“Cool. I’ll join you in a minute.” Slamming my cappuccino—why not see if my heart rate can hit 200?—I grab a bunny suit and get dressed. The thing comes with a hood, and with the googles, mask, and gloves on, there’s very little of me exposed. Which is a good thing, really. My skin is crawling with this woman’s grief and I don’t need awkward questions like why my hands are shaking or why I’ve got permanent goosebumps.
The wailing doesn’t quit, either. It’s like the dead woman knows I’m present, and she’s begging me for help.
What the hell is happening to me?The spirits of the dead never used to get up in my face like this. Once or twice a month, I’d do my trick so non-specified Bad Things wouldn’t happen. I’d get some bread or a cracker or whatever, let it sit on the corpse for a while, say the prayers, chew and swallow, and be done with the whole thing.
I mean, except for the three days of penance.
Anyway, it crosses my mind that maybe I should kick this one upstairs and ask the Good Lord himself what the actual fuck is going on. And I would, if I believed in him, her, or them. But I don’t. Like I told Damon, there’s a difference between praying over a corpse because that’s what you were raised to do and actually believing the words.
I’m wrestling my gel-slicked hands into a pair of latex gloves when the ME arrives. Dr. Montgomery is barely older than me, and arguably we’re both too young to spend all day around dead people. His presence chases away thoughts of god and sin and what it all means, and after beating Geneva at a game of rock, paper, scissors, I log into the computer to record the findings while she assists with the procedure.
In situations like this, whatever I record becomes a legal document, and I’d hoped that by putting some distance between me and the corpse, I wouldn’t hear her cries. No luck with that. By the time Dr. Chen is about finished and the ME has stepped out to finalize his own notes, sweat’s running like a river down my spine and my hands are shaking.
Geneva and Dr. Chen leave me alone with the corpse while I pretend to finish the charting I’d already done. Once I’m alone, I sneak a saltine onto the corpse’s chest.Herchest. She was a woman, and somewhere in this town, somebody is sad about her death.
No matter how fucking nervous I get, I know what I gotta do.
Zipping up the bag that covers the body, I remind myself that there are very few bacteria that stomach acid won’t kill and roll the gurney into the cooler. Now I have a decision to make. Should I ask Geneva to stay late, to supervise the prayers I’m going to have to say?
Or should I text Damon and ask him to meet me here after his shift is done? I mean, he brought me a cappuccino on Wednesday. That means we’re good, right?
Really, the decision is an easy one.
Chapter Fourteen
Damon
Need a favor & you can’t ask questions.
I stare at my phone, wondering if I got off the train in the wrong reality this morning. On Saturday night, I’d walked out of Ezra’s feeling like I could conquer the world. Sunday morning we’d had what might go down as the strangest text exchange in history, and on Monday he brought me coffee and a cookie. We both worked on Wednesday, and things were mostly normal when I brought him a cappuccino. I’d managed to convince myself we were done with the crazy.
And now this.
Nothing good ever came fromyou can’t ask questions.
I’m waiting for the elevator to take me to the top floor. Common sense tells me to ignore the text, self-preservation, and all, but when it comes to the people I date, common sense gets very little play. Growing up with a disaster for a mother should have taught me to avoid guys like Ezra.
Guys with secrets. Guys who struggle with the truth.
Still, there’s something, some instinct I’ve learned to trust, that tells me he’s different. He’s not as bad as he acts. I hope. Besides, it took me a couple weeks of cappuccinos to get him to go out with me, and I hate to think I’d wasted all that money.
What’s up?I text back. Simple. Nonthreatening. How much trouble could two words cause?
The three dots start to do their dance, and I remind myself that this is Ezra I’m talking about, so there really is no limit to how bizarre things could get.
Remember that prayer thing?
“Here we go,” I mutter. The elevator door opens and, ready or not, I step up to the plate.
Yeah?I text back.
Meet me at the morgue at 8.
. . .
. . .
Please.
