The Afterlife (Siren Suicides, Book 3)

Chapter 22. Bleitz Funeral Home

Death. Birth. Two ends of the same stick. You don't know when you'll be dangling off one, or be struck by another. They both look the same, like two ends of a casket. It's the first thing I think when I see it, regally poised on top of our dinner table. Eighteen gauge steel, square corners, painted premium white in matte lacquer, embroidered head panel, silver stationary handles, nude crepe interior, an adjustable bed and mattress. It has a clean new smell. Its weight without my body is 200 pounds; it says so on the flyer next to it. Its weight with my body will be 307 pounds. It took four men to carry it in, after father and I hastily cleaned up the foyer and I hid upstairs in my room, waiting for them to leave. I need to get inside, but my muscles stiffen, playing on the idea of proper algor mortis, or siren death chill. No cooler needed, I'm as cold as ice. Attending my own funeral. Washed, shampooed, and dressed in jeans and my spare Siren Suicides hoodie. Blue, of course.

I make myself move, feeling my father's hand on the small of my back, concentrating on my feet, both snug in two white canvas slip-ons. I touch the edge of the casket, caressing its smooth lining with my fingers. What a change from the marble bathtub, all this cushioning, designed to soften my journey into the afterlife. With a sigh, I lift my right leg, clasp the edges, and slide in, scooting all the way to the middle as I lay down. My strength is back, but it doesn't give me the desired comfort. The last thing I see is our Swarovski chandelier swinging above my head. Its light throws peculiar shadows on the ceiling like ripples of water. Papa's face swims into view, blocking out the light. His neatly combed hair forms a halo around his head, shimmering with iridescence.

"Ready?" he asks.

"Yes," I say, exhilarated in some strange sense.

"Remember, not a peep. See you on the other side," he says.

I don't smile at his morbid joke.

The lid drops shut with a soft whoosh. The last ray of light disappears into darkness. I smell the synthetic glue and hear Papa open our front door, step outside, and yell for help. I also hear his soul, that faint smoldering melody that I hope I'll be able to restore once we make it to Italy.

Four men slam car doors somewhere outside the house and briskly jog up the stairs. Formal greetings and condolences are offered, and then they come near me. An instrumental soul quartet—one bass, one violin, one trumpet, one accordion. Their souls trickle in to me as petrified and broken, yet delicious. Salty. Pungent. My chest rumbles and I'm terrified they'll hear it. I'm hungry. For one split second, I want to kick open the lid and devour them all at once, but I somehow suppress the urge.

Play dead, Ailen. Remember, play dead.

Papa leaves. I hear the staccato of his heels. The first stab of doubt pricks my skin. I wave it off.

He promised, didn't he? He promised.

The four men grab the coffin's handles, two on each side, grunt, and then slide the casket off the table as they lift me up to waist level. Silent prior to my father's departure, they launch into comments about how light I am and how there is no foul odor; they move on to what was on TV last night and what beer they had, whether or not there will be free food at the service, and how, of course, there will be with that rich prick throwing such an expensive funeral for his stupid daughter who decided to drown.

They carefully trot as they share their displeasure with our generation at the same time. They wonder how my body was found, and by whom. And how come none of them heard anything on the news.

Family doesn't talk about their dead in this way, at least they have courtesy to be polite and hold such thoughts to themselves. These four men are strangers to me, and they could care less.