Page 4

Chapter four

Levana

Alfred Shaw, age eighty-two. Quiet death. No trauma. Easy enough.

Soft lines carve deep into his cheeks and his mouth’s fallen slightly open like he was in the middle of a sigh. He looks peaceful.

“Alright, Alfred,” I murmur. “I’m gonna get you cleaned up, make you look your best.”

I reach for my phone and slip in my earbuds.

“I hope you don’t mind,” I say. “But I might send a few texts while I’m working. It’s nothing personal. Promise. Just some company while I’m in here.”

I prop my phone against the counter and get to work.

I start by wiping Alfred’s face down with a warm cloth—careful swipes along his temples, beneath his jaw.

“Hey Siri, text Patrick.”

The chime sounds in my ear.

“Hey,” I say. “Send.”

I reach for the arterial tube, and position it just beneath Alfred’s clavicle. His skin’s already loosening, softening to something malleable and waxy, like damp paper.

I uncap a bottle of dye and tip a few drops into the fluid reservoir, just enough to warm his skin a little. The stuff’s potent. Too much, and the result’s less ‘peaceful repose’ and more ‘sunburn victim.’

I made that mistake twice in my training years.

Never again.

I adjust the pressure valve and flick the switch on the machine. It hisses to life, that familiar low drone filling the room.

“Sorry,” I murmur. “This bit’s not exactly pleasant.”

The blood moves sluggishly at first. Thick and dark, glugging down the tube like rusted motor oil. I watch for a moment to make sure the flow stays even, then step back to grab a fresh cloth from the shelf.

My phone buzzes from the counter.

Surviving the day? Or should I start planning your memorial?

“ Hey Siri, text Patrick: ‘Barely. If you hear about a staff revolt at the funeral home, you’ll know why.’ Send.”

I smooth my fingers along Alfred’s arm, gently massaging the fluid through his stiffened muscles and check the drainage from the jugular vein. The blood’s thinning out now—syrup giving way to watered-down wine. Satisfied, I carefully remove the tube, shut off the machine, then tie off and stitch the artery.

Tell me Gordon finally caved and replaced the autoclave.

Snorting, I shake my head.

“Hey Siri, text Patrick: ‘Nope. Still cursed.’ Send.”

I’ll bring a priest next time I’m there.

“You’re doing great,” I tell Alfred as I work through the rest of the motions.

What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever seen at work?”

“Hey Siri, text Patrick: ‘I can’t tell you that while I’m literally standing over someone right now.’ Send.”

I finish cleaning Alfred, and fold his arms over his chest. The dye’s worked. There’s a faint warmth to his face now, a gentle pinkness that makes him look like he’s just dozed off. I pull the sheet back up to his chin, tucking it carefully into place.

You’ll tell me later though, right?

I disinfect the area, peel off my PPE and drop it all into the biohazard bin before picking up my phone.

“Thank you for letting me take care of you, Alfred. I’ll leave you to rest now.”

The embalming room door bangs shut as I step into the break room. My face feels warm and clammy, my skin sticky beneath the collar of my shirt.

I’m scrubbing my hands at the sink when my phone buzzes again.

Hey… what are you doing this weekend?

No plans. Why?

I sigh, but not in a bad way. More in that ‘why am I smiling at this?’ kind of way. I set the phone down for a minute and head for the coffee maker, flicking the switch.

Feel like doing something together? Whatever you want. No pressure.

No pressure. Fuck. He’s so damn nice.

Yeah, that sounds nice.

“Morning, sunshine.”

I jump, turning to find Elliot leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, grinning like he’s just caught me red-handed.

“You’re smiling at your phone again.”

“No, I’m not,” I lie, taking a sip of coffee.

“You are,” he drawls, stepping fully into the room and snagging the last clean mug from the shelf. “Patrick again?”

“Obviously.”

It’s been three weeks of coffee, casual walks around the neighbourhood, and late-night texts that always start with a ‘You still up’ (No, not in a booty call kind of way) or ‘ Did you see that article I sent?’ . But somehow fall into those long, spiraling conversations you never really plan on having. The kind where you blink and it’s 2a.m. and you’re still talking.

The first time we grabbed coffee, it was a little awkward. Lots of stiff small talk, long pauses, both of us unsure what to say. But it softened quickly. By the second meeting, it felt easier. Almost familiar.

He lives out on the edge of town, somewhere quiet. Used to commute into the city every day for his job, but he recently started working from home. Says it gives him more freedom—more daylight hours to breathe. To just be . Which is how he ended up at the memorial garden in the middle of the afternoon in the first place.

And he’s so easy to be around, in a way that feels rare. No pressure. No expectation. His humour’s dry and sharp, the kind that doesn’t try too hard, just slips under your skin and lingers there. Half the time, I’m still processing some snarky comment he’s made when I find myself laughing harder than I meant to—harder than I have in months, maybe longer.

The best part about all of it though, is somewhere along the line, I figured I mustn’t have been the one who worked on his family. I probably started at the funeral home after they passed. I never remember every face afterward anyway, not unless I had a really long interaction with the family. But he’s never brought it up. Never hinted at recognising me. And that, more than anything, kind of confirms it.

It’s made the whole thing easier, and I feel more at peace with the situation in general.

And honestly… I like that.

I like him .

One body.

In. Out. Boom. Done. Simple.

I’m sitting in the van, hands clenched tight around the wheel. My stomach twists, hot and sour, and for a second I think I might actually vomit.

I look up at the sign.

Ashfield Heights Residential Home.

The heater’s blasting full force, but I still can’t shake the ice that’s settled deep in my bones. I rub my hands together, trying to coax some feeling back into them, but my skin’s too clammy and numb under my gloves. My shirt clings damp to my back, sweat crawling down my spine in slow, uncomfortable threads, like my body’s out of sync with everything around it.

I don’t want to be here, but it’s a two-man job, and I’m sure as shit not sending Gordon to collect the body of someone his own age. He’d offered, of course, all stiff-jawed and stubborn, like stepping up for this was some kind of heroic act. But I couldn’t let him do that. Not this one.

“Hey?”

I blink, dragging myself out of my head. Elliot’s staring at me from the passenger seat, head tilted, dark curls flattened from his beanie.

“You good, Lev?”

“Yep,” I nod. “Come on.”

I shove the door open before he can start poking around in my brain and we head to the back of the van. I grab the handles of the gurney, and Elliot reaches for the rest. The routine stuff. Just your standard body collection. Just your standard case of someone’s whole life being reduced to paperwork and plastic tags.

Inside the home, the air’s stale and too warm—that familiar mix of overcooked vegetables and disinfectant clinging to everything.

We’re led down a short hallway, past faded paintings of sunlit fields and flowers, to where the family’s waiting, just outside the room—two women, one older, one about my age. Their faces are blotchy and raw, eyes red-rimmed and swollen. One’s clutching a damp tissue, wringing it between her fingers like she’s afraid to let it go.

“Hi,” I say gently. “I’m Levana. This is Elliot. We’re really sorry you’re having to go through this, but we’re going to take excellent care of him. I promise.”

“His name’s Raymond,” the older woman says, like I don’t already know. Like saying it out loud might keep him here just a little longer.

“Raymond,” I repeat softly. “Thank you.”

She presses her fingers to her mouth, choking out a sob as she steps aside.

Raymond’s lying on the bed in the far corner, arms folded neatly over his chest. Someone’s combed his hair back, stiff grey strands brushed smooth across his scalp.

“Hey, Raymond,” I say, pulling my gloves on with a snap. “We’re gonna get you out of here now, alright?”

We open the body bag on the stretcher first, laying it wide and neat so there’s no awkward fumbling later. The black plastic gapes open, too stark against the white sheet beneath it. I hate this part—the way that empty bag looks, like a void waiting to swallow someone whole.

One of his arms slips to the side as we move him, but I catch it quickly, tucking it back to his chest like I’m fixing a shirt cuff.

“Sorry about that,” I say under my breath.

We lower him into the open bag, and Elliot zips it up just to his chin, leaving his face visible.

And then I carefully tuck the soft, white sheet around the outline of his body, smoothing the fabric to soften the shape—a careful fold at the head, another at the feet. Just enough to dull the angles.

“Should we…” Elliot gestures vaguely toward Raymond’s face. “I mean… cover him completely?”

I hesitate, eyeing the soft rise of Raymond’s chest beneath the sheet—the gentle slope where his head rests.

“No,” I say quietly. “Just… this.”

I grab another cloth from the bag and fold it carefully, placing it just high enough to cover his face without pressing down. The fabric sits loose, tented just enough to keep the shape of his features.

“Looks like he’s napping,” Elliot says, softer now.

That’s the goal—to make it feel… gentle. Like we’re just guiding him out quietly, like this is something ordinary and calm. The other residents will see a covered stretcher, but nothing harsh. Nothing that lingers too long in their minds when they’re alone in their own beds later.

“Alright,” I say, giving the stretcher one last check. “Let’s go.”

The wheels thump softly over the threshold of his bedroom as we wheel Raymond out, and start to manoeuvre him down the hallway.

“Levana!”

My whole body locks up.

No, no, no, no, no… fucking no.

I keep walking, eyes fixed straight ahead, one foot in front of the other.

Just keep moving. Just get to the door.

“Levana!”

I flinch, my step faltering.

“You want me to stay?” Elliot asks.

“No,” I say quickly. “No, I’ll sort it out.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” I force out a breath, already turning back toward the sound. “You go get him comfortable and sort the paperwork.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he nods. “Alright. I’ll meet you back at the van.”

My fingers twitch at my sides, nerves slithering up my spine like snakes.

Okay… okay, just get this over with.

I turn fully, swallowing hard.

“Levana! Oh my god, I can’t believe you’re here!”

She’s standing halfway down the hall, wide-eyed and breathless like she’s just sprinted to catch me. Her wiry grey hair is streaked with stubborn patches of faded auburn, and it’s been pulled into two tight French braids, but they’re starting to come undone. Her lipstick’s too bright—coral pink, smudged just enough to creep into the lines around her mouth, and her sweater’s a size too big, the sleeves bunched around her wrists.

“Hey, Mom,” I say, forcing a smile. “I’m working right now.”

“Oh, I know, I know,” she says, waving a hand. “But you’ve been so busy, I haven’t seen you in weeks! I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me.”

Before I can answer, she launches straight in, words tumbling out. “How have you been? Are you eating properly? You’re looking a bit thin. Have you been skipping meals? You always forget to eat when you’re stressed. And your job. You’re still working too hard, aren’t you? You need to take a break, Levana, honestly, you’re gonna make yourself sick.”

The questions are rapid-fire, each one winding tighter and tighter around my ribs. I can’t even tell if she’s waiting for answers or just firing them off to fill the space.

“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “Really.”

“Hmmm… I don’t believe you, missy.” Her hand darts out and grabs mine. “Come on,” she says, tugging me down the hall. “Come see your daddy.”

My stomach lurches.

“Mom,” I say through my teeth, digging my heels in. “I can’t. I’m working.”

“He’s been waiting for you,” she says, her voice all light and sing-songy.

“I really can’t,” I say again, firmer now. “I’ve got to get back to work.”

“Oh, just five minutes! He’ll be so happy to see you!”

Her smile is so wide, so hopeful, that it stings.

“I can’t,” I say, softer this time. “I’m busy.”

For a second, she just stands there, smile flickering, and then her face twists.

“Levana Marie Foster,” she snaps. “Your daddy has been asking after you for months now, and you can’t even spare five minutes?”

“Mom…” I start, but she barrels on, her voice climbing.

“He’s been worried about you! Sitting there, wondering if you’re alright—wondering why his own daughter won’t pick up the damn phone!”

“Mom, I—”

“You can’t just treat him like this!” she cries, her face flushing blotchy red. “He never did a damn thing wrong to you! Never once! He’s always loved you, and you just—“

“Is everything okay here?”

I turn to see a staff member approaching—a woman about my age, dressed in scrubs with her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. Maya. I’ve met her a few times before.

“Oh, Miss Foster,” Maya says. “We didn’t know you were visiting.”

I glance past her toward the doorway, where Elliot’s just wheeled Raymond out. I meet Maya’s eyes and silently mouth ‘body removal.’

Her smile falters a little but she corrects herself and plasters it back on.

“Ahhh…” She turns back to my mom. “Helen, I see Levana’s working right now. But you know what?” She leans in like she’s sharing a secret. “I’ll bet she’ll visit real soon. Won’t you?”

“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “I will. Soon.”

My mom’s still breathing hard, her chest rising and falling like she’s trying to force the anger out with each exhale.

Then her face shifts again—that sharp edge softening into something fragile and worn out, and it cracks my heart right down the middle.

“Alright,” she says quietly. “If you say so.”

“I say so,” I tell her as I step closer and wrap my arms around her tiny frame.

She’s smaller than I remember.

“Love you,” I murmur.

“I love you too,” she whispers back.

I pull away first. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Okay,” she says before Maya gently steers her away.

I don’t wait. I turn and book it down the hallway, fast enough that my boots skid a little on the tile. My heart’s still hammering by the time I reach the van. I yank the door open, jump in, and slam it behind me like something’s chasing me.

Elliot’s halfway through buckling his seatbelt when he turns to me, eyebrows raised. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I mutter, buckling my own belt.

“I would’ve gone on my own, Lev.”

“It’s fine,” I say quickly. “Really.” I force my voice to something lighter as I lean back in my seat and shoot him a grin. “Alright. Why don’t we drop Raymond off, and then we go for a burger and milkshakes?”