THE DUZY HOUSE OF MOURNING is the story of a young woman who survived an unthinkable accident the night she was born, an accident that claimed the life of her father, and forever altered her mother who sustained a traumatic brain injury.
22 years later. January Duzinski works for her Polish grandfather as an embalmer. She's quiet, introspect, completely comfortable with death and completely brilliant (like her mother, Claire, once was) at the piano.
But Januaryâs life is about to veer off course with the arrival of one Oscar Thibodeauâattorney for her maternal grandmother, a woman January has never met, a woman who is suddenly deceased. It seems there is a Steinway concert grand piano up for grabsâŠand the stories that go with it.
Thus begins Januaryâs reluctant journey into the incredible life of her mother. Through Claireâs diaries January is introduced to a strong, confident, enormously talented young woman who disinherited herself from the wealth and trappings of a life she never wanted. January also learns firsthand of her parentsâ forbidden love story, and the price Claire paid to be with her beloved Polish undertaker.
What emerges is a deep and poignant realization of what love really looks like.
THE DUZY HOUSE OF MOURNING is the story of a young woman who survived an unthinkable accident the night she was born, an accident that claimed the life of her father, and forever altered her mother who sustained a traumatic brain injury.
22 years later. January Duzinski works for her Polish grandfather as an embalmer. She's quiet, introspect, completely comfortable with death and completely brilliant (like her mother, Claire, once was) at the piano.
But Januaryâs life is about to veer off course with the arrival of one Oscar Thibodeauâattorney for her maternal grandmother, a woman January has never met, a woman who is suddenly deceased. It seems there is a Steinway concert grand piano up for grabsâŠand the stories that go with it.
Thus begins Januaryâs reluctant journey into the incredible life of her mother. Through Claireâs diaries January is introduced to a strong, confident, enormously talented young woman who disinherited herself from the wealth and trappings of a life she never wanted. January also learns firsthand of her parentsâ forbidden love story, and the price Claire paid to be with her beloved Polish undertaker.
What emerges is a deep and poignant realization of what love really looks like.
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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 âNooooâ 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 didnât 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 couldnât fathom itâthis 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.
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CHAPTER ONE
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 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 donât 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.
Iâm the one who prepares their final faceâthe 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 Iâve done a good job, Iâm left with a very clean slate ready for transformation.
If Iâm lucky, I have a feel for who this person was before they crossed my path, meaning Iâve had a peek at them through the eyes of someone who knew them. Sometimes thatâs 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 Chopinâs 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. âSo, Miss Ashley Pierce,â I said to the dead woman.
âWho exactly were you?â
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 whoâd died of a respiratory infection complicated by asthma. Sheâd 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 Ashleyâs unexpected demise coincided with the rupture of her motherâs 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 Iâd 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-oldâs car had been slammed into on the turnpike by a kid texting his girlfriend. Heâd 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. âJanny?â he asked. âCan you come up?â
I checked the clock on the wall. âCan you give me a few more minutes? Iâm almost done here.â
Poppy pushed open the door. âI wish I could. Iâm fielding two visitations, and the Pierce family has shown up. Actually, theyâve been waiting, and I canât get to them. Please come now and do the consult. Thereâs no one else available. Itâs the brother and his wifeâI think itâs his wifeâand theyâre getting a little frustrated.â
His serious expression told me it wasnât 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. âOkay, let me just change.â
We all do triple-duty around here, but in addition to pinch-hitting wherever weâre needed, my Aunt Tess and I do all the embalming. Initial consults are my least favorite task, but Iâm not called upon to do them often.
âThank you, January,â my grandfather said with a weary, knowing nod. âTheyâre in the coffin room. Grandy is using her office.â
âIâll be right up.â
âGood girl, Kochanie,â 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 Iâd been at it over twelve hours; thankfully, I didnât think I looked it. I traded my Nike Airs for the red pumps Iâd 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 FrĂ©dĂ©ricâs etudes. Then I walked up the tiled hallway to the elevator.
I grew up here in my grandparentsâ mortuary, in Wallington, New Jersey. Officially, itâs the Duzinski Funeral Chapel, but I have affectionately coined it the Duzy House of Mourning. Since I was twelve, Iâve 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, Iâve 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 businessâs split personality. Downstairs, we dealt with the mechanics of death: repairing and preserving, draining fluids, pumping in chemicalsâimpersonal, utilitarian. In contrast, the main floor was soft, a place of reflection, whispers, and tempered grief. That was all my grandmother. Diana Merlyn Duzinskiâproprietor, quality-control maven, and frequent hand-arrangerâinsisted 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 Grandyâs 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. Itâs very impressive, but at the moment I hoped they were not on displayâit 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-lookingâvery good-looking, in factâwith intense green eyes that were the definition of sad.
âSorry to keep you waiting,â I said, approaching.
He stood. âNo problem.â He was around twenty-fiveâmaybe a little olderâwearing jeans, a white button-down, and a beige sports coat. The woman, in sleeveless yellow, didnât stand.
I reached across the coffee table to the manâs outstretched hand. âIâm January Duzinski.â
âIâm Tyson Pierce. This is my friend, Brynn Duncan.â The woman lifted an eyebrow, but I donât think it was meant for me.
âItâs nice to meet you.â
âMmm, I think my sister is here,â the man said.
âWould that be Ashley?â 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.
âIâm so sorry,â I said. âAnd I understand your mother is in the midst of quite aââ
âOh, itâs such a mess,â the Duncan woman interrupted. âTyâs dad is traveling. His mom just had surgery, his brother is out of townâŠThis poor guy has had a lot to deal withâhavenât you, honey?â
Tyson Pierce looked the slightest bit annoyed at her rambling as he stared at me.
âAnd weâve been waiting quite a while,â she continued. âDo you know how much longer it will be?â
âFor what?â I said, confused.
âWeâre supposed to meet with a funeral director,â she said a bit sharply.
âAh. That would be me.â
âOh,â she said, lips parting. âI thought⊠I thought weâd be meeting with⊠someoneâŠâ She shrugged. âI guess⊠sorry.â
I turned to Tyson Pierce. âIâm actually a mortician here. And Iâve been taking care of your sister.â
His eyes widened, then he cleared his throat. âSo, Ash hasâŠ. Has she been embalmed? Is that what you do?â
âIt is,â I nodded. âAnd she has.â
âCan I see her?â
âOh, I donât know, TyâŠâ the girl noised, her tone discouraging.
âOf course,â I said over her.
âBut maybe we could chat for a moment first. It would help me if I knew a little something about her.â
âLike what?â
âMaybe just something about her personality. What she was like. If I can, Iâd like to capture some of that as I prepare her.â
âOh,â he said thoughtfully. âThat would actually be nice.â He swallowed. âThat would be nice.â
âWere the two of you close?â
He hesitated, and again the woman found his shoulder. âIâd like to think so,â he said. âBut⊠I mean, not really. She pretty much adored me, but I wasnât a great brother, not to her.â
âOh, Ty. You were a wonderful brother,â Brynn cloyed.
He ignored her, and the look on his face rather broke my heart. He swallowed. âIâm sorry. This wasnât supposed to happen,â he said softly.
âI know. Iâm  sorry,â I said.
He cleared his throat. âI donât really know what Iâm doing here. My dad sent me over because heâs flying in from Beijing to be with my mom, whoâs still in the hospital. Iâm supposed to get her on the phone, if thatâs okayâshe has questions.â He shook his head, took out his phone. âThis 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 donât know anything about funerals. I donât know what to do.â
âItâs okay. Youâre doing fine,â I said calmly, calmer than I felt. âNo one is ever really ready when this happens.â
âAnd Iâm right here,â chirped Brynn Duncan, who had now threaded her hand into his.
Tyson Pierce sighed, cleared his throat, again. âDo you have some water?â
âI do,â I said. âWater? Or I have a Coke?â
 âOh, I could use a Coke if youâve got one.â
I glanced at Ms. Duncan, but she held up a hand, declining my offer.
âIâll be right back.â
I took our temperamental elevator to the third floorâwhich is where we liveâand hurried into the kitchen where my great-grandmother was playing solitaire at the table. She looked up at me and smiled. âHello, my Janny,â she said.
âHey, Babi. Youâre up late. Is that my cell?â
âYes. Is ringing, so I answer. Was Jasmine. I am warming the milk when she call. She say to call her when you can.â
âThanks,â 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. âMust run,â I said. âBusy night with the dead.â
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-fourâtomorrowâwith hair so white it belongs on an angel. Sheâs 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 championâone 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. âForgot something, Kochanie?â
âYes, Babi.â I rinsed her favorite mug from among the still-dirty dishes in the dishwasher, then poured the simmering milk into it. Babiâs mug was chipped, and I set it down backward so sheâd have the smooth edge facing her. Her craggy little hand found my face and patted. âThank you, my Janny.â
âDo you want me to help you back to bed?â I asked.
âNo, no. I am lucky winning the cards. You go. Busy night with the dead.â
âYes. Busy night.â Again, I kissed her head. âSee you tomorrow, Babi.â
When I walked back into the coffin room, I found Ashley Pierceâs brother and his girlfriend studying a painting on the wall. It was an oil of a tulip field. Very vibrant, yet very soothing.
âMy grandmother painted that from a photo she took in Holland many years ago,â I said. âShe told me sheâd never seen a more beautiful sightâtulips 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.â
âThatâs awesome,â said Brynn.
âIs she still alive?â Tyson asked.
âYes. She and my grandfather own this place.â
âOh, I didnât mean to assume. My grandmother died last year, soâŠâ he shrugged. âI hate death.â
âOf course you do, honey,â the Duncan girl simpered, squeezing his arm.
I looked at him looking at me and handed him the Coke.
âThanks,â he said. âI donât know whatâs wrong with me. Itâs just been a really long day.â
âIâm sure,â 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 didnât look at Brynn Duncan.
âSo, what do I need to do?â Tyson Pierce asked.
âWell, we should probably discuss your plans for burial. Is your sister to be buried or cremated?â
âBuried,â Brynn said before Tyson could get the word out. âSheâll be next to their grandparents at Crest Haven, the memorial park. Do you know it?â
âOf course. Itâs very pretty there.â
âShe loved the whole idea of parks,â Tyson said. âYou probably know this, but she was Downsâshe had Downs Syndrome, so in many ways she was just a big kid.â He nodded as his gaze slid away from me. âShe loved parks.â
âWell, then I canât think of a better place than Crest Haven.â
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, âOh, I have to take this,â 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. âDo you feel like you could pick out a casket? Or has your family made plans for that already?â
âWe havenât done anything. Nobody saw this coming.â
âOkay. Well, let me show you what we have,â I said, walking to the wall. âThis room actually doubles as our retail space.â 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. âWow,â he breathed.
âItâs a little overwhelming,â I agreed. âBut 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.â 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. âI should call my mom.â
âOkay. But maybe we could narrow it down first.â
He looked at me. âWhat do you mean?â
âWell, was AshleyâŠwas she a girly girl, or more of a tomboy?â
My question seemed to focus him. He even smiledâthrough a threat of tears. âShe was all girl. My sister was a Barbie doll trapped in aâŠâ he shrugged. âJust trapped. She was all girl.â
âOkay. Then letâs eliminate these.â 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. Thatâs when he got his mother on the phone.
As they video chatted and he showed her the options heâd 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 inâBrynn Duncan at her heelsâI was actually relievedâconsultations are her wheelhouse. âHow are we doing in here?â Grandy said. âAnything I can help with?â
âTyson,â I said. âThis is my grandmother, Diana Duzinski. Grandy, this is Tyson Pierce, and his mother is on the phone with him. And it looks like youâve met Ms. Duncan.â
âI have,â she smiled at the woman in yellow. âAnd I am so sorry for your loss,â 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. âAnd, goodness, Mrs. Pierce. I understand youâre recovering from surgery and your husband is traveling,â Grandy said, addressing the phone. âPlease know that whatever we can do to make this as easy as possible for your familyâŠwe are at your disposal. There is no rush.â
Brynn had again resumed her rightful place by Tysonâs side. âYou okay, sweetie?â I heard her whisper.
âThank you, so much,â Tysonâs mother voiced from the tinny speaker in his phone. âI think weâve decided on a casket, and Ty will be back tomorrow with a dress. My husband and I should be by tomorrow night.â
âThat will be just fine,â Grandy said. âIn the meantime, I can assure you that January here will be taking very good care of your daughter.â
More tears and a squeaky âthank youâ emanated from the phone, then Tyson told his mother heâd see her soon and disconnected the call.
Grandy didnât miss a beat. âGoodness, there is a lot on your plate, Mr. Pierce. How are you managing?â
He breathed in deeply and let it out. He looked at me. âIâm doing okay. January has been a big help.â
It got just the tiniest bit awkward then because he wouldnât let go of my eyes. I didnât 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. âThank you,â I managed, then cleared my throat. âI need to get back,â I said. âBut it was lovely to meet you, TysonâŠBrynn. Grandy can help with your questions about what comes next.â
Tyson looked at Grandy, then back at me. âOkay. WellâŠthank you,â he said. âThanks again for your help, January.â
âMy pleasure.â I smiled.Â
When I got back downstairs, I told Miss Ashley Pierce that Iâd met her very cute brother and that sheâd been holding out on me.
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I was just filling in Ashleyâs thin eyebrows when I heard a soft knock, and Grandy peered in. âJanny,â she said. âMr. Pierce would like to see his sister. Is it okay?â
âSure, give me just a second.â Â
There was a sheet pulled up to the womanâs thick neck, and Iâd run a curling iron through the ends of her long hair. She looked nice, though it would have been less unsettling if sheâd 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 familyâs 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 didnât ask why. I looked at him; he looked at me. Then I smiled as Grandy slipped out.
âItâs okay,â I said. âSheâs just Ashley.â I took his elbow and led him into the room. Iâd 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.
âI canât believe it,â he said in a small voice.
âAre you all right?â
A breath shuddered out of him as he gazed down at his sister. Then he moved closer and leaned in. âAsh,â he said softly. âWhat are you doinâ? What are we supposed to do now?â 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. âShe looks really nice. You did all this? This is what you do?â
I nodded.
âShe looks pretty. She looks like her.â
âThank you.â
âYou wanted to know something about her,â he rasped.
âWhatever youâd like to tell me.â
He looked back down at her. âShe always had bows in her hair. Always. Does that count?â
âAbsolutely.â
âThey looked ridiculous, but she loved them, and Mom loved her, so she always had a bow in her hair.â 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. âThatâs pretty recent,â he told me.
I leaned in to take a closer look. âCould you email me a copy of that?â I asked.
âSure. Where should I send it?â
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. âShe loved to watch Dancing with the Stars. She loved getting dressed up. She loved to eatâeverything, 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 didnât know it. Of course, I had to tease her about it. She called me stupidâsaid I didnât understand her talent.â He chuckled. âBut that girl could not sing.â
This made me smile. âWhat is your favorite memory?â
He thought about this. âShe came to all my gamesâsoccer, football, baseballâmostly because my mom did. But Ash hated the thought that I might get hurt, so she was veryâŠtenseâand loud. When I was in Little League, I lived in terror that she would throw a fit if I was tackled on the field.â He shook his head, remembering. âShe was very excitable, and it embarrassed me. I used to hate that she was there. I could be a real brat.â
I looked at him. Oh, how I could relate!
He sighed. âBut every kid should have such a cheerleader.â This last part wobbled out on a little sob of emotion. He shook his head. âSorry.â
âDonât be,â I said. âMy grandfather says tears are just wet memories.â
Tyson looked at me and pushed the heel of his hand into his eye. âWet memories. I like that.â
I smiled because I didnât know what else to do.
âThank you for this. For all of it, I mean. This was tougher than I thought it would be. I donât know what I thought it would be, but you made itâŠalmost nice,â he said.
âIâm glad I could help.â I turned the light out on Tysonâs sleeping sister, and we walked down the hall to the elevator.
âDo your parents work here, too?â Tyson asked.
âNo,â I said to the floor. âMy father used toâŠa long time ago. But now itâs just me.â
I could feel his eyes on me, but he didnât 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, âYou okay, honey? Was it awful?â
Tyson looked at me, then away. âNo. It was nice, actually. Iâm glad I got to see her.â
As I showed them out, Tyson Pierce hung back a few steps. âI think I know the dress Iâm supposed to bring tomorrow,â he said. âWill you be here?â
âIâll be here,â I told him. âBut if Iâm not available, you can just leave it with my grandmother.â
He smiled, held my gaze. âThanks again, January,â he said as Brynn tugged him toward the parking lot.
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When January Duzinski finds out who her mother was before the accident that changed their lives forever, will she continue to turn the other cheek, or find a way to forge a new relationship with the woman who birthed her? While The Duzy House of Mourning is narrated by a young mortician who deals with the dead on the daily, it is a story full of life that brings to light the fullness of the human experience.
January Duzinski spends her days at the Duzinski Funeral Chapel, a mortuary run by her beloved grandparents who raised her. Following in her fatherâs footsteps, January tends to the dead and helps their loved ones grapple with grief, simultaneously avoiding her feelings about losses of her own. The night January was born, a car accident on the way to the hospital killed her father, Tanek, and left her mother, Claire, with life-changing injuries. From a young age, January has avoided a relationship with Claire.
When January finds out that Claireâs mother, the grandmother January never met, has passed away, circumstances unfold that invite her into Claireâs life before the accident. Though raised within the confines of elitist conflict and power, Claire became an independent and accomplished woman determined to break free from her parents' rigid demands. She soon fell in love with Tanek, only to have their story cut short. Twenty-two years later, January begins to learn more about her parents through the journals her mother kept as a young woman and starts putting the pieces of her family back together. At the same time, she must determine her feelings about another unexpected and blossoming relationship.
Hancockâs characters are sweet, realistic, and relatable, expressions of their life stories convincing. Difficult topics such as the Holocaust, disability, family dynamics, and death are thoughtfully woven into the Duzinski family's story, allowing readers a grounded place from which to explore loss, survival, and hope.
As Januaryâs father once told her mother, âThere is more to death than deathâ, a sentiment beautifully illustrated by the deeper understanding of familial bonds to which January begins to awaken. A coming-of-age narrative that covers the universal life experiences of love, grief, and new beginnings, Ka Hancock delivers a resounding testimony of connection, struggle, and strength that you wonât soon forget.