Prologue
She was still in the grip of a contraction when the truck hit them. The force of it slid them to the curb, then tipped their car onto two tires where they teetered before the full weight crashed down on top of them. Slowly and somehow unfiltered, she captured what could not possibly be happening, frame by frame. She watched the inside of their car bend in on itself, and on them, glass and steel giving way under the load. The love of her life groaned a torturous “Noooo” as he was crushed against her, then into her. She heard their bones break and her head crack, felt sensation in her legs evaporate and breath gush from her chest. And she felt the warm wet of blood run across her face, but she didn’t know if it was hers or his.
Her husband was holding her hand when he died, and she was a mere breath behind him when she felt it. The woman couldn’t fathom it—this tiny kick, this gentle quiver in the midst of unimaginable destruction. Death was next to her holding her hand. Life was still beating inside what was left of her.
And in that instant, she was granted the unthinkable: a choice.
CHAPTER ONE
I prefer to work on the dead in privacy. I like a little Chopin on in the background, sometimes Liszt or Gershwin, and once in a while, Gaga, or, frequently, Norah. I like all my tools within easy reach so I don’t lose focus looking for anything. And I like the door shut. In theory, this is an indication that I want to be left alone with my deceased. Sadly, my ideal methods mean little to my grandfather, and I work for him. Poppy is very hands-on. So even though I like to work uninterrupted, I am frequently interrupted.
I’m the one who prepares their final face—the last face the world will see. I fill their mouth with just enough of whatever is called for to plump out their sunken cheeks and place a guard along their gums if they have no teeth. I glue their eyelids shut over caps that are stand-ins for fallen eyeballs and clip their nose hair. The same goes for ear hair and errant tufts from eyebrows and upper lips. When needed, I use wax, sometimes putty, to fill holes caused by trauma. When everything is plumped and spackled, glued and clipped, I spray foundation over all of it to mask any discoloration. If I’ve done a good job, I’m left with a very clean slate ready for transformation.
If I’m lucky, I have a feel for who this person was before they crossed my path, meaning I’ve had a peek at them through the eyes of someone who knew them. Sometimes that’s not possible; sometimes, the only one available is a dispassionate lawyer with power of attorney or a nursing-home orderly with nothing much to offer. But I take what I can get, hoping it will translate into enough intuition for me to create a memorable goodbye.
As the haunting notes of Chopin’s Nocturne in E-flat faded into silence, I gulped the last of my warm Dr. Pepper and wearily scrutinized the sleeping canvas before me. It had already been a long day, and it was far from over. “So, Miss Ashley Pierce,” I said to the dead woman.
“Who exactly were you?”
I took in the short round body, the enviably thick hair that seemed prematurely threaded with gray, her short neck and flattened features. The paperwork said she was a thirty-three-year-old female with Downs Syndrome who’d died of a respiratory infection complicated by asthma. She’d arrived unaccompanied late yesterday, although someone from her family was expected tonight. Apparently, the Pierces were in the midst of an extraordinary situation given that the timing of Ashley’s unexpected demise coincided with the rupture of her mother’s appendix. Mr. Pierce was in China trying to get back to deal with these two crises, and as a result, our consult had been delayed. So, with nothing formal to go on in the way of preparing my deceased, I had simply washed and embalmed her. Ashley had a sweet face that spoke of innate happiness, and I’d formed her mouth into the almost-smile it seemed naturally accustomed to. I brushed her clean hair, then put her back in the fridge.
Next, I pulled out Julian Broadhead. Poppy and I had put him back together two nights ago, and his family had finally dropped off his suit. The fifty-two-year-old’s car had been slammed into on the turnpike by a kid texting his girlfriend. He’d been a shattered mess when he arrived, but all of that would be hidden beneath this dark blue gabardine.
I was just knotting his bright red tie when my grandfather poked his head in. “Janny?” he asked. “Can you come up?”
I checked the clock on the wall. “Can you give me a few more minutes? I’m almost done here.”
Poppy pushed open the door. “I wish I could. I’m fielding two visitations, and the Pierce family has shown up. Actually, they’ve been waiting, and I can’t get to them. Please come now and do the consult. There’s no one else available. It’s the brother and his wife—I think it’s his wife—and they’re getting a little frustrated.”
His serious expression told me it wasn’t a request. Tess was still in Las Vegas, Calvin was handling a collection, and I knew that my grandmother was in a consultation of her own. “Okay, let me just change.”
We all do triple-duty around here, but in addition to pinch-hitting wherever we’re needed, my Aunt Tess and I do all the embalming. Initial consults are my least favorite task, but I’m not called upon to do them often.
“Thank you, January,” my grandfather said with a weary, knowing nod. “They’re in the coffin room. Grandy is using her office.”
“I’ll be right up.”
“Good girl, Kochanie,” he winked, using the familiar Polish endearment.
In our tiny, attached washroom, I pulled off the scrub top I wore over my black tank, washed my hands, and slipped out of my draw-string bottoms and into the black pencil skirt that had been hanging on the back of the door. I then ran my fingers through my dark blond hair, checked my teeth, and put on some lip-gloss. It was 7:40, and I’d been at it over twelve hours; thankfully, I didn’t think I looked it. I traded my Nike Airs for the red pumps I’d worn down this morning and checked the package in the mirror on the door as I tucked a gray shirt in at my waist. Pushing a belligerent curl behind my ear, I left a pants-less Julian reposing to my favorite of Frédéric’s etudes. Then I walked up the tiled hallway to the elevator.
I grew up here in my grandparents’ mortuary, in Wallington, New Jersey. Officially, it’s the Duzinski Funeral Chapel, but I have affectionately coined it the Duzy House of Mourning. Since I was twelve, I’ve done odd jobs that included buffing and filing and painting dead fingernails, tweezing, waxing, occasional hair washing, and helping Tess drape and casket our decedents. Today, ten years later, I’ve graduated from mortuary school and am now versed in all elements of the funeral process. This is why I keep street clothes hanging in the washroom and dress shoes in the corner of my embalming theater.
The elevator never came, which was no surprise, so I took the stairs to the main floor and walked out to the other side of this business’s split personality. Downstairs, we dealt with the mechanics of death: repairing and preserving, draining fluids, pumping in chemicals—impersonal, utilitarian. In contrast, the main floor was soft, a place of reflection, whispers, and tempered grief. That was all my grandmother. Diana Merlyn Duzinski—proprietor, quality-control maven, and frequent hand-arranger—insisted on quietude up here so that emotions could flow without censure. And this evening there was a lot of that emotion in the people navigating between our two chapels. It was a busy night here at the Duzy House of Mourning.
I walked down the hall to our coffin room, which is tucked into an alcove off the chapel hall across from Grandy’s office. We call it that because, aside from being a very nice consultation room, it has the added function of housing our casket collection. We keep them behind a wall of heavy drapes that part with the touch of a button found next to the light switch. It’s very impressive, but at the moment I hoped they were not on display—it can be quite unsettling for loved ones to be alone and surrounded by burial options.
I took a breath and pushed open the door. Thankfully our merchandise was hidden from view and the room was in consultation mode: soft lamp light, large desk, two sofas separated by a coffee table, and a nice-looking couple gazing up at me. She was a striking brunette wearing glasses that made her look smart; he, too was good-looking—very good-looking, in fact—with intense green eyes that were the definition of sad.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” I said, approaching.
He stood. “No problem.” He was around twenty-five—maybe a little older—wearing jeans, a white button-down, and a beige sports coat. The woman, in sleeveless yellow, didn’t stand.
I reached across the coffee table to the man’s outstretched hand. “I’m January Duzinski.”
“I’m Tyson Pierce. This is my friend, Brynn Duncan.” The woman lifted an eyebrow, but I don’t think it was meant for me.
“It’s nice to meet you.”
“Mmm, I think my sister is here,” the man said.
“Would that be Ashley?” I said, sitting down across from them.
Tyson Pierce nodded, sat back down, and looked honestly exhausted.
The woman looked over at him, then stroked his arm in a very tender way.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “And I understand your mother is in the midst of quite a—”
“Oh, it’s such a mess,” the Duncan woman interrupted. “Ty’s dad is traveling. His mom just had surgery, his brother is out of town…This poor guy has had a lot to deal with—haven’t you, honey?”
Tyson Pierce looked the slightest bit annoyed at her rambling as he stared at me.
“And we’ve been waiting quite a while,” she continued. “Do you know how much longer it will be?”
“For what?” I said, confused.
“We’re supposed to meet with a funeral director,” she said a bit sharply.
“Ah. That would be me.”
“Oh,” she said, lips parting. “I thought… I thought we’d be meeting with… someone…” She shrugged. “I guess… sorry.”
I turned to Tyson Pierce. “I’m actually a mortician here. And I’ve been taking care of your sister.”
His eyes widened, then he cleared his throat. “So, Ash has…. Has she been embalmed? Is that what you do?”
“It is,” I nodded. “And she has.”
“Can I see her?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Ty…” the girl noised, her tone discouraging.
“Of course,” I said over her.
“But maybe we could chat for a moment first. It would help me if I knew a little something about her.”
“Like what?”
“Maybe just something about her personality. What she was like. If I can, I’d like to capture some of that as I prepare her.”
“Oh,” he said thoughtfully. “That would actually be nice.” He swallowed. “That would be nice.”
“Were the two of you close?”
He hesitated, and again the woman found his shoulder. “I’d like to think so,” he said. “But… I mean, not really. She pretty much adored me, but I wasn’t a great brother, not to her.”
“Oh, Ty. You were a wonderful brother,” Brynn cloyed.
He ignored her, and the look on his face rather broke my heart. He swallowed. “I’m sorry. This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he said softly.
“I know. I’m sorry,” I said.
He cleared his throat. “I don’t really know what I’m doing here. My dad sent me over because he’s flying in from Beijing to be with my mom, who’s still in the hospital. I’m supposed to get her on the phone, if that’s okay—she has questions.” He shook his head, took out his phone. “This is all a little out of my realm. What do you need from me? Do I need to pick out a casket, bring Ash some clothes, pay you? I don’t know anything about funerals. I don’t know what to do.”
“It’s okay. You’re doing fine,” I said calmly, calmer than I felt. “No one is ever really ready when this happens.”
“And I’m right here,” chirped Brynn Duncan, who had now threaded her hand into his.
Tyson Pierce sighed, cleared his throat, again. “Do you have some water?”
“I do,” I said. “Water? Or I have a Coke?”
“Oh, I could use a Coke if you’ve got one.”
I glanced at Ms. Duncan, but she held up a hand, declining my offer.
“I’ll be right back.”
I took our temperamental elevator to the third floor—which is where we live—and hurried into the kitchen where my great-grandmother was playing solitaire at the table. She looked up at me and smiled. “Hello, my Janny,” she said.
“Hey, Babi. You’re up late. Is that my cell?”
“Yes. Is ringing, so I answer. Was Jasmine. I am warming the milk when she call. She say to call her when you can.”
“Thanks,” I said, pocketing my phone, which had been charging near the toaster. Then I grabbed two Cokes from the fridge and planted a kiss on the head of my little Polish Babka. “Must run,” I said. “Busy night with the dead.”
I headed back down the hall but stopped abruptly, thinking of Tyson Pierce and what was not supposed to have happened and turned back to the kitchen. My great-grandmother is ninety-four—tomorrow—with hair so white it belongs on an angel. She’s tiny, has lived a life no one should live, and always has a smile for me. For more than twenty-two years, she has been my truest champion—one of them, anyway. As I re-entered the kitchen, she looked up at me and grinned again, her eyes disappearing into a web of deep wrinkles. “Forgot something, Kochanie?”
“Yes, Babi.” I rinsed her favorite mug from among the still-dirty dishes in the dishwasher, then poured the simmering milk into it. Babi’s mug was chipped, and I set it down backward so she’d have the smooth edge facing her. Her craggy little hand found my face and patted. “Thank you, my Janny.”
“Do you want me to help you back to bed?” I asked.
“No, no. I am lucky winning the cards. You go. Busy night with the dead.”
“Yes. Busy night.” Again, I kissed her head. “See you tomorrow, Babi.”
When I walked back into the coffin room, I found Ashley Pierce’s brother and his girlfriend studying a painting on the wall. It was an oil of a tulip field. Very vibrant, yet very soothing.
“My grandmother painted that from a photo she took in Holland many years ago,” I said. “She told me she’d never seen a more beautiful sight—tulips as far as she could see. The next day, all the flowers had been cut and the bulbs were being harvested. She said there were mountains and mountains of tulips.”
“That’s awesome,” said Brynn.
“Is she still alive?” Tyson asked.
“Yes. She and my grandfather own this place.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to assume. My grandmother died last year, so…” he shrugged. “I hate death.”
“Of course you do, honey,” the Duncan girl simpered, squeezing his arm.
I looked at him looking at me and handed him the Coke.
“Thanks,” he said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s just been a really long day.”
“I’m sure,” I said, standing close enough to him that I had to look slightly up to meet his eyes. They were green and intense. I felt another set of eyes on me as well, but I didn’t look at Brynn Duncan.
“So, what do I need to do?” Tyson Pierce asked.
“Well, we should probably discuss your plans for burial. Is your sister to be buried or cremated?”
“Buried,” Brynn said before Tyson could get the word out. “She’ll be next to their grandparents at Crest Haven, the memorial park. Do you know it?”
“Of course. It’s very pretty there.”
“She loved the whole idea of parks,” Tyson said. “You probably know this, but she was Downs—she had Downs Syndrome, so in many ways she was just a big kid.” He nodded as his gaze slid away from me. “She loved parks.”
“Well, then I can’t think of a better place than Crest Haven.”
Brynn Duncan got a call then. From the bowels of her purse, the theme song from CSI erupted. She beelined to the sofa where she dug through her bag until she found her phone. Swiping her screen, she said, “Oh, I have to take this,” and walked out, cheerily greeting whoever was on the other end.
That left me alone with Tyson Pierce, who looked both annoyed and relieved as he glanced at me.
I smiled. “Do you feel like you could pick out a casket? Or has your family made plans for that already?”
“We haven’t done anything. Nobody saw this coming.”
“Okay. Well, let me show you what we have,” I said, walking to the wall. “This room actually doubles as our retail space.” I pushed the magic button, and as the draperies parted, the bay behind them lit up to illuminate our selection.
Tyson Pierce looked sincerely impressed and the tiniest bit appalled. “Wow,” he breathed.
“It’s a little overwhelming,” I agreed. “But it makes the selection process easy, if you want to go this route. There are other choices out there, but these are what we offer.” Tyson followed me into the bay where our collection of ten caskets was arranged in a horseshoe. Our assortment of urns lined the back wall.
Tyson stopped at the first casket, looked over at me, then ran his hand across the back of his neck. “I should call my mom.”
“Okay. But maybe we could narrow it down first.”
He looked at me. “What do you mean?”
“Well, was Ashley…was she a girly girl, or more of a tomboy?”
My question seemed to focus him. He even smiled—through a threat of tears. “She was all girl. My sister was a Barbie doll trapped in a…” he shrugged. “Just trapped. She was all girl.”
“Okay. Then let’s eliminate these.” I waved away the stained solid wood choices as well as a shiny grey metallic coffin. That left four decidedly more feminine options: a pale pink, highly glossed metallic; a pale lavender-blue steel; a hardwood painted brilliant white; and a navy-blue metallic with a fussy pink lining. Tyson further narrowed the field to the navy and the blue-lavender. That’s when he got his mother on the phone.
As they video chatted and he showed her the options he’d settled on, I answered questions on cost, but mostly I felt like an eavesdropper. I nodded appropriately when his questioning gaze met mine, needing encouragement, but basically, he was doing fine
Finally, there was a soft knock at the door, and when my grandmother walked in—Brynn Duncan at her heels—I was actually relieved—consultations are her wheelhouse. “How are we doing in here?” Grandy said. “Anything I can help with?”
“Tyson,” I said. “This is my grandmother, Diana Duzinski. Grandy, this is Tyson Pierce, and his mother is on the phone with him. And it looks like you’ve met Ms. Duncan.”
“I have,” she smiled at the woman in yellow. “And I am so sorry for your loss,” she offered, approaching our client with utter ease, her hand held out. Tall, slim, put-together in a dark suit, her reading glasses resting in her short gray hair, my grandmother was the picture of maternal professionalism. “And, goodness, Mrs. Pierce. I understand you’re recovering from surgery and your husband is traveling,” Grandy said, addressing the phone. “Please know that whatever we can do to make this as easy as possible for your family…we are at your disposal. There is no rush.”
Brynn had again resumed her rightful place by Tyson’s side. “You okay, sweetie?” I heard her whisper.
“Thank you, so much,” Tyson’s mother voiced from the tinny speaker in his phone. “I think we’ve decided on a casket, and Ty will be back tomorrow with a dress. My husband and I should be by tomorrow night.”
“That will be just fine,” Grandy said. “In the meantime, I can assure you that January here will be taking very good care of your daughter.”
More tears and a squeaky “thank you” emanated from the phone, then Tyson told his mother he’d see her soon and disconnected the call.
Grandy didn’t miss a beat. “Goodness, there is a lot on your plate, Mr. Pierce. How are you managing?”
He breathed in deeply and let it out. He looked at me. “I’m doing okay. January has been a big help.”
It got just the tiniest bit awkward then because he wouldn’t let go of my eyes. I didn’t really know what to say with him standing there looking suddenly so tender in his grief, his girlfriend like a tumor growing out of his side. “Thank you,” I managed, then cleared my throat. “I need to get back,” I said. “But it was lovely to meet you, Tyson…Brynn. Grandy can help with your questions about what comes next.”
Tyson looked at Grandy, then back at me. “Okay. Well…thank you,” he said. “Thanks again for your help, January.”
“My pleasure.” I smiled.
When I got back downstairs, I told Miss Ashley Pierce that I’d met her very cute brother and that she’d been holding out on me.
I was just filling in Ashley’s thin eyebrows when I heard a soft knock, and Grandy peered in. “Janny,” she said. “Mr. Pierce would like to see his sister. Is it okay?”
“Sure, give me just a second.”
There was a sheet pulled up to the woman’s thick neck, and I’d run a curling iron through the ends of her long hair. She looked nice, though it would have been less unsettling if she’d been dressed and casketed. But I had promised him.
Not all mortuaries allow for viewing during prep, but Poppy has always been very open to each family’s individual needs. He thinks early viewing can help the grief process, so we honor requests like this whenever we can. And tonight, I could. I pulled the curtain separating my workspace from the rest of the embalming theater and opened the door. Tyson seemed the slightest bit reluctant to enter. Brynn was not with him, and I didn’t ask why. I looked at him; he looked at me. Then I smiled as Grandy slipped out.
“It’s okay,” I said. “She’s just Ashley.” I took his elbow and led him into the room. I’d seen Grandy do this dozens of times, and no one had ever rejected her offer to hold onto them as they viewed their deceased loved one for the first time. Tyson Pierce was no exception, and I felt him tremble slightly against me.
“I can’t believe it,” he said in a small voice.
“Are you all right?”
A breath shuddered out of him as he gazed down at his sister. Then he moved closer and leaned in. “Ash,” he said softly. “What are you doin’? What are we supposed to do now?” He stared at her for a long time, sniffing back emotion; as he did, I saw him get used to what he was seeing. Finally, he looked over at me with moist eyes. “She looks really nice. You did all this? This is what you do?”
I nodded.
“She looks pretty. She looks like her.”
“Thank you.”
“You wanted to know something about her,” he rasped.
“Whatever you’d like to tell me.”
He looked back down at her. “She always had bows in her hair. Always. Does that count?”
“Absolutely.”
“They looked ridiculous, but she loved them, and Mom loved her, so she always had a bow in her hair.” Pulling out his phone, Tyson scanned through the pictures until he found what he was looking for and then showed me: a round little face, small upturned eyes, big smile, hair parted on the side with a large red bow holding it off her face. “That’s pretty recent,” he told me.
I leaned in to take a closer look. “Could you email me a copy of that?” I asked.
“Sure. Where should I send it?”
I gave him my email address, and as he stowed his phone, I asked him to tell me more about Ashley.
He looked down at her. “She loved to watch Dancing with the Stars. She loved getting dressed up. She loved to eat—everything, but mostly candy, especially those big Life Savers; she always had a handful of those in her pocket. And she sang all the time. She had a terrible voice, but she didn’t know it. Of course, I had to tease her about it. She called me stupid—said I didn’t understand her talent.” He chuckled. “But that girl could not sing.”
This made me smile. “What is your favorite memory?”
He thought about this. “She came to all my games—soccer, football, baseball—mostly because my mom did. But Ash hated the thought that I might get hurt, so she was very…tense—and loud. When I was in Little League, I lived in terror that she would throw a fit if I was tackled on the field.” He shook his head, remembering. “She was very excitable, and it embarrassed me. I used to hate that she was there. I could be a real brat.”
I looked at him. Oh, how I could relate!
He sighed. “But every kid should have such a cheerleader.” This last part wobbled out on a little sob of emotion. He shook his head. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I said. “My grandfather says tears are just wet memories.”
Tyson looked at me and pushed the heel of his hand into his eye. “Wet memories. I like that.”
I smiled because I didn’t know what else to do.
“Thank you for this. For all of it, I mean. This was tougher than I thought it would be. I don’t know what I thought it would be, but you made it…almost nice,” he said.
“I’m glad I could help.” I turned the light out on Tyson’s sleeping sister, and we walked down the hall to the elevator.
“Do your parents work here, too?” Tyson asked.
“No,” I said to the floor. “My father used to…a long time ago. But now it’s just me.”
I could feel his eyes on me, but he didn’t ask any more questions, and I was grateful.
Upstairs, Brynn was on the sofa doing something on her phone. As we approached, she quickly stowed it and got to her feet. The yellow dress was short, and her tan legs were long. She was very pretty. As she reclaimed possession of Tyson, I heard her ask, “You okay, honey? Was it awful?”
Tyson looked at me, then away. “No. It was nice, actually. I’m glad I got to see her.”
As I showed them out, Tyson Pierce hung back a few steps. “I think I know the dress I’m supposed to bring tomorrow,” he said. “Will you be here?”
“I’ll be here,” I told him. “But if I’m not available, you can just leave it with my grandmother.”
He smiled, held my gaze. “Thanks again, January,” he said as Brynn tugged him toward the parking lot.
