Chapter 2

Jory (Present Day)

“I thinkthis is the hardest part of the job,” I say, glancing over at Desi, my friend and coworker.

“It really is,” she concurs, leaning over to see what I’ve managed to do. “I’ll never understand why families insist on an open casket when the damages are almost catastrophic.”

“Well, in a way they were,” I retort, causing her to giggle.

Granted, it might be inappropriate for us to be laughing, but we work in a funeral home, doing all the preparation on those who arrive in a body bag. Typically, Desi does the hair and makeup while I do the embalming, shaving, body cleaning, and anything else to make the person look like they did before they died. Right now, I’m rebuilding this teenager’s face since he wasn’t wearing his seatbelt. Windshield glass isn’t very forgiving, and I know the funeral director, Mr. Grey, tried to talk the family into a closed casket, but the parents insisted, so here I am with my putty and a photograph of the young man as a tool so I can do some reconstructive work.

“His nose has a slight bump on the end where it looks like it was broken at one point,” Desi says, her gloved hand waving over at the picture.

“Shit,” I grumble, using my putty tool to scrape off what I’ve done already so I can start all over again.

“Want me to try?” she asks.

“Why not?” I step back from the table to let her in. Leaning backward, I stretch my back and wiggle my fingers to loosen my limbs. “You’re just as good at this as I am, after all. You just prefer to do the hair and makeup.”

She snickers while bending over Ross, who will forever be seventeen in the remembrance and heart of his family and friends. He’ll never go to college, get married, or have children. No, his life ended against a tree off of Old Possum Run Road. It’s one of the worst roads around these parts, calling to the daredevils of the world. Made mostly of gravel, it has a lot of trees, and unforgiving curves. Yet despite the sheer number of deaths that have occurred on this road, the county still hasn’t approved renovations. Most of the teenage boys of a certain age attempt to ‘catch air’ on one of the hills, and the trees on the shoulders bear the evidence of their failed endeavor.

“What do you think?” Desi questions, pulling me from my thoughts.

I hold the picture alongside Ross’s face, glancing back and forth between the two. “By George, I think you got it!” I exclaim. “Okay, now we just need to let it set before you do your makeup magic. Let’s get him back into the cooler, and start on Mrs. Abernathy.”

“She was my Sunday school teacher when I was little,” Desi admits as she helps me transfer Ross’s body back to the gurney we use to transport the bodies back and forth.

“Mine too,” I tell her as we swap out bodies.

While I get Mrs. Abernathy settled on the table, Desi grabs the folder and pulls out the picture the family gave us to use for comparison. When I see it, I smile because it’s a recent one, where she’s smiling back at us with no frown lines marring her face. As we start connecting the hoses needed to do the embalming, I think about the life lessons this woman taught me throughout the months and years she graced my life.

After I finally came home from rehab, I was surly and pushed everyone I knew away from me. Mrs. Abernathy came over and told my mom we were going out for an afternoon stroll. Since walking was still painful, I refused until she gave me ‘the look’. It was one she perfected teaching countless kids at Possum Run Baptist. She wouldn’t take no for an answer, so I put on my sneakers and walked with her.

Every. Single. Day she came over and we walked. Slowly, it got easier, and her calm, loving presence, along with the words of wisdom she imparted helped me heal. The town was divided about the incident; half felt I should have known about it, while the rest felt I was a victim. Since I had no clue what Dorian planned, I most assuredly was one of his victims. While it probably makes me a cruel person, I’m glad he didn’t survive. I’m not sure if I could’ve handled a trial, and honestly, after what he did not only to me but to those who died or were injured, even if he had, life in prison wouldn’t have been long enough.

So, taking care of Mrs. Abernathy in this way, even though she’s no longer physically here to know, makes my heart happy. She was a beautiful soul who loved anyone who came into her life. As I work on her, my mind drifts back to something she said one day as we walked down the sidewalk of my street.

“Jory, sweetheart, we all face challenges. Even Paul had them, remember?” She waited for my nod then she continued. “However, what happens to us shouldn’t define us. While you will have lifelong reminders of your injuries, you survived. You’re a survivor, Jory, and I know God has a big plan for your life. This right here is just a bump in your journey, but as long as you’re on this side of the grass, you have a chance to do good things.”

“Jory? Where are you?” Desi asks, snapping her fingers and bringing me out of my precious memories.

“Sorry, just thinking about Mrs. Abernathy is all,” I reply, finishing the embalming so we can wash her body and get her hair and makeup done, then get her dressed so Mr. Grey can put her in the casket her family chose.

“She’s going to be missed, that’s for sure,” Desi states. “Did you know she helped me go to school?”

A smile spreads on my face as I admit, “That doesn’t surprise me at all. I think she’s helped a lot of folks in this town.”

Desi swipes a stray tear from her cheek as she confesses, “She and her husband started a foundation that gives out scholarships to those who want to continue their education. She knew I couldn’t afford to go to school, so they helped me outside of what the foundation gave me. I owe them everything.”

“No, you don’t, Desi. I’m positive what they gave you or anyone else was given with no strings attached,” I rebut.

“Jory, you know what it was like for me growing up,” Desi whispers.

I nod because Desi was the second oldest of six kids. She wore hand-me-downs, and if it wasn’t for the free breakfasts and lunches the school provided, she probably wouldn’t have eaten daily since she gave whatever food there was at home to the younger kids, only eating scraps once they were finished and their bellies were full. We’ve been best friends since middle school, and thankfully, she wasn’t at the Homecoming Dance that fateful night because I wouldn’t have survived my ordeal without her.

She came to see me every day with the class notes, and we’d do our homework together while my mom made sure there were snacks and sometimes even sandwiches, so Desi ate before she’d head home. Just as she feels Mrs. Abernathy saved her, I know Desi saved me. I was sliding into depression, and yeah, I did do a deep dive into it when I was finally released, but Desi would share stories about what they were doing for school since the building was deemed unsafe. The county brought in a ton of mobile trailers and while the school was razed and rebuilt, they trudged back and forth between multiple locations every single day. There was no cafeteria, so the townspeople paid for food trucks for lunch, which meant at least Desi and her older brother were eating during the day.

I stop what I’m doing and walk over to where Desi is bent over Mrs. Abernathy and pull her into my arms for a hug. “I do remember. You saved me, Des,” I whisper, holding her close.

“So, we have a mutual admiration society, huh?” she teases, looking down at me as unshed tears swim in her eyes.

I giggle because she’s about six inches taller than me, which isn’t saying much since I’m on the petite side at five foot even. It’s honestly a miracle that I survived my injuries since I had so many things against me; the extent and area of my burns, my height, even my weight, because I was barely a hundred pounds soaking wet. If the fireman who got me out of the school hadn’t been so strong, I would’ve died, having succumbed to the smoke and fire.

As it was, the biggest issue, outside of my extensive burns, was my lungs. I breathed in so much smoke and ash that they ended up being permanently scarred. My vocal cords were also damaged, so I now have a permanent rasp as though I have a two-pack-a-day habit. I also have to carry an inhaler and I’m prone to pneumonia. However, despite all of that, I am alive and once I got my head on straight, I decided I was going to have the best life I possibly could. I owed it to the man with pretty green eyes who called me kitten.

* * *

“The special, right?” I ask Desi.

We’re finally finished with our tasks, but with two pending funerals, we’re going to help Mr. Grey and fold up the programs for the viewings and actual funerals. While we were hired to embalm and prepare the clients, we often jump in to assist him, since he was kind enough to hire us after we both graduated. The home’s receptionist, Joyce, takes care of a lot of the other tasks, and he has two part-time employees who show up for the viewings and funerals to assist the living guests.

“Yeah, the diner’s specials are the best. Just grab some cash out of my wallet, Jor,” she replies, her head bent over the table as she sanitizes it before disinfecting it.

We may not deal with living bodies, but we still follow state regulations and guidelines, and since bodily fluids are prevalent during the embalming process, we do this after each client. Thankfully, because we have two side-by-side tables, we were able to handle Ross and Mrs. Abernathy and then clean everything. I know she’ll also ensure all the vats are refilled and new tubing is ready to go.

“I’ve got this, you can catch lunch next time,” I reply, removing the ugly closed-toed shoes I wear whenever I’m down here and putting on my sneakers.

“Works for me,” she calls out. I grin and shrug off the coverall we wear and toss it into the biohazard bin. Mr. Grey has a company that comes in and collects them to make sure they’re washed in accordance with more bureaucratic guidelines.

As I collect my purse, I muse over them. I understand the need for them; we’re sometimes handling bodies that are diseased, and heaven knows there are so many blood borne pathogens with new ones coming out all the time. It’s for our protection, but it sure is a pain in the ass sometimes. Once upstairs, I walk over to the office and see Mr. Grey, his head bent over paperwork.

“Mr. Grey? I’m going to pick up lunch for me and Desi. Do you want me to grab you something too?” I ask.

He looks up and smiles at me. He’s so kind and compassionate, the perfect person for a job like this. He literally meets people on one of the worst days of their lives, the first being when they find out a loved one has passed away, yet, he never loses his cool. “Thanks, Jory, but my wife packed my lunch today. Seems she wants to make sure I’m ‘eating properly’ since she says I put on ten pounds.”

“So, no diner dessert to go along with what you brought?” I guess.

“If they have banana pudding, I’ll take one of those please.” He reaches into his top desk drawer and pulls out a card. “Use the company card, honey, since you and Desi are going to be helping me with the programs.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I reply, although it’s going to be a lost cause. He does this every time we help him, as if what we make isn’t enough. Not only that, but he pays the same rate as if we were embalming and preparing the home’s customers.

“You know better, Jory,” he states, holding out the card.

Grinning, I take it and advise, “I’ll be back shortly.”

“We’ll be here,” he teases.

Shaking my head, I walk through the front doors and head to my car.