out. And it doesn’t faze him a bit. He breathes deeply. Not everyone could do his job. Dick has lived in a funeral home his entire life. He couldn’t ask for anything better.

  He walks back to the room with the body of Rebecca Mount. His staff have gone home for the day. He walks over to her and stares at her face. Even after he set her face, she still looks scared of something. But what? Dick thinks death is natural. He is not afraid of it at all. It’s inevitable.Why worry about something you can’t change, he reasons.

  Dick leans back on his heels. The thought of going upstairs to his apartment above the funeral home, having supper, and watching TV alone is more than he can bear right now. He’s tired of having no one to talk to at the end of the day. He misses his mother. Sometimes Dick thinks he should try to locate his brother and strike up a conversation. Sometimes he thinks that they might get along now that they are the last of the Mortimers. But he knows in his heart that Steve wouldn’t take his call. He wants nothing to remind him of where he came from. Dick stretches. He walks to the door and turns the main light out. Rebecca Mount’s profile shines in the glow of the small light above her body. From the side she looks interesting, almost beautiful. Like some sort of twisted sculpture. He thinks her life must have been sad and lonely. He remembers that her husband left her. He remembers that she didn’t go outside much. Dick steps back into the room and looks around. Everything is tidy. The air hangs heavy.

  Dick circles the empty embalming table right next to Rebecca Mount. He wipes a finger over its metal surface. It is clean. And then Dick does what he has always done since he was a small boy. He climbs onto the embalming table and lies down. He crosses his hands over his chest and lies there, as still as he can be, his eyes closed, and he tries to clear his mind and think of absolutely nothing. He pretends he is dead. In this way Dick has conditioned himself to fear nothing. He lies on the table that has held so many other bodies and he is not afraid. Of anything. He imagines the embalming process, feels the cut on his clavicle, feels the solution cooking his body, tightening him. He is dead. He sucks in the odours, he lets himself become aware of the body beside him, and he opens up his mind to whiteness, to nothing, to an empty feeling of zero. A big hole. A chasm. If a body doesn’t fear death, Dick reasons,
then a body won’t fear loneliness or pain or emptiness. It is in this way that Dick has grown strong, has pulled himself out of the fat-boy rut he was in back in high school. It is in this way that Dick has faced the world.

  But it doesn’t work today. Rebecca Mount stretched there beside him She looks as lonely and uncomfortable as he is. And seeing Hilary Mount again made him remember parts of his past he would rather forget. And then Thomas’s sadness. Dick’s memories of his own mother’s death. He can’t concentrate. He sits up and eases himself off the table.

  Thomas makes it home and walks immediately up to his bedroom. He lies on the small bed in his wet clothes. His eyes are closed. He tries to picture his mother and suddenly he can see her in his mind, standing clearly before him. She is dressed in a flowered terry-cloth bathrobe, her hair in a halo of curlers, a cigarette dangling from her fingers. She has just stepped out of the bath and Thomas can see the steam float off her neck and arms and calves. She stands there in a mist, her old bedroom slippers fuzzy and worn, one hand tucked into the robe pockets, her smile lopsided and nervous. She is younger than Thomas is now. Maybe Hilary’s age, or even Billy’s.

  He must have been ten or eleven years old. Caught in the middle of reading a book with his flashlight under the covers. Becka was standing in his room and Thomas was not aware that she was there. Suddenly he felt her presence. She was watching him.

  “Aren’t you sleeping yet, Thomas?” Becka asked. She flicked her cigarette onto the carpet and stepped on it. Scrunched it with her slipper. She was never a fine housekeeper.

  “No.”

  “And why aren’t you sleeping yet?”

  “I’m not tired.” Thomas hid his book, flicked off his light, glanced over at Billy who was breathing deeply under his covers, a skinny bulk in his bed.

  “And why aren’t you tired, Thomas?” Becka whispered. “Because I’m not tired.”

  “Then let’s get up.” And suddenly Becka took Thomas’s hand and pulled him softly out of bed. “Get up, then, if you aren’t tired. Don’t waste your time in bed. Get up.”