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“Elizabeth?” Lucas sounds tired. I peer at the bedside clock—1 a.m., my time. Does that make it midnight for him? When I don’t immediately answer, he continues, “Are you there?”
“Yeah, I’m sorry. I was asleep.” I clear my throat. “What’s going on? Why are you calling so late?”
There’s a long pause, and suddenly, I know what he’s going to say before the words come out.
“I’m so sorry, Elizabeth. It’s your mother. She’s gone.”
CHAPTER
29
Where are all the dead people?
I’ve never been down here before, in the basement of Chapman and Sons Funeral Home, but I bet this is where they are. The ones waiting—for embalming, for hair and makeup, for their loved ones to come and cry over them. And the ones waiting on the other end—bodies done being displayed and the only thing left is cremation or burial.
All of the wakes are held on the main level, two rooms back-to-back. Sometimes they make it into one, if the person was popular. Lord knows I’ve come here enough times. It’s the only place of its kind in Minton Parish. My grandmother’s wake was here—she didn’t need the two rooms made into one. And Ivy’s dad—he did need the two rooms. When I was younger, my mother used to make me come here with her whenever people from church died. We’d both put on dresses and pretend we were good Christians.
A thought hits, makes my blood run cold. Was Mr. Sawyer’s wake in two rooms? Did all the town come to pay respect to a man who didn’t deserve respect? I hadn’t stuck around long enough to find out. That fucker probably packed the place.
My musings are interrupted by a voice. “Ms. Davis?”
I stand, practically jumpingfrom my seat.
The man extends his hand with a solemn face. “I’m Kenny Chapman. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
He motions down the hall. “Right this way. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting so long.”
“It’s fine.”
He opens one of the closed doors to reveal an office. There’s a desk with chairs, some catalogs, tissue boxes carefully positioned on my side. An archway to my right leads to a bigger room, one full of caskets—display pieces like we’re shopping for blouses at Macy’s. It makes me wonder, do they come in sizes? Are there clearance options? Name brands and generic?
Kenny Chapman tucks his chair in and opens a folder. “So your mother already made most of the arrangements.”
I blink a few times. “Excuse me?”
He offers a practiced smile. “It’s common. Parents often want to take the burden from their children, save them from having to make choices during a difficult time.” He slides a piece of paper across the desk to me. “These are the things she picked out. I can still show you them, if you’d like.”
A lump forms in my throat, thinking of my mother coming here by herself—sick, knowing she was dying, picking out her own casket. I swallow, pushing down the shitty feeling that has threatened to rear its ugly head ever since my phone rang last night.If I keep moving, the guilt can’t catch up with me.
I lean forward, look down at a full page of typed-up line items. It must be fifteen rows long, each with a price tag at the end:
Base service fee: $2,295
Embalming: $895
Hearse: $350
Full day viewing—two sessions,double room
Of course my mother thinks she needs the double room. I stop reading and scan down to the bottom line. The total is more than $9,000. I point to it. “Did she pay this already, too?”
Mr. Chapman frowns. “No, I’m sorry. She didn’t. We do offer a prepayment option that locks in the rate, but your mother didn’t opt for it.”
For some absurd reason, that makes me smile. It’s just . . . soMom.
He reaches behind him to the credenza, grabs a board with all different types of wood displayed. “Your mother chose the glossy red oak—it’s a beautiful piece—with the premium white satin liner.”