Page 3

Eve

“It’s Grant. Jason Grant. And we’ll plan on seeing you tomorrow at 5pm.”

I can’t get the words out of my head. His voice was so…rich. Not at all what I imagine while I search the mortuary online and see his headshot in the ‘About Everlast’ section. The styled blonde hair, the strong face, the white smile: I was halfway expecting him to sound like a used car salesman. Still, his photo looks insanely familiar, as if I’ve seen him before.

Shifting my weight, my recliner groans as I lean forward, setting my phone down next to the glass of wine on the table in front of me as I glance around my living room: for as large and open as it usually is, the countless boxes of my father’s belongings lining the walls makes me look like a hoarder. A sigh escapes my lips. I am nowhere near ready to tackle the tedious task of sorting through everything. While my father might have been an old-school nostalgic, I never was. On the contrary, I have been constantly fighting the urge to simply call junk removal and have it all taken away in one fell swoop. Why hang on to personal effects and memories of a person that I’ll never talk to again?

That’s not to say that I didn’t love the man, but I just don’t see the point in stockpiling somebody’s life just for the sake of ‘keeping their memory alive.’ There are other ways to hold onto parts of someone, to remember them and honor them…besides, I’ve always done best with packing painful memories away. No point in wallowing when you can’t change what’s already happened.

Shaking my head, my arm absentmindedly reaches to the coffee table and fumbles for the wine sitting in front of me. The glass is cool and smooth, and as my fingers curl around the goblet, I feel my eyes go wide, my head snapping up to attention as a memory floods my brain.

Flashing, pulsing lights. An endless sea of bobbing heads and gyrating bodies, and obnoxious hip-hop drowning out the sounds of drunken sing-a-longs and squealing girls. Near an elegant bar adorned with black and gold filigree, a tall figure with the honey blonde hair leans against the countertop. Still. Unwavering. Watching and analyzing the movements of everyone around.

Jason.

The local club, Clover, is a pretty large venue, and one of the biggest buildings in our town. The inside is dark and moody, save for the strobe lights and colorful strips of LEDs strategically placed around the bar and dance floor. The crowds of college kids and older barflies make it hard to notice anyone stand out in particular. Yet one night–amidst the blacklights and bar fights–I remember catching a glimpse of blonde hair moving through the crowd towards the back of the club. He walked like nobody was in his way, gliding through the sea of people as if he was a ghost, before disappearing behind the dark, ornate doors of the VIP section.

There are plenty of blonde men in this city, but the polished, slicked back hair is unmistakable. No club-rat is going to bother with coiffing their hair with such dedication, not when hours of dancing and drinking are going to ruin it anyway.

The sound of glass shattering washes over my ears like crystal windchimes, drowning out the sounds of the club and bringing me back to reality. I don’t feel the sting in my palm until I look down and realize I have unknowingly tightened my grip on the goblet so much it’s cracked and crumbled in my hand. Blood drips onto the table below me, its warmth is in stark contrast to the chilled wine that now coats most of my forearm.

Raising my hand to inspect my injury, the wine and blood mingles as gravity causes it to slither from wrist to elbow, forming intricate trails and pathways across my skin. I can’t help but to stare blankly as it pools delicately inside the crook of my arm.

My gaze drifts back up from my elbow to my palm, and I notice a large piece of glass embedded deep in the center: every twitch of my finger is met with a sharp, shooting pain, the smooth edges making small but determined cuts in my skin with every movement. I sigh and grit my teeth as I grasp the shard with my good hand, and begin to pull slowly until it is removed, dropping it onto the table before me.

Rising from my seat, small fragments of glass clink against the floor as they fall from my lap. Gingerly stepping over the pile of wine-stained shards, my bare feet grip the polished wood floor as I make my way to the bathroom. The tile is cool, a welcoming contrast to the burning that is radiating through my hand as I soap it clean at the bathroom sink.

Looking up at the mirror in front of me, a sigh escapes my lips as I glance over my disheveled red hair, my eyes slightly puffy from the tears I tried to hold back while on the phone with Jason. Just because I deal with death differently than most, doesn’t mean I am a COMPLETE monster. He was my father after all, and as much as I’m not looking forward to saying goodbye, I refuse to wallow in my grief for longer than necessary.

The sting from the soap is beginning to fade: turning off the faucet, I reach for the towel on the rack beside me: the worn, rough threads a testament to my minimalist lifestyle. Despite the money I made with my father–and it was GOOD money–I was never one to spend it like other people my age. Sure, I use what I need to get by, but I was never raised on a lavish lifestyle, never saw the need for fancy cars or designer clothing. I dress nicely, but it’s not Versace. I drive a nice car, but it’s not a Rolls Royce. I’d rather have cash in my pocket than spend it on random bullshit…although right now I’m cursing myself for not investing in higher quality drinkware.

My hand feels good and dry, but the wound in my palm is deep and needs to be dressed before it starts to bleed again. Keeping my hand elevated, I bend over and reach for the med kit under the sink, grasping it and groaning with effort as I straighten back up. It only takes a few seconds for me to apply the gauze and wrap the binding around my palm. It probably needs stitches, but I’ll worry about that tomorrow, after my meeting with Jason.

Walking back out to the living room, I survey the area: the boxes, the broken glass, the spilled wine dripping slowly from the table onto the wood floor below. I think about the towel I need to grab to soak up the liquids, the broom needed to sweep up the shards, the time it’s going to take to sort through the boxes…and it takes me half a breath to decide I don’t have the energy to deal with this.

One thing at a time, Eve. One thing at a time.

I walk over to the table and gingerly pick my phone up from between the mess, and search up local storage companies. Finding one close by, I save the number and set an alarm to remind me to call them first thing tomorrow morning. I’ll go through Dad’s stuff later, but right now I can’t think with all the clutter around me. It’s hard enough to breathe right now as it is: now with Dad gone, I have to try and figure out how to single-handedly run our organization.

Folks always liked us because we were just that: US. Two of us, tackling the older and younger generations, bridging gaps in history and communication with the people we’d present to. My father was the jolly, humorous half that I lacked, and without him here, my expositions would be dark…so very, very dark.

After a few minutes, I book a storage unit and schedule a pickup for all of his things. With storage handled, my eyes drift from my phone and slowly fan over the mess on the table. The wine had finally stopped dripping, yet I still don’t have the energy–or the will–to clean the mess.

Fuck it.

The floor squeaks under my heel as I pivot in place and march straight to my bedroom: despite the snug, comforting pressure of the wrap, I can feel my palm beginning to pulse underneath. Peeking at the gauze under the bandage, I see a small spot of red forming.

I sigh. I’m too tired for this right now.

I clear the space between my door and my bed in three strides, sitting on the edge of my mattress as I fling open the drawer to my nightstand and paw through numerous bottles of pills: I find what I’m sure is a random bottle of painkillers, the label worn clean off. With a satisfying pop, the lid bounces off onto the floor and I shake a few pills from the bottle: I don’t remember what they are, but I know they take the edge off, and that’s exactly what I need right now.

Grabbing a half-empty bottle of water from the corner of the nightstand, I gulp down three of the pills before slamming the container onto the nightstand. I need sleep. Turning the sound on my phone off, I toss it onto the nightstand next to the bottle and bury myself under the layers of comforters, wiggling into the mattress as deeply as I can. Hiding from the world. Hiding from myself. Hiding from tomorrow.

Within a few minutes I can feel the throbbing in my hand begin to cease, the weight from the blankets soothing my anxiousness as I start to drift off.

“Storage tomorrow…and then…Jason…” I say to myself between yawns, my eyes too heavy to blink. Thank God I don’t have work tomorrow. I really could use a day…to…

RING RING RING

Every muscle in my face strains as I peel my eyelids open and glare over at my nightstand, fighting the urge to grab my phone and throw it out of my room.

I swear to God I had put that motherfucker on silent before passing out.

Ugh.

My hair is smothering my face, glued between my cheek and my pillow: I muster the strength to gather my arms under me and push myself up off of the bed, and no sooner do I sit up than I feel a rush of blood to my head, causing it to pound with the force of a thousand speakers at a rock concert.

“Jesus Christ, what the fuck,” I groan.

Brushing my hair away, I grasp my head with both hands, pressing against my temples and willing the pressure away. I don’t even remember falling asleep. I DO, however, remember my dreams.

Every. Single. Terrifying. One.

RING RING RING

Like a scene from Exorcist, my head turns murderously towards my phone as I stare at the display screen with pure fury. Right now I feel like I barely slept, my head is killing me, and I KNOW I had my phone on silent. Nothing could be this important this early in the morning, and I have half a mind to answer the phone and weave together a blanket of obscenities so thick that it would send the person on the other end of the line crawling back from whence they came.

Instead I take a slow, deep breath, exhaling the pain and willing patience into my body. Today is going to be long, and I don’t feel like starting off in a sour mood. Leaning over, I reach for my phone and swipe the lock screen to check the time.

5:27pm.

I blink, and check again.

5:27pm.

Wait. WAIT. No, FUCK NO!

The disbelief washing over me induces a state of panic that is only reserved for prey animals and idiots.

I had an appointment with Jason at 5PM….sweet Jesus, what the hell happened?!

Frantically opening my phone, I see missed calls and voicemails from an unknown number with the same area code. MY area code. My feet hit the floor in record time as I shoot out of bed and start scrambling towards my closet to grab some clothes, navigating my phone menu with one hand and flinging coat hangers across my floor with the other.

Playing back the most recent voicemail, I hear a curt voice projecting from my speakers as I file through my clothes.

Hello, this is Maya Liu from Everlast Mortuary. I was calling to remind you that you had a 5pm meeting today with Mr. Grant: please give us a call back so that we can reschedule if needed. Thank you.

I press the green call-back symbol with desperation, praying that someone answers: putting the call on speaker, I toss my phone onto my bed while I wrench a long black maxi dress from its hanger and begin to tug it over my head. My head finally through the neckline, I struggle to slide an arm through when I hear a sharp, sultry woman’s voice answer the call.

“Hello? Is this Eve O’Hara?”

“FUCK” I exclaim as I realize I’m stuck in my dress. Tilting my head up and out of the fabric, I shout towards my phone as I continue to try and shove my arms through.

“Yes, this is she! I’m so sorry, I know I had an appointment today but I—”

“Yes, you did,” she cuts me off. “However, I'm not handling your account. Mr. Grant took a special interest in your situation and would like to speak to you personally. Let me transfer you now.”

Fuck fuck FUCKITY FUCK.

I try to backtrack with my arms, but at this point my elbow is completely wedged at a 90-degree angle above my head. Looking down at the dress, I swear under my breath. I had shoved my head through one of the goddamn armholes. I don’t even notice the pain as I nearly strangle myself trying to pull my head out of the tiny opening, and I almost have it freed when I suddenly hear Jason’s voice on the other line.

“Ms. O’Hara, this is Jason Grant. We had spoken last night: I was under the impression that you’d be here for a meeting regarding your father at 5pm, however it’s nearly 5:35pm and I see that you’re still not here.”

My grunts are unconcealable as I finally wrench my arm free, easing the tension around my neck and freeing myself from my cotton prison. My words are peppered with stressful curse words and groans of effort as I FINALLY straighten the damn dress and get my head through the right opening, shimmying the fabric down my torso and letting it fall around my legs.

“Yes…Sorry Mr. Grant…ugh. I must’ve overslept. I’m getting dressed now and I should be…Jesus fucking Christ...be there soon.”

…

Silence. Silence for a few terrifying seconds, followed by a deep chuckle.

“Ma’am, are you ok? You sound distressed.” His tone shows the slightest indication of annoyance, colored with amusement.

“Yeah I’m fine!” I all but yell into the phone as I grab it off of the bed and run towards my front door, sliding my feet into a pair of flats and grabbing my keys from the hanger nearby. The speed with which I scramble to close and lock my door could only be rivaled by a Nascar pit crew, and before I can take another breath I’m bolting to my car and throwing myself into the driver’s seat.

Sweet fucking Jesus, what pills did I take??

“I’m so sorry,” I say as I close my car door. “I was throwing clothes on! I’m leaving my house right now, and you’re not far! I’ll be there soon!”

An ominous pause is followed by a slight snort of laughter.

“Well I’m glad you remembered to put clothes on before getting here. When you enter the lobby, tell Maya at the front desk who you are, and she’ll escort you to my office. See you soon, Ms. O’Hara.”

Click. The line goes dead.

Shaking my head angrily, I fire up the engine and peel out of my driveway, tires squealing on the asphalt as I hit the main road and allow my speed to even out. I don’t need GPS to know where I’m going: the mortuary is just a few blocks down from Clover, its industrial look is unforgettable amidst the dated architecture in this town.

As I navigate the roadways, I desperately try to brush my hair with my fingers and wipe the smeared mascara from under my eyes. All to no avail: there’s only so much I can do in the short time it takes me to arrive at Everlast.

The tall white building is a stark contrast to the black doors and framework that pepper its exterior, and as I turn into the driveway, I see some black smoke coming from the chimney near the back of the building. It’s no secret that Everlast is best known for its crematorium: with limited plots left in the city cemetery, more folks are turning to the ‘ashes to ashes’ approach.

Pulling into an empty spot near the front, my brakes groan as I rush to throw the car in park and stumble out of my car. I still feel half asleep, and even without looking I can tell my face is puffy. Fuck it. I’m not here to impress anyone right now.

My feet slap the pavement as I all but run from my car and approach the front of the building. The doors are so black, I can hardly believe it: a void, pulling me in, and as I get closer I can see the slightest iridescent sheen of emerald at its surface. It reminds me of the same color as the VIP doors at Clover: pitch black, with a subtle green shimmer lurking below.

No sooner do I approach the front than I hear the groan of hinges as the doors swing inward and open before me: a stunning woman with polished hair and a gorgeous green bespoke suit is standing inside the lobby, staring at me with slight disapproval.

“You must be Ms. O’Hara.”

Her voice is as sharp as the heels on her Louboutin stilettos, and as she looks me up and down, I’m suddenly very aware of how haggard I look in comparison to her. Straightening my back and pulling my hair from my shoulders, I meet her gaze with as much confidence as I can muster.

“Yes, and you must be Maya.” I try to match her somewhat irritable tone.

I’m here to meet Mr. Grant: I apologize for my delay, something…came up…” I try my best to sound sure of myself, knowing damn well there was absolutely nothing that came up other than my lack of responsibility.

“My dear,” Maya says coolly as she raises an eyebrow. “There’s no reason to lie to me. The puffy eyes, the disheveled hair: we all sleep through alarms from time to time.”

THIIIIIS bitch.

“Ok, well either way, I’m sorry,” I snap back as I try to keep my temper in check. “So can I talk to Mr. Grant now? I’ve kept him waiting long enough.”

I wince at the immaturity in my voice, and Maya’s eyes widen slightly as she locks eyes with mine. Hers is a piercing gaze that seems to penetrate my very soul, her eyes are as dark and bottomless as the front doors…except this time no shimmer is lurking beneath. Just darkness.

“…Of course. Right this way.”

I’ve never seen anybody pivot so quickly in my entire life. As Maya turns away from me and heads down the hallway behind the front desk, the clear tapping of her stilettos echoes throughout the front lobby: a metronome whose pulse begins to match the pounding of my own heartbeat as I rush to catch up to her. As we pass her desk, I scan it and notice a number of typical office items. What DOESN’T seem usual, however, is a small black picture frame with a small scrap of paper in the center. As I get closer and pass by her desk, I see that it’s not a piece of paper at all, but a playing card. A Queen of Spades.

That’s weird.

At the back of the hallway is a dark mahogany door with ornate scrollwork, and etched in the middle are two words: “Jason Grant.” Maya raps on the door with her knuckles—a harsh, powerful knock—and each time her hand meets the wood, I catch a glimpse of numerous scars blanketing her hand and wrist. My eyes move up to her face, my own countenance riddled with a sudden onslaught of questions. We lock eyes and for a split second I see that sharp gaze of hers soften as she cocks her head slightly as if to ask me what’s wrong. I flick my eyes over towards the door where her fist is resting, and bring them back to meet her face as quickly as possible. Maya’s head turns as she looks at her hand for a moment, realizing what has caught my attention. She quickly drops her arm and tugs down on the sleeve of her blazer, covering her wrist and most of her hand.

“Maya, may I ask—”

My question is interrupted by the full, rich timber of a male voice yelling from the other side of the door.

“Come in!”

Maya grasps the wrought iron handles and pushes the doors forward, swinging them open to reveal a luxuriously large office space. glass windows and metal framework are peppered with accents of dark wood. The natural light reflects off of nearly every surface, causing me to squint and adjust for a second before noticing a dark wood office table in the center of the room…and the man sitting behind it.

Blonde hair. A dark, DARK red suit. He moves his eyes from Maya to me: for a few seconds he looks me dead in the face, contemplative, judging. I straighten my back and raise my chin in slight defiance. I’ll be damned if this man speaks to me like Maya did, I don’t care how messed up I look right now.

Breaking away from me, he turns his head slightly and addresses Maya in a more hushed tone. A tone that sounded like respect…or could it be fear?

He rests his elbows on the table and folds his hands together, resting his lips on his fingers as he raises an eyebrow at me.

“Thank you Maya, that will be all.”

Maya nods curtly and turns to walk out of the room, but not before leaning into me and whispering a sentence that has me immediately regretting my existence.

“Oh, and Ms. O’Hara? Your dress is inside out, dear.”

I glance down ever so slightly, and notice the seams on the sides of my dress are sticking out, and Maya is right. My dress IS inside out.

FUCK. MY. LIFE.

As the heavy wooden doors swing closed behind me–followed by the fading click-clack of Maya’s stilettos–I take a few steps forwards and begin to close the distance between myself and the desk before me, and doing so all the while with Jason’s eyes locked onto me, observing my movements. The closer I get, the more I can see the bright golden color of his eyes: like a dark honey, the black of his pupils contrasting beautifully as they dilate with every step I take towards him.

He remains silent, poised, watching me with the same interest as a cat would have when watching a mouse scurry before it. Patient. Predatory. Pensive. I’ll be damned if I let his intimidation tactics shake me, so I pull out the chair in front of the desk and confidently take my seat.

And wait.