The Funeral Singer (12 page)

“Don’t bother. I told them no.”

“You what? You’re kidding me. How could you do that without even talking to me?”

Dad gave me a hard stare. “This is a funeral home, a place where people come to say their last goodbyes. I can’t have camera crews and producers running all over the place. Of course I said no.”

I had to admit, he had a point. On the other hand … “Dad, you’re always saying Americans do everything they can to avoid the reality of death. Maybe a show like that would bring it home to them.”

Dad gave a short laugh. “You and I both know reality shows have nothing to do with reality. Nothing. They’re staged to create drama. And drama is something we don’t need here.”

I nodded. “Touché.”

Dad set his drink down and stood up. “I’m going to hit the sack. You have a couple of other phone messages. You should check the machine.”

Phone messages? No one ever called me on our home phone. The number was unlisted. The funeral home had gotten lots of calls this week from fans and the media, but Dawn the receptionist handled those the same way she handled telemarketers: “I’m sorry. This is a place of business and we don’t accept these types of inquiries. However, if you would like to learn how to plan your own funeral today, I would be happy to connect you with someone.” Dawn was the only person I knew who could get telemarketers to hang up on her.

I went into the kitchen and hit “play.”

“Good evening, Miss Martin. My name is Carlos Reynaldo, and I’m coordinator for the Virginia All State Chorus Competition. I’d like to speak with you about our plans to create some media excitement surrounding this year’s competition. Please give me a call at your convenience.”

I took down the phone number, my stomach tightening into a hard knot. Ms. Jensen must have given him my number. And now tomorrow morning, I was planning to go in and tell her I had to miss rehearsal.

As I climbed into bed, all thoughts of my kiss with Zed were gone. I had to come up with the perfect excuse to get out of chorus tomorrow.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

I cracked open the door of the bathroom to make sure Ms. Ormond, the school nurse, could hear. I wasn’t proud of what I was about to do. It was stupid. I knew that. But it was the best I could come up with.

I’d timed everything perfectly. I’d handed in my world history project a few minutes ago, and the Wolinski service was starting in a half hour, so my parents would be busy.

I’d eaten three slices of pizza for lunch, the greasiest ones I could find. They sat like a lump in my stomach. I leaned over the toilet, stuck my finger down my throat and gagged. Nothing came up. I tried again. More gagging. Crap. This had to work.

“You okay in there, honey?” Ms. Ormond called from her desk. “You need help with anything?”

“No. I’m … I’m … ” Finally, I puked. Gross but highly effective.

“Oh, my.” Ms. Ormond tapped on the door. “Sweetheart?”

I spat a few more times into the toilet and then stood and opened the door. “This is so embarrassing. I hardly ever throw up.” I clutched my stomach. “I must be sicker than I thought.”

Ms. Ormond placed her hand on my forehead. “You’re not running a fever, but your eyes do look a little glassy. I should probably send you home.”

I nodded, pulled out my cell phone and dialed the funeral home. I told Dawn I wasn’t feeling well and asked her to send Patrick, one of my dad’s drivers. Today’s service didn’t include a procession, so I knew he’d most likely be running random errands this afternoon anyway.

There was a pretty good chance Dawn or Patrick would mention this to my parents, but I’d deal with them later. The important thing was getting to the studio. I planned to have Patrick take me home, and from there I’d sneak over to the bus stop to catch the 1:45 bus to Fair Oaks Mall. Ty’s house was about a half mile from the mall.

Ms. Ormond handed me a toothbrush and a tiny tube of toothpaste. “Go ahead and brush while you wait. Get that taste out of your mouth.”

“Thank you so much.” I gave her a weak smile. “Ms. Ormond, could you do me a favor and call Ms. Jensen to let her know I have to miss today’s rehearsal? You should probably mention I threw up.”

Ms. Ormond frowned. “I’ll let her know you’re not feeling well, but I cannot discuss the nature of your illness. Privacy laws, you know.”

“But it’s okay. I want you to tell her. She needs to know I’m really, seriously, pukingly sick.”

A wrinkle of worry crossed Ms. Ormond’s forehead. “Why’s that? Does she require you to come to rehearsal even when you’re not feeling well?”

Oh, jeez. Now I was going to get Ms. J in trouble. “No, it’s not that. It’s just … please tell her. You have my permission to invade my privacy.”

Ms. Ormond laughed and called Ms. Jensen. At first she merely said I was sick and going home.

I mimicked a puking motion and mouthed,
tell her
.

Ms. Ormond lowered her voice. “Ms. Jensen, I normally would not divulge this detail, but Melanie insists I inform you that she vomited.”

Ms. Ormond handed me the phone. “She’d like to speak with you.”

Uh oh. Did she suspect my pukage was self-induced?

“Ms. Jensen?”

“Hi, Melanie. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m sure it’s nothing. Ms. Ormond thinks I should go home, though.”

“Poor thing.” She sounded genuinely concerned. “You’ve had a lot going on these past couple of weeks. You should get some rest, but I did want to ask you a quick question. Have you received a call from Mr. Reynaldo about All State?”

I’d almost forgotten. “Yes. He called last night. I wasn’t home and haven’t had a chance to call him back, but I will tonight.”

“Thank you, Melanie. It could mean a lot to some of your chorus mates.”

I hung up with Ms. Jensen and took my excuse note from Ms. Ormond to the front office.

By the time I got to the front door of the school, Patrick was waiting. I hopped in the back seat of the hearse. “Thanks for picking me up.” I wanted to ask whether my parents knew anything yet but wasn’t sure how to do it without raising suspicion.

As we pulled out onto the street, Patrick’s cell rang.

“Yes, Dawn? Sure. Off of Franconia? No problem. I’ll do it on the way back.” He looked in his rearview mirror. “We’ve got a removal.”

A removal? He had to be kidding. “Can’t you take me home first? I really don’t feel well.”

“This’ll take ten minutes, tops. It’s on our way.”

Great. I looked at my watch. 1:05. I had forty minutes to catch that bus.

Patrick pulled into a neighborhood of old town homes and parked in front of one with frilly white curtains and a huge gray cat sitting on the windowsill. He opened the back of the hearse and pulled out the gurney. “I’ll be right back.”

I sent Lana a text: “On a body run. Wish u were here.
”
I’d love to see her face when she read it. Once a couple of years ago, my mom picked us up at the mall with a casket in the back of the car. Lana refused to get in until Mom opened it and proved it was empty. Wimp.

Patrick’s knock on the door startled me. I cracked my window. “What’s up?”

“I need your help for a minute. Inside.”

“Sorry. Not happening.” I rolled the window back up.

He knocked again, and I ignored him.

Click. The lock on my door popped and Patrick opened it. “Melanie, this is important. It won’t take long.”

“Forget it.”

“Come on. I need you to put some clothes on the deceased for me.”

“What! Why?”

“It’s an older woman. She died in her sleep without any clothes on, and her husband won’t let me in the room. Says he doesn’t want me to see her like that.”

“Wow. Old school.” It was kind of sweet, I had to admit, but it was not my problem. “Why doesn’t he dress her?”

Patrick glared. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe because … he’s grieving? Look, all you have to do is throw a robe around her.”

“Sorry, but I can’t. Besides, I’m sick, remember?”

“Whatever you have, she’s not going to catch it, I can assure you of that.” Patrick sighed and crouched down, his voice softer. “Just pretend she’s a mannequin. Trust me, she’s not going to hurt you.”

I knew that. I wasn’t worried about her. It was her husband I couldn’t face. I looked at my watch. 1:09. I also couldn’t afford to waste any more time. Zed would be pissed if I showed up late for our studio session. He’d already texted me twice today to make sure I was coming. “Fine, I’ll do it on one condition.”

Patrick took my hand and helped me out of the hearse. “Name it.”

“Keep this entire afternoon on the down low. Don’t tell Mom and Dad about me coming home early.”

He nodded. “You got it.” He seemed relieved.

Halfway to the door, I stopped and grinned. “Wait a minute. You don’t want them to find out about this either, do you?”

Patrick shrugged. “Probably wouldn’t help my year-end bonus, asking the boss’s daughter to dress a corpse.”

I nodded. Little did he know, Dad would be thrilled. He was always trying to get me interested in funeral directing. It would never happen, since the embalming part totally grossed me out—all those needles and fluids and body cavities—not to mention my rule about avoiding the family. But I’d helped Dad a few times with last-minute touch ups to the deceased’s make-up or clothes, and Dad loved it.

Of course, Patrick didn’t need to know that. “You’re right,” I said. “He’d probably kill you. You may want to get Dawn to keep her mouth shut about all of this, too.”

Patrick nodded. “I’ll talk to her.”

As we walked through the front door, the cat jumped off the windowsill and wrapped itself around my legs. I reached down and scratched behind its ears as it purred. Poor, sweet thing. Did it know it had just lost one of his owners?

Seated on a couch across the room was a large, elderly man. His eyes were closed and his breathing heavy. Had he fallen asleep? For a moment, I thought I might be able to slip in and out without having to talk to him, but Patrick cleared his throat and nearly shouted. “Mr. Waldron? This is Melanie Martin.”

The man’s eyes opened slowly, like a vault in one of those old horror movies, and it seemed to take him a few seconds to focus.

I walked over and shook his hand. “Pleased to meet you. I’m very sorry about … this.” I waved toward the hallway, which I assumed led toward the bedroom.

Mr. Waldron sighed. “It’s not your fault. Eleanor always hated wearing pajamas. Said they made her feel too restricted.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean that.” I felt myself blushing. “I meant I was sorry about your loss.”

Mr. Waldron pursed his lips and began making a strange humming sound. The sound of denial.

“Okay, well. I’ll just … ” I turned and scurried down the hall. The first door I opened was a bathroom; the second was the bedroom. It smelled like a mixture of mothballs and lilac. Eleanor lay on the bed beneath the covers, her gray hair peeking out. Her cloudy blue eyes were opened, so I closed them. I rummaged through her closet and picked out a robe that snapped up the front, one that wouldn’t fall open when Patrick lifted her onto the gurney.

Getting the robe on was a challenge. She was a small woman, but her limbs had already begun to stiffen, and moving her body around on the bed was awkward. Eventually, though, I wrapped the robe around her, pushed her arms through the sleeves and snapped it up.

I went back into the living room to get Patrick, but he was gone. Mr. Waldron was sitting forward on the couch flipping through a photo album. “Want to see what she looked like on our wedding day?” he asked.

“Sure.” I didn’t move. “Where’s Patrick?”

“He went out for a smoke.” He stopped at a page and pointed. “This one’s my favorite. Cake all over her chin.”

“I should go get him.”

“Oh, let him enjoy his cigarette.” Mr. Waldron motioned for me to sit next to him. “Come look.”

My feet remained frozen to the floor.

Mr. Waldron frowned. “Are you okay? You look pale. Let me get you a glass of water.” He groaned as he stood.

“No, no, I’m fine. Please, sit.” I took a deep breath, walked over and sat down.

The wedding photos were black-and-white and a little grainy, but you could tell Mrs. Waldron had been a knockout. Her dark hair was swept up in an elegant updo, and she wore a floor-length white gown with lace sleeves. “She’s gorgeous.”

Mr. Waldron smiled and nodded.

“You smeared cake on her?”

He laughed. “No one could believe it. She looked like a china doll, so perfect. I couldn’t resist.”

“Did she get mad?”

“Oh, no. She laughed. Eleanor was always a kid at heart. Of course, she was only eighteen on our wedding day, so she really was a kid then. We both were.” He sighed. “Fifty-eight years of marriage.”

“Wow. That’s amazing.” I tried to imagine what Zed and I might look like fifty-eight years from now.

Mr. Waldron flipped to the back of the album. “Here we are celebrating our fiftieth.”

The two of them looked so happy. And despite her age, Mrs. Waldron was still beautiful. Seated on her lap, arms wrapped around her neck, was a young girl, about eight or nine years old, with tight blond curls. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but for some reason, she looked familiar. “Who’s this?”

“That’s our granddaughter.” Mr. Waldron’s voice cracked, and he quickly flipped to the next page. “Let me show you the cake we had. Three tiers, and the best icing you’ve ever tasted.”

Had I said something wrong? As Mr. Waldron searched for the photo of the anniversary cake, the cat jumped onto the couch and nudged at my hand. Its fur was warm and soft, and its claws tickled my legs through my jeans as it kneaded its paws gently up and down.

“Ah, Dumbledore likes you.” Mr. Waldron gave me a weak smile. “Eleanor was a big Harry Potter fan.”

I stroked his ears. “He’s sweet. I’ll bet he’s going to miss her.”

Mr. Waldron shut the album, leaned back and began making his humming noise again, this time louder.

Oh, no. Why did I have to say that? And where in the world was Patrick? If he didn’t hurry up and get back in here, he might be joining Mrs. Waldron in the back of the hearse for the ride home.