Chapter 4

Death makes people really popular. It also makes a lot of people argue and miraculously lose weight. In the forty-eight hours since I found out my brother died, my clothes are already loose on me.

I laugh morosely at myself as I easily button my previously tight jeans and head upstairs to snag a chocolate-covered pretzel from the new gift basket that arrived earlier today. I think it’s the first thing I’ve eaten since yesterday morning. The house is full again, with my aunts and uncles, cousins, and their kids. My mom is awake, and kind of alive-looking, reading sympathy cards sent to the family as my dad breathes noisily through his nose, his eyes on his brother.

I slump into a chair at the dining room table next to Eileen, my cousin, who’s feeding her baby, and she regards me with wet eyes. We haven’t seen each other in person in a lot of years since our fathers started feuding, but she’s my age and nice, I guess. Of what I remember from some long-ago summer days together.

“You need to stay here is what you need to do,” Uncle David says, his hand on my dad’s shoulder.

“I need to go out.” My father breaks away from him, almost violently. “I found a burial plot. I want to get it taken care of. One less thing,” he says, then turns his attention on me. “I’m buying plots for your mother and me next to your brother. Do you want one?”

My breath seizes, and I cough on a piece of pretzel caught in my throat.

“Stephen!” someone cries out, but it doesn’t stop my dad from leaning over the dining table toward me. He’s clearly preoccupied with this burial plot, and when I can only stutter out a few nonsense syllables, he furrows his eyebrows like he can’t understand why I don’t have an answer. I can barely process my brother’s death, let alone my own.

I look to my mother, who has her face in her hands. Aunt Joanie is rubbing her back, shooting daggers at the side of my father’s face. Uncle David is the one to come to my aid. “You can’t expect her to make that decision right now.”

“Fine,” Dad snarls, pushing off the table. He snatches his coat, keys, and wallet like they’re weapons. “Fine!”

The door slams behind him, and all eyes fix on me. I force myself to joke. “Must be prime real estate.”

My family all sighs in unison, and I break the pretzel up into crumbs. A glass of red wine slides in front of me, and I glance over at another cousin, Mitch. I nod at him gratefully and chug it down. I don’t have time for dainty sips. I hold out my hand for the wine bottle, and it’s given to me, no questions asked.

Another perk of death.

“Hey, Cassie, how are you?” Aunt Barb sits across from me, her head cocked to the side. The sad faces are really a little too much. I’d much rather they talk to me as usual.

“I’m fine.”

“I think your dad’s having a hard time with all of this.”

“Okay.” I sniff derisively. “I’m having a hard time. We’re all having a hard time. Doesn’t mean we’re all acting like assholes.”

Aunt Barb’s eyes widen, scandalized. “It’s just that?—”

“It’s just that he doesn’t need to act like that,” Uncle David interjects, ambling over to the table. Aunt Joanie follows, stealing a sip of wine from my glass.

I’m in the middle of everyone, holding court, like some medieval melancholy tableau. They all begin to talk, voices at an odd whisper as if they’ll disturb my mother as she stares at my brother’s picture, holding an old, ragged teddy bear. Their eyes constantly cut to me as if waiting for a meltdown. They’re here to comfort in the time of need, but there are no words or hugs to help. Nothing they say or do will make any of this better, and in trying to, they’re proving how isolating this whole thing is. Even surrounded by family, I’m completely alone in my grief.

Silently standing, I swipe the bottle of wine and head downstairs to my room. I find the business card Vince left for me and type out a text message to him.

Hey, it’s Cass. Can I come by tomorrow to do whatever we have to? I need out of this house.

He answers within a minute. Of course. How about ten tomorrow morning? You know how to get here?

Sure. I’ll look for the mansion with all the dead people.

We don’t keep them outside. What kind of operation do you think we’re running?

I genuinely smile at his reply, and my fingers pick up speed, my body recalling what it’s like not to drown in misery. I have no idea. I don’t usually hang out with undertakers.Should I bring garlic to ward off the zombies?

That only works on vampires.

Whatever, I text along with a zombie emoji.

I lean back against the pillows on my bed, attempting to come up with another witty message, but I can’t. I’m stuck on the zombies.

I’ve never known anyone who died, not really known them anyway. Dad’s parents both passed away when I was younger, and I don’t remember them all that well because they lived in another state. Even if I’d had experience with funerals and death, I wouldn’t know how to act. It’s not like we show a lot of emotion in my WASP-y family.

Because of my inability to “grow up” like my mother always wanted me to, my parents sort of left me to relish my immaturity, my daydreams, and nonsense jobs. Ironic since the thing forcing me to take one giant leap into full-on adulthood is the death of my brother, the mature one. He’s the father and teacher, the good-deed-doer. The favorite.

Not like me. I’m not any of those things. I don’t know how to be an adult.

I don’t even know how to ward off zombies. And isn’t that something an adult should know?