If You Have Ghosts

1

The line to see the dead kid is so long it looks like something you'd see in front of an amusement park ride, not a casket. Most people are crying—I can't believe it, actually crying—and every now and then I catch snippets of hushed conversation:

"He was such a nice boy."

"It's a shame, really."

"Heaven got another angel today. Bless his heart."

I stare down at my hands, trying to figure out who these people are actually mourning, because it sure as hell isn't Cody Holcolm. Not the real one, anyway. My hands curl into fists in my lap, and I do my best to ignore any more funeral-talk. Nobody would say anything bad even if they did know the truth—you just don't speak ill of the dead.

After a few minutes sitting silently by myself in the pews, I hear a woman to my left say, "Amanda," but I don't realize it has anything to do with me until there's a loud, exasperated sigh and a hand waving in front of my face. "Hello. Amanda?"

I raise my eyes to meet the annoyed face of Cody's mother. Bloodshot eyes stare down at me. Red-rimmed, sunken. Her cheeks are pink, irritated from rubbing away tears. Her features always look a little pinched, but today it looks like she put something sour in her mouth and kept it there. My eyes dart from her face to her outfit and back again, trying not to judge her for wearing a tight-fitting, leopard print dress to her son's funeral. At least it has some black in it.

After an awkward staring contest between us, I blink and blurt out, "Andrea."

"Excuse me?"

"My name. It's Andrea."

"Yes, well. It's... it's wrong." Mrs. Holcolm sucks in a sharp breath, and, for a second, I think this is the beginning of some weird apology for messing up my name. But then I realize she's talking about something else entirely when she lets out a heavy sigh. It's almost like she's upset that I can't read her mind.

"What's... wrong?" I hope the concern in my voice doesn't sound as forced as it feels.

"His hair," she explains, voice cracking. Fresh tears well up in her eyes, and she quickly wipes them away with the back of her hand, smudging her makeup. "It's wrong. Where's your father?"

That's a good question, actually. I haven't seen him since he helped set the casket up for the service.

"I'm not sure," I tell Mrs. Holcolm, slowly rising to my feet. She's about a foot shorter than me, and I suddenly feel like a giant.

I turn around, squinting toward the back of the church, checking to see if Dad's stuck holding open the door. My eyes scan the line carefully. Maybe he's talking to some people, doing damage control or something. My stomach sinks as I realize there's no sign of him.

"He's probably outside," I say.

"Outside," Mrs. Holcolm echoes, her voice flat. She mutters something under her breath and begins digging through the ridiculously large purse hanging off her arm. After a couple frustrated F-bombs, she pulls out a black comb and holds it out to me. "Fix it," she says, and I bite my lip before I can say something sarcastic about how please is a magic word, she should try it some time.

"I'm not... actually supposed to..." I begin, but Mrs. Holcolm is tapping her foot, her lips pursing a little more with each word out of my mouth.

"Somebody needs to fix it," she insists.

That somebody should be you, I think bitterly, but I know why she won't. Funeral homes exist for a reason. Death creates this weird distance, and most people don't have any interest in getting closer.