Chapter 5

Ithought all funeral homes were big, old Victorian houses, but the Mancini Funeral Home is a newer white stone and brick building with white pillars in the front. I drive through a portico to a lot on the side where a few cars are parked.

Stepping out of my car, I zip up my coat, taking in the quiet. There are no chirping birds, wind, or cars, as if the immediate environment knows it needs to be silent here, but as I walk to the door, my thick-soled boots land heavily on the macadam, and I cringe. I make even more noise when I open the creaky door, directly interrupting some kind of service as a dozen heads swivel back to me.

I immediately apologize with my hands up and duck back outside, letting the door slam behind me. My face heats with embarrassment. I don’t know the etiquette for being in a place like this, but it’s obvious I’m breaking it. I shake my head and breathe deeply a few times, suffocated by inexperience and stupidity.

How can I do this for my brother? I don’t even know how to get into the damn building.

The door opens again, and Vince pokes his head out, spotting me before stepping outside, gently closing the door behind him.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, waving frantically.

He stills my hand between both of his. “It’s fine.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt. I thought this was another entrance.”

“It’s fine, really,” he says again and lets go of my hand, but I wish he didn’t, needing something to cling to. “Come on, we’ll go through the front door.”

He escorts me around the building, and even with my thick parka on, I feel his hand between my shoulder blades. I reflexively lean into his side as we enter through the double doors beneath the shadow of the pillars, and he ushers me in ahead of him, pointing to the right. “We’ll go to my office in the back.”

The scent of flowers and antiseptic hits my nose as I shuffle through the lobby area, and I dip my chin down, attempting to cover my nose as I breathe through my mouth. Vince turns in time to catch me wincing at the smell.

“You get used to it after a while,” he says, reading my mind, and leads me down a short hallway to what is apparently his office. It’s plain beige with no real decorations besides an old black-and-white photo of three men standing in front of exactly what I imagine a funeral home to look like, a tall, slender home with a porch and thick railing. Creepy, almost. It appears to be from the turn of the last century.

“Have a seat,” Vince says.

I do and gesture to the photo. “That’s what I pictured. Not this.”

“Hmm?” He follows my gaze over his shoulder. “Oh. That’s my great-grandfather and his brothers. It was the first funeral home in town.”

I raise my eyebrow at him for more of an explanation.

“Funerals were always done in people’s houses. The family would take care of the body and host the service right there. It’s where the term funeral parlor comes from. It wasn’t really until the twentieth century that funeral homes, as we know them, became popular.”

I open my mouth to ask him about the family business, but my attention slants to a furry white head that pops up next to Vince on the other side of the desk. I move closer as the dog tilts its head at me, considering me for a few moments before moving so I can fully see it.

“This is Gracie,” Vinces says, running a hand down the dog’s back, her thin tail wagging in response. “She comes to work me with a lot of days.” Gracie twirls as if she knows what he’s saying. “We’re pretty attached.”

I smile at the two of them, and when Vince looks over at me after a few moments, his golden skin flushes like I’ve caught him naked in bed. “Go say hi to Cass. Go on.”

I hold my hand out to the dog, and she slowly walks to me, first sniffing my fingers then my shoes. “She’s pretty,” I say, petting her neck, covered in short hair. “What breed is she?”

He leans back in his chair. “Lab mix, I think. She was a stray. They found her with a litter of nine puppies.”

“Nine babies?” I ask Gracie, eyes wide. “You were busy, huh?”

She rests her head in my lap, and I relax with her weight on me, my anxiety about being here washing away with each of her calm breaths.

Vince watches me for a moment, and I would normally find that kind of blatant staring off-putting, but there is something about Vince in his assessment of me that’s gentle. That always has been.

His eyes aren’t filled with the usual sympathy I’ve experienced lately. It’s something more like interest, as if I’m a painting to be studied and admired. I haven’t showered and am light-years away from feeling beautiful, yet sitting across from Vince makes me want to be worthy of his gaze.

He leans forward, skimming his finger over his cheek a few times. “So, how are you?”

I huff out a depressed laugh. “I’m not sure how I’m supposed to answer. Everyone keeps asking me.” I chew on my lip, actually contemplating the question for the first time in days. “I think they’re asking me for themselves. Like they want to know everything is fine so they can go back to normal again.”

He shrugs. “Probably.”

I wrinkle my nose. “You know, you’re not real great at making people feel better.”

He raises his thick brows, but his shock melts to a cheeky grin that, for a second, has me forgetting what I’m doing here. There was a reason he was voted Best Smile in high school. “I don’t make you feel better?”

And then I remember I’m here because my brother died. “Not about this whole…death thing. Isn’t this your job? To make people like me feel better?”

He shifts in his chair, settling back into the exact same position he was in, and I find it oddly soothing I can make him uncomfortable. After a while of what seems like serious thinking, he tells me, “I don’t think anyone can necessarily make someone grieving feel better. But it’s my job to make their life a little easier in a tough season. I can take care of a lot of things people don’t even think about when this time arrives.”

I bite the inside of my cheek and look down to Gracie, who lies at my feet.

“How can I make your life easier?”

I have a hard time meeting his gaze. “Is it going to get easier?”

Decades of silence pass, and when I finally lift my head, Vince’s eyes are a little red. He clears his throat. “I’ve never been in your position, but I’ve seen other people in similar places, and it gets easier. At least, that’s what I’m told.” He holds a pen between his index and middle fingers, tapping the cap a few times on the desk. “And for the record, there is no right or wrong way to do this. I think you’re doing a fine job.”

I snort. “That’s funny because it feels all wrong. Like everything is wrong.” When he doesn’t say anything, I push my hair back off my forehead and straighten my shoulders. “So, what’s next? What do we do now?”

He aims the pen at me. “You said you needed out of your house, right? How about we take Gracie for a walk? We can figure all the rest out after.”

Gracie’s ears perk up at the word “walk,” and I nod. He grabs a purple-and-pink polka dot leash, clips it on Gracie’s collar, and leads us out into the hallway, toward another back door.

With Vince walking next to me and Gracie panting happily between us, it’s not so quiet outside anymore, and the sounds, as small as they are, keep me company. I’m not alone with them by my side.

“Gracie’s kind of like a therapy dog, huh?” I ask when we reach the end of the sidewalk.

“Not officially, but yeah, she makes people smile when they come into my office…unless they’re allergic. Then it’s not great,” he says with a smile my way.

From the first moment I’d met Vince when I was twelve years old, I’d been lost to him. Always smiling and affable, he had an easygoing charm, and I would have died—not literally—to be able to spend time with him like this. Now, though, I’m just happy to have someone to talk to.

Overcome with the urge to finally be honest with myself, I blurt out, “I haven’t cried. Like, at all. Everyone else around me is, but I…can’t.”

Vince shrugs. “Everyone reacts differently. Some people cry, some don’t.”

“But…does it make me a monster?”

He huffs and switches the leash to his other hand so he can tap his index finger to my temple. “It’s your brain protecting you. A lot of times when people experience trauma, emotional or physical, their brains disconnect from their bodies to protect them from harm. They detach, like when people talk about an out-of-body experience, it’s real. Your brain is protecting you. It’s science.”

I mull this over. It’s logical, but I don’t feel any less the Tin Man my brother called me.

The three of us settle into an easy pace that keeps my blood warm on this cold day. It’s refreshing being outside. Vince doesn’t ask me any more questions or force me to talk, and I find it easier to breathe as he tells me about the obedience class he took Gracie to when he first adopted her and how she sat down, refusing to follow any instruction. Not even for a treat.

I don’t have to think about the eulogy I haven’t written yet, or that my house has been invaded by people I haven’t seen in years, suddenly interested in every detail of our lives, or reflect on the sad reality we all now live in. For this short reprieve, none of that is true, and I’m purely on a walk with a cute guy and his dog.

But it can’t last forever, and after a few blocks, we turn around to head back to his office, where we finalize the last, agonizing details of how my brother will be put into the ground at the end of the week to become worm food. With Vince sitting next to me instead of on the other side of his desk, it’s easier, but I’m nauseous as images of rotting corpses invade my brain, and I suddenly want to throw up. Vince clearly picks up on this because he offers me a bottle of water and rubs my back in soft circles.

“There’s one more thing,” he hedges, and I swallow two cold gulps of water before meeting his gaze. “You’ll need to pick out an outfit for RJ to be buried in.”

The idea of completing this errand is sickening, but the use of his initials makes it feel like it’s another person. Normally, I’d be annoyed at the nickname, but I hold on to it for now, pretending we’re not actually talking about Raymond.

“Like what?” I ask.

“Whatever you want…maybe something Ray would be comfortable in.”

So much for pretending. My mouth goes dry, and the cement is back, but this time, it oozes down my throat, preventing me from taking another sip of water, so I set it aside. “Oh…okay.”

He stops rubbing my back to move in front of me, leaning on his desk. “I can come pick it up if it would be easier for you?”

“I’ll, uh, I’ll get it all tonight and bring it to you tomorrow.” I stand and wave vaguely in his direction, hightailing it out of his office. I think he follows me out, but I don’t pay much attention, focused on my next task on this never-ending list of How to Throw the Perfect Funeral.

I guess I can understand why my dad wants everything done right away with this stuff. Maybe it’ll hurt less, like ripping off a Band-Aid. Stings for only a second, and then it’s better. But Dad’s not the one who is doing the actual ripping. I am. And this hurt can’t be smoothed over with any bandage.