The Mortician's Wife

(Trigger warning: mention of child death, descriptions of bodies, depressive themes, and domestic violence)

The florist’s shop was in full bloom. Flowers lined every inch of space and framed the counter where an old woman sat on a stool, shoulders hunched over her crossword.

The man coughed softly to get her attention.

“Oh! Hi, Charles. I have the Miller order right here.” She lifted a crate full of white peonies and baby’s breath. She continued talking as she rang him up. “It’s such a shame about their baby girl. Babies shouldn’t go before their mothers.” She shook her head.

Charles hummed in agreement. She darted her hand out over his. “How’s the missus? This must be hard for her.”

Tensing, he responded with a tight smile, “It’s been three years. She’s alright.”

The florist smiled and rubbed his hand once more before giving him his change.

He thanked her and left with the flowers.

In three years his wife had disappeared into herself. His stomach rolled at the thought of going home to her, but he loved his wife. He’d take any piece that was left.

He got back to his office and handed the flowers off to his assistant before going down to the basement to make sure the body was prepared for the service.

Her coffin was so tiny. It was as tiny as his son’s coffin was when SIDS claimed him. He ran his thumb over the corpse’s cheek before rushing back upstairs.

He stopped his assistant in the hall.

“Would you mind handling the service? This one may be too much for me.”

“Of course”, she replied. “Also, they changed their mind and want a closed casket.”

He nodded and thanked her before going upstairs to his apartment.

His wife was in the same spot she always was. Curled into a loveseat by the bay windows, with the curtains drawn.

“Hello, my love.” He kissed her clammy forehead and brushed a greasy strand of hair from her face.

As always, she didn’t respond. Her hollowed eyes held their stare at the wall.

He cooked, spoon-fed her lunch, then carried her to bed for a nap.

He lumbered through the hallway, refusing to make eye contact with the pictures of his happy wife that haunted him.

The night was the same cycle, except he plucked a book from her library and read to the shell of her. Eventually, they both fell asleep.

Charles woke up to humming. He had fallen asleep in the chair by the bed. He flicked a lamp on and looked at the empty bed. His heart dropped.

He followed the humming until he got to the basement door. The light was on. She was in there. She was humming.

Charles opened the door and crept down. His breath caught at the sight.

His wife’s face glowed as she cradled the Miller’s baby in her arms and hummed a lullaby, rocking foot to foot.

“My love, what are you doing?” Charles asked in horror.

“Look at her, Charles. God gave us a daughter. Isn’t she beautiful?” She swept across the morgue and showed the baby. A tear fell down one cheek. “Thank you, my love,” she said, tucking the corpse into one arm and embracing Charles with the other. She kissed him deeply. The first kiss in three years. The first words in three years.

Charles looked at the corpse, torn.

Also, they changed their mind and want a closed casket.

“Let’s take our daughter home then, my love.”

After that night, life was bright again. Charles would return from work to a lively home. His wife cooked, cleaned, sang, and laughed.

Charles tried not to look at the Miller baby and instead focused on his love, who had returned to him. She kept the baby on her all day, never putting her down, until night. Then she would tuck the baby in the nursery and lead Charles to bed, where they made love.

A week in, the baby started to smell. The embalming should have lasted longer, but the body heat from his wife was making the corpse deteriorate. She just insisted her daughter needed baths, worsening the issue.

After his wife was well asleep each night, Charles would be up until dawn experimenting with salt and dry ice, trying to delay the rot. None of it worked. He needed more than a few hours.

Eventually, he slipped something into her wine. When he was sure she was under, he carried the baby down to the basement. He worked through the four stages he'd known by heart for twenty years. Formaldehyde first, the same as always, ordinary as breathing. Then the acetone baths, cold and slow, drawing the water out of her cells. When she was dry, he lowered her into the polymer tank, sealed the lid, and dropped the pressure. He listened to the acetone leave her in quiet bubbles, and the silicone fill the spaces left behind. Then the curing gas. Then the waiting. Then silence. She wouldn't rot after that.

His wife beamed in the morning and scooped up the Miller baby, crooning, “My clean girl.” She inhaled the corpse and sighed contentedly.

His wife hadn’t spoken to anyone since the death of their son, so he let the act continue. None were the wiser. His assistant commented occasionally when she heard music coming from upstairs, and he took pride in saying his wife was feeling better, but was quick to add that she wasn’t ready for company.

A year after the death of the Miller baby, a boy died in their town. He was four years old and had fallen into his grandfather’s pool, but didn’t know how to swim.

Charles prepared the body and looked at the boy on the table, a plan forming.

He went up to his assistant and asked, “Are the Crowleys doing open or closed casket?”

“Closed,” she quipped, involved in her filing. As Charles turned, she said, “Oh, I bought a book for your wife. Can I run it up during lunch?”

“No,” Charles said too quickly. She eyed him with her brow raised. He gained some composure. “She’s still nervous about seeing people. I’ll bring it up.”

The assistant nodded and handed over the book.

He then went upstairs to deliver the book and tell his wife he’d be working late that night. Before leaving, he glanced at the Miller baby in her lap. He hesitated. Then looked at his glowing wife, who blew him a kiss.

Charles returned to the basement and prepped the morgue for plastination.

He snuck back upstairs before the assistant arrived for work. When he entered the apartment he smelled bacon and pancakes. His wife danced in the kitchen while cooking, the Miller baby in a high chair just feet from her.

“My love, I have a surprise.” She turned and saw the Crowley boy in his arms. She gasped and approached slowly. She reached out a hand and hesitated briefly before swooping the boy out of his arms. She cradled him and smelled his head. She glowed even brighter.

“A boy! Now our family is complete.” She kissed her husband, then whispered in the boy’s ear, “You must be hungry, my sweet boy.”

A chill ran up Charles’ back, but he shook it off. The sight of his happy wife was enough to sustain his choices.

That night, his wife offered the Crowley boy to Charles. “Your son wants a hug, my love.” Charles glanced at the corpse and shook his head.

“He just needs his mum.” Charles smiled and patted his wife on the arm, not looking at the boy.

“Hold your son, Charles.” She commanded, her tone growing flat. Her eyes bore into his, a darkness threatening to creep back.

“Okay, my love. Give me my son,” Charles said, opening his arms and receiving the boy. He was so stiff. The boy’s eyes stared into nothing. Charles fought shivers as his wife studied him.

She finally seemed content with Charles’ involvement and took the boy back, the Miller baby on the other arm, and retreated to the nursery. He heard her humming lullabies.

Four months later, he came home after work to his wife dressed in her finest clothes, and the corpses dressed up as well. Charles looked at them, then sniffed the air. “Do you want me to cook tonight, my love?” He asked, realizing she hadn’t started.

“No, Charles, I thought we could all go out tonight. Your assistant left me a note; her boyfriend just opened a restaurant down the street.”

Charles paled. “No, my love, let’s stay in.”

She shook her head and carried the corpses to the door, set on her decision. She opened it an inch before he slammed it.

“We can’t do that.” He pleaded.

“Why not?” She asked as she tried to shove past him.

“Please,” he said softly, “no one can see the children.”

“Why not?” She demanded, growing angry.

He looked at her, defeated. “They’re dead, my love.”

Her face cracked. Then rage overcame her. “How could you say that, you sick bastard?” She kicked him in the groin, and he toppled over. She got the door open and ran down the stairs with the children in her arms.

He recovered, fear overcoming pain, and chased her down.

“No!” she screamed as he tried to wrestle them from her. He gave up on the kids and clasped a hand over her mouth. The assistant had left, but he didn’t want neighbors to hear.

“Please, please be quiet and come back upstairs. I’ll cook for us all,” he begged.

She fought and got closer to the glass front door of the building. If anyone came to the door, they would see them, see the bodies.

He knocked her to the ground, his hands wrapping around her throat. She fought back wildly.

“Please, my love, stop it.” But she did not. Eventually, the light faded from her eyes.

Charles scooted back in disbelief.

“No. No. No. My love. No,” he cried, pulling her body close.

He held her in his arms there, well into the night. Then scooped her up and carried her back to the apartment and placed her on the bed. He went back down to retrieve her children as well. He tucked them close to her and kneeled on the floor beside the bed. He kneeled there all night. Praying that this was all a dream. But as the rising sun bled over their lifeless bodies, he knew it was not.

Charles dressed for work methodically. He went through his day numbly. Blocking out the flashes of the events that took his wife.

At 5 pm, his assistant called down that she was leaving. He waited for the bells of the front door before he came out of the basement. He looked at the apartment stairs with dread. He took them slowly, trying to delay the inevitable.

When he reached for the doorknob, he stopped. He heard a child laughing. He pressed his ear to the door. A baby cooed. And a woman sang.

He opened the door and saw his wife dancing in the kitchen. The baby giggled in her arms and pulled at his wife’s hair. The boy played at her feet, rolling toy cars across the floor.

“You’re home!” she exclaimed, running to him. He pulled her into his arms. The boy followed her, attaching himself to Charles' leg.

He sat at the table with his family and marveled at how lucky he was to have such a perfect family.

After dinner, they all curled up in bed together and fell asleep to the sound of flies buzzing.