Putting Makeup on Dead People (9 page)

I close my eyes. All I can imagine is sitting around in a circle on the gym stage, holding hands, and chanting, “Light as a feather and stiff as a board,” and trying to levitate Leaf.

T
he day before graduation, I’m home alone when I see the mailman pull up outside. Walking out to the mailbox in a T-shirt and shorts, I’m noticing spring shifting to summer. The sun feels just a little warmer on my neck and arms and legs, and the driveway feels nice and toasty—but not burning hot, like it will get—on my bare feet.

The mailbox still has the “Parisi” that Dad painted in red, and it reminds me of the fake handwriting he would use to leave us letters from Santa Claus. Just a little different, a little fancier than his regular writing.

Inside are bills for Mom and a piece of junk mail addressed to Mr. Domenic Parisi, the kind that Mom always replies to, informing them that her husband has died and requesting that they please stop sending things to the house. Sometimes they stop; most times they don’t. And when they don’t, Mom gets mad and I get sad, wishing Dad would just come back already and pick up his mail. So I fold up this piece to stuff it in the bottom of the kitchen trash can.

Underneath another bill for Mom, I discover an envelope addressed to me from Chapman College of Mortuary Science. For a second I stop breathing. Recognizing that’s not a reasonable practice to continue, I start breathing again, leave Mom’s mail on the table, and take the letter downstairs to my bedroom. I set it on my bed and look at it. From the window, not a single ray of sunlight is beaming in. It’s just me and a rectangular envelope with my fate inside it. I slide my finger under the flap and open it. As I read the letter, I feel a smile bloom across my face.

I grab the phone and call Liz and tell her that it’s official. I’ve been accepted to Chapman College of Mortuary Science. I pace back and forth in my room; it’s hard to stay still right now.

“Congratulations! Woo-hoo,” Liz yells, and I have to hold the phone away from my ear for a second. “I knew it. Wow, that’s fantastic.”

“Now I’ve just got to convince Mom that it’s fantastic. Maybe I should have you tell her.”

“She’ll come around, D. No worries.”

“Thanks,” I say, although I’m not so sure about that.

“And I’ve got some news too.”

Liz has decided to go to CMU, so in the fall she’s going to Pittsburgh. And there’s something else: their journalism program offers special early internships, and Liz landed one writing travel articles for the young traveler for
Global Adventure Magazine
. Starting next week, she and her parents will be in Ireland for a month.

“Liz, that’s great,” I say, but I’ve stopped pacing.

“Well, we’re both going out with a bang,” Liz says. “I hear there are all kinds of Witches in Ireland—maybe I’ll meet some. And maybe the universe is going to provide me with an Irish boyfriend.” She giggles.

If Mom doesn’t lock me in the basement, I’m going to the mortuary, and Liz is going to the Emerald Isle. Suddenly my news doesn’t sound so exciting.

“Hey, are you all right?”

“I’ll just miss you is all.” We had planned to do all kinds of things. Go out to Yellow Springs and hike in the park, go to the Strawberry Festival, learn how to make astrology charts for ourselves. Okay, Liz had really come up with all of these ideas, but I was excited to do them with her. And I’m not sure I’ll do anything without her.

“I’ll miss you too. And listen, I’m not gone all summer. We’ll still have time to do fun things when I get back.”

That night, I wait for Mom on the front porch. When she comes through the door, I hand her my Chapman envelope.

She pulls out the letter and reads it. “Sweetheart,” she starts with a voice that is more sour than sweet, “this is not the best place for you.”

“I think it is.” I stand in front of my mother, and I’m ready to fight.

“Well maybe you’re only eighteen years old,” she says sharply, “and you don’t know any better.”

“Like you know anything.” I know it sounds childish, but I can’t think of anything else to say. Or I don’t know how to say anything else, anything really important. All I can do is repeat, “I think it is.”

I see her start to respond, but instead she closes her mouth, like she’s doing it with sheer will. And she closes her eyes and takes a deep, long breath—so long that I feel like I might have stopped breathing in the meantime. If this is her new battle tactic, it’s working, because I’m confused and totally off guard.

When she opens her eyes, she smiles. “Donna, I love you.” Her face looks peaceful, and her voice sounds tranquil.

I stare at her.

“You’re just going to have to tell them no, that you’ve been accepted elsewhere.”

“I’m not going to do that.” I can’t defend myself in terms of having already mastered all that a Communications degree could offer, but I know UD is not the place for me. I know what I want and what I’m going to do, no matter what. “You can’t stop me, you know. I’m eighteen years old.”

“And how are you going to pay for mortuary school?” Mom has the expression of the villain who’s found the upper hand.
Aha, I’ve got you now.

I hadn’t thought about this. I always assumed Mom would help me pay for college. I guess I could ask Father Dean to let me return to the St. Camillus basement dungeon to stuff as many bulletins as I can get my hands on. I wonder how many bulletins equal the first tuition payment. But then I remember Mr. Brighton’s offer—I have my own card to play. I fold my arms across my chest. “I’m getting a job. At Brighton Brothers. This summer. And I can get student loans.”

Mom sets her purse down on the floor and sighs. “You’re right. I can’t stop you.” She reaches out and touches my face. “But you’ve got to know that I don’t approve of this. And there are some things we need to talk about.”

I step back from Mom and her hand.

For a moment, her hand is stretched toward me, trying to reach me but not touching. Then her arm falls to her side. “I’m worried about you.”

“Well, I guess that’s your problem.” I step over her purse and into the house.

Graduation is a blur of orange robes and family members flooding out of the Woodmont auditorium. Afterward, on the front lawn of the school, Gwen takes a picture of me, Mom, B, and Linnie. I offer a halfhearted smile, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Becky’s aunt take a picture of Becky and her mom and dad. Mr. Bell looks so proud, smiling at Becky like she must be the most amazing creature he could imagine. Mom has her arm around me, and I’m suddenly aware that no one’s on my other side, gazing at me with that kind of admiration. Then three-year-old Leah tugs on Mr. Bell’s pant leg. “Me too, Daddy!”

Easy as pie, he hoists Leah up onto his shoulders, and she squeals as Becky’s aunt snaps another shot. I feel an ache in my chest and a yearning to be that small, to be lifted up again onto Dad’s strong shoulders, to breathe in some air that would feel cleaner and purer, to get a bigger view of it all.

Then, Becky’s pulling me into a group picture with everyone from our lunch table. Liz stands on one side of me, and Becky’s on the other. Patty and Charlie and Jim line up behind us. Patty smiles so wide I think her stupid face might break. “This is the best time of our lives,” she says, shaking her head.

I shake my head too, and look toward the cameras.

God, I hope not.

Becky has tears on her face, and I feel like I should be as moved as she is. But more than anything, I can’t wait to go home.

“Don’t worry,” Charlie whispers. I feel his breath warm in my ear. “It’s almost over.”

I turn back to him and smile as flashes go off in front of us.

This time, I walk right into Brighton Brothers and back to Mr. Brighton’s office, like I know what I’m doing.

When I show him my letter, he smiles and says, “I guess this means you’re serious. And interested in that summer job?” He seems almost as excited as I am.

I’m also relieved that I’ll have something to do while Liz is away. “Why, yes I am.”

“Okay, then,” he says. “For starters, how about a tour?”

“That sounds good.”

“Might as well dive right in. Let’s start in the prep room.”

I follow him down to the basement, where a big glass door leads into a room conveniently labeled prep room. It dates back to the fifties, Mr. Brighton tells me. It’s a rectangular room with one small window up high in the back. There are three long skinny tables—two stainless steel and one fancy porcelain, which Mr. Brighton says cost him an arm and a leg.

On the fancy porcelain table lies the body of a blond-haired boy, who looks younger than me and wears a white button-down shirt and khaki pants.

“Very sad,” Mr. Brighton says. “A suicide.” He tells me the boy’s name is Henry Kunkel, and that the immediate family will come for a private viewing this evening. Mr. Brighton has already embalmed Henry, and JB’s going to get him ready for the family’s visit. The family won’t hold any other visitation hours, even though Mr. Brighton encouraged them to. “It’s still death, and his friends and family still need to grieve. But it’s their choice, and we have to honor that.”

I know how lonely I’ve felt, and looking at Henry, I realize that loneliness and despair can have depths even I can’t imagine. I realize there’s a lot I have to learn.

On the back of the door, four long white coats hang on hooks. Mr. Brighton explains that both he and JB do embalming—JB mostly does the makeup, and they have relatives who help sometimes with the wakes and services. Mr. Brighton’s son wasn’t interested in the business; he actually became a kindergarten teacher and now has a three-year-old daughter. “You’ll get to meet Delia,” he says. “She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” I knew he had that grandpa vibe going on, and I know from his smile that he loves that Delia.

On a long counter against one wall are boxes of shower caps and gloves and gallon containers of pink juice that I’m guessing I wouldn’t want to drink.

On our way out, Mr. Brighton touches the porcelain table where Henry rests. He closes his eyes and nods his head, and I think of how sometimes at St. Camillus they do veneration of the cross and people go up like they do in a Communion line and silently touch or kiss the crucifix. In church, I’m pretty sure veneration means thanking Jesus for dying for us, but Mr. Brighton’s gesture seems to me at this moment more of a way to say thank you for living and doing the best you could. I lower my head too, and do my best to venerate Henry.

Once we’re outside, I notice goose bumps all over my arms, and rub them with my hands—the temperature has definitely shifted.

“We’ve got to keep it cold in there,” Mr. Brighton says. “Otherwise, it wouldn’t smell so pretty.” He chuckles—I’m assuming because the room actually smelled like Clorox and Silly Putty, neither of which I’ve seen in scented candles.

Upstairs, we go through a parlor area outside of Viewing Room Two. Folding chairs are lined against the walls for extra seating, and inside there are some love seats and chairs, all very formal looking. In the viewing room itself, I can see dents in the carpet where the casket usually is. I remember this spot.

“Dad was here.”

“My dad was in this room too.” Mr. Brighton pats my shoulder. “No way around it in this place. And there have been so many since then, that it gets easier. This room can’t just belong to one person. It belongs to all of us.”

I hold my hand on my stomach and take a deep breath like Mom showed me. Mr. Brighton is right. No way to get around it; not if I’m going to work here. It has to belong to everyone. And, I tell myself, I’m going to work here. I go to my quiet place and ask Dad not to take it personally. I hope he understands.

On the second floor, a spacious living room branches off into three hallways. Mr. Brighton points to the first two hallways and says, “This is where we live. Me and Mrs. B. and Joe. And this,” he says, walking me down the third hallway, “is something for you to think about once you start school. Often, mortuary students live where they work. You don’t have to, but I think it’s a good idea. You get the feel for it.”

He opens a door to a warm-looking room with butter yellow walls, a bed, a desk and a big armchair, and a sink next to another door, which opens to a little bathroom with a shower and toilet.

“We haven’t had a student in years, but we use this as a guest room sometimes. So it’s in pretty good shape. Your own room and bathroom. You’d share our kitchen. And let me tell you, Mrs. Brighton makes a great potpie. I’m hungry just thinking about it.”

His voice seems far away as I step into the room and turn my head slowly to take it all in. The room feels fresh and open and has two big windows on one wall. I imagine Maurice the skeleton on the desk. And on the bed, which is twice as big as mine, I can almost see the oversized purple star-shaped pillow Dad gave me for Christmas when I was ten. I have the simultaneous feelings of being terrified and wanting to go jump on the mattress.

I step back out of the room and nod at Mr. Brighton. “Okay.”

“Anyway,” he says, “it’s something for you to think about.”

Before I go, Mr. Brighton and I agree that I’ll start work in two weeks. He wanted me to take a month so I could have some vacation, since I just graduated. But I know that Liz is leaving this week and that I’ve got tuition bills coming soon, so I convince him I won’t need that long.

On Thursday morning, Liz comes over to say good-bye. Her flight leaves in the evening. Her hair is pulled back on the sides, and she’s wearing a short beige jacket over a sleeveless teal dress. She looks so grown-up. I feel young and small.

From her purple bag she pulls out a book called
Everything Witchcraft
. “I’m going to read up on things for us to do when I get back.”

Then she pulls out an orange votive candle and hands it to me. “I anointed it for you. All I had was olive oil, but olive leaves have something to do with friendship, right?”

“It kind of smells like pasta.” I smile a small smile. “I like pasta.”

“You can use it for rituals or whatever you want. I’ll miss you,” she says, hugging me. “And I’ll send you postcards.”

“Lots of postcards.” I didn’t feel like crying at graduation, but I could right now.

That night, when I’m in bed in the dark basement, I hear someone coming down the steps and see Linnie’s silhouette in the hallway light. She says softly, “So, Liz left today?”