I use my gloved hands to fill Mrs. Chapman’s left cheek so it’s not sunken in. According to the paperwork, she died of a massive heart attack a few days ago. After prepping her body, I’ve been spending a good part of my day paying attention to her face so her makeup and hair can be done next.
“Who are you talking to?” Mr. Gabhart asks from the stairs.
“Oh, um, myself.” I laugh a little, trying to put to rest his unease. I realized quite some time ago that telling people I’mtalking to myself rather than the dead person on the table in front of me sounds more sane.
They still look at me a little funny, though. Just like Mr. Gabhart is doing right now.
“When will Mrs. Chapman be ready?” he asks, not bothering to comment any further on my behavior.
“Just a couple more hours, I think.”
He gives me a sharp nod and turns to walk back up the steps without another word. He’s nothing if not consistently uninterested in his employees’ personal affairs. If it doesn’t affect the work, he doesn’t care. Which is fine by me.
I’ve been working for Gabhart & Sons Funeral & Cremation Care for a couple of years now. And aside from his obvious disapproval of my “eccentric” personal style, he’s a pretty good boss. And the way I dress has never been a concern because I’m not a public-facing employee. Everyone I work with is dead, and they don’t give a fuck what I’m wearing under my apron when I’m reconstructing their face or stapling their hair in place.
Checking the time, I realize I should take a lunch break. I’ve tried to be better at remembering to take breaks, but sometimes I’m lost in the task, and before I know it, most of the day has already passed and my belly is rumbling.
I retreat to my little office in the back and pull my container from the fridge. Noticing texts from Darcy, I click them open as I pop the top of my leftovers and shove them into the microwave. Boy, do I miss living with Darcy. We always prepped our meals together, and my lunches were somuch better then. I begin reading her texts as my food warms.
DARCY
I think it’s time for you to get a new roommate.
ME
Why?
DARCY
Because you need one.
ME
Don’t be silly. I’m fine.
DARCY
Stop saying you’re fine. You’re not fine. You’re all alone and talking to dead people.
ME
I’m not all alone. Stop acting like I’m not social.
DARCY
You have rejected me the last three times I’ve tried to see you. And you didn’t even address the talking-to-dead-people thing.
ME
Talking to my clients has nothing to do with my living situation.
DARCY
My point is that now that I’m living with Ridge, I think you need someone at home to talk to who is alive and dependable.
I consider her words for a minute, not totally opposed to the idea. It would be nice to have someone to split the bills with again, maybe prep meals with. Cooking for one is no fun at all.
ME
