"It's tragic!" The woman sniffled, aggressively wiping her under eyes with a tissue, scraping off a sticky layer of foundation with it. I handed her another. "I wake up and stare at the ceiling, and it just washes over me again, and I break down. Such a sweet, sweet woman, and the kids had their whole lives ahead of them." She sucked in a breath, her turkey neck wobbling, eyes red. "I wouldn't have believed it, if my Ernie hadn't driven by after the cops showed up."

I sat there, as still as a moai, and watched her continual blubbering.

Mrs. Applewood. Just one person in maybe a hundred, waiting their turn to come by my mom's house and lament their sorrows all over her carpet. There had been a steady flow of people for the past four days, always nagging and crying and awkward. I don't know why they came, maybe to comfort me, but in the end I was always the one comforting, offering food and refreshments, trying to calm down their cries.

Four days. Over and over, ever since that night. They brought me food and condolences, and many were really stopping by my mom’s house to check up on me. Then there were those who only acted the part, pretending to care when really they had heard the news in passing, but wanted the gory details right from the horse's mouth. Many had only heard bits and pieces (it was a rather big story on the local news, though I was only told this after the fact. I never went out of my way to seek out the news channel). Those people were curious about the whole truth of it, and thought their curiosity deserved to be satisfied. They thought that bringing food was compensation enough for all their pestering questions.

It was exhausting.

Most of their questions I couldn’t answer anyways. Though the information—in all its gore and red—seeped through the community like dye through a wash, I had been in a steady haze since the sun sank on that June night. That night had rippled from normalcy into chaos in a little under fifteen minutes. One moment the house was silent, with just me and the chaplain, and the next moment the landline began to ring. Once, twice, then again. In my pocket my cell vibrated like a small cat, and it didn't stop. The screen's light flashed through the thin pocket of my denim. I didn't answer either of them. I couldn't. I knew what they wanted to know, but I was in a daze, standing dumbfounded in the center of the living room. It was dusk, and the house was dark, aside from the clock on the stove. The AC creaked.

The Chaplain had sat on the couch, a glass of over-sweetened iced tea in his hand. He had said some things to me, but not a word made sense. I just nodded again and again. It was as if he was speaking another language. My body could not respond in a realistic manner, my brain could not comprehend words. I couldn’t be a victim, only a host.

“Would you like something to eat?”

“Would you like something else to drink?”

The landline lit up, and when I didn't answer, the caller left a message, which the machine relayed aloud. The first was about something trivial, Mrs. Jefferson asking if Mom could pick up potato salad on her way. I stood there and listened to the causal nature of her voice, and hated her for it.

That call was followed by others, and as time dragged on the calls became more frequent, the voices on the machine more frantic. The chaplain had looked up at me with sympathy, "We can disconnect that."

Something in the voicemail’s direness had made me feel heavy. I thought of Garrett’s grin and dimples, a pit forming in my stomach. Don't think about it. Don't think about it . . .

"June?" The officer had looked puzzled.

I had then gotten up and slipped on my mom's slides, cracking the front door, only pausing to mutter. "Excuse me for a sec, I forgot to put the garbage cans out."

A new round of hysteria from Mrs. Applewood drew my attention back to the present. She was sobbing, tears pouring down her round, shiny face that always reminded me of a hard boiled egg. "If only I was a better friend to her! I never should have gotten her tied up in that dishcloth business; she always told me it was a pyramid scheme but—"

A voice cleared their throat. I turned in my seat on the couch and saw a papery woman, almond hair tied up on top of her head, and a shower of ringlets falling around her ears; Mrs. Jefferson. I guess people didn't even have to knock anymore.

She placed a gentle hand on my shoulder as she sank down onto the couch beside me. "How are you feeling honey?"

“Fine.” I replied, which was a perfectly sensible answer. My feelings were still as knotted as a box of chain necklaces and I couldn’t cypher through them all, nor did I have the energy to.

Mrs. Jefferson smiled at Mrs. Applewood's blubbering. "I have some important details to talk to June about."

"Right right," The large woman stood up, blowing her nose like a horn. "I better be going anyway." She took my hand and pressed her other hand over it, tears still welling up in her eyes. She reminded me how to cook the shepherd's pie she had brought over, before heading out the door and into her sputtering old Jeep, which bumped down the driveway and out of sight.

Mrs. Jefferson sighed and leaned back on the couch, arms staley folded. "That woman never shuts up, does she?"

Annoyed, I got up, grabbing Mrs. Applewood's partly drunk, lipstick stained cup from the table. "She's a nice lady."

"Nice for an earful." The woman kicked off her shoes and drew her legs onto the couch, gazing up at the bare wall above the fireplace, where a family photo hung only a few days before. I had hidden it face down under my dad’s old easy chair in the corner, and avoided that part of the house as if it harbored some disease. Without the portrait, the living room was naked. "You really ought to start looking for slideshow material."

"I don't want to do a slideshow." I went to the kitchen sink and began scrubbing at the cup stain.

"Everyone does slideshows. Think of all the people that will be there that didn't get to say goodbye. It's the least you can do for them, for closure.” She twirled a piece of hair around her finger as she talked. “That or do open caskets . . ." Her voice trailed off, getting lost with the air from the vents and the hum of the refrigerator. She stared at the empty log rack that sat beside the hearth. "It still doesn't seem real . . ."

My hands froze above the sink, dishrag foaming with bubbles that seemed rainbow in the kitchen window’s sunlight. When she was really little, Crissie used to pour a quarter of the shampoo container into her bath, trying to get the water to sud up as much as possible. When we were little and bathed together, we’d always paint bubbles on our faces with wide grins, making long beards and bubble shoulder pads. We'd cosplay anyone; Santa Claus, wizards, proboscis monkeys from Mom's National Geographic catalog (we did this by adding bubbles to make our noses longer and droopy). There would be so many bubbles that we could hardly see the bathroom sink from where we sat in the tub. Mom was always so furious that we wasted so much soap.

The bubbles floated and sank in the air above the sink, like dust in an old beached ship. I hadn't seen Crissie in four days, the longest we've ever been apart.

My hand tightened on the rag—Don't think about it.

"I don't want open caskets either."

"You need to choose something. Also, you should get cleaned up. We better get going or we'll be late for the appointment with the funeral director." She picked something out of her nails. "He'll need a schedule of events for the funeral, so think about the slideshow on the way there—we can't take up too much of the good man's time. He'll probably make you choose handles and styles today for the caskets, so keep that in mind too." She leaned forward and looked at me through her ringlets like a department store manager looks at their employee; it always irked me. "This is important. Don't write it off like it doesn't matter, and actually put some thought into it. Debbie was my best friend as well as your mother and I want her service to be the best we can make it."

"I know."

The woman's eyes were glossy, even from where I stood, matching the slight quiver in her voice. "Have you been eating and drinking?"

I nodded.

She eyed me. "You ought to take a shower."

I picked up my Mom's glass watering can and filled it, trying not to feel her gaze stabbing me in the side. To take a shower would mean I'd have to walk to the end of the hallway, past all the vacant bedrooms. I couldn't even force myself to look in the hallway's direction. I knew my bedroom light was still on, that it had been on for four days. But how could I go back in there, to my magazine submission and open pen laying where I left them on my desk? How could I smell my mother’s favorite candle as I passed the bathroom, or my sister's empty rooms, with all their personalities pasted on their walls?

I gave a Hoya some water (I knew it was a Hoya from the name tag my mom had left in the pot). "You said you had something important to talk about?" I asked the woman perched on the sofa.

She threw an arm over the back of the couch. "Right. June, listen." She took a deep breath before beginning. "I was contacted this morning, and long story short it was a man from the insurance company, since Debbie made me executor after your Dad passed and put me down for contact." She smoothed out her white smocked skirt. "They tried calling you, but you've disconnected the phone."

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I went on to another plant, this one big and leafy.

She waited, "June, you're the only living beneficiary, so when those death certificates come in the mail, file a claim so you can get your insurance payout, you hear?"

I kept watering it, until something cold hit my foot. The water was overflowing from the drainage plate.

"It's not wrong to get the payout," she reminded me, "Your Mom had those insurances in place for a reason. She'd want you to have the money so you can take care of yourself."

Despite my best efforts, the Hoya was browning. I'd tried watering it everyday, but it made no difference. The subject made me feel nauseous, like I was exchanging my family’s souls for a check. I went back to the sink and topped off the watering can. "I'll get it done."

But she was doubtful. She glanced at her watch. "It's twenty til. Let's go."

Funeral homes have about as much warmth and charm as sitcom reboots. Ever since my Dad had passed two years before, the smell of embalming fluid and fresh roses had followed me around like a ghost. I remember staring face to face with his corpse at the service. Due to his sickness he had always been thin, with his collar and cheek bones poking out of his skin, seemingly razor sharp, and his knuckles boney. He liked to smoke too, not cigarettes but imported cigars, and it always used to give him a deep, rich oder that reminded me of fall afternoons, when we'd watch reruns of old westerns together. But the mortician had done something to his body. His features were puffed up and bright, injected with chemicals. They had painted his face, dressed him in his best, a suit, which he never wore. His hands were folded in front of him, hair neatly combed to one side. There wasn't the slightest whiff of cigar smoke either; all I could smell was sickeningly sweet flowers, and a chemical, almost sterile odor oozing from him.

How embalming and casket viewing was considered normal always freaked me out. Even back then as I stood there, at seventeen, I wondered how people could doll up a corpse and still sleep at night. Many considered it respecting the dead—but I always felt making a spectacle of a corpse and putting it on display like a ceramic doll was for selfish reasons, by the relatives. I still couldn't get the image of my Dad out of my head, even two years later. Someone would say his name and my mind would go back to that stiff corpse, not anything we did together growing up.

I thought of all of this as I sat with Mrs. Jefferson in a small meeting room, half listening to the funeral director talk and half in a haze. I adjusted in my seat, that laundry-mat smell drowning me. There were no decorations in that room, just posters of necklaces you can buy, those ones with the finger prints on them. On the table was a booklet of all the different services the home provided, and beside it a small pile of paperwork, which the man was discussing with me. The booklet was open, and there were photos of custom urns you could get, which were interesting—dog ones and vase looking ones, with the Virgin Mary printed on them. I had never been in a columbarium before, but I had seen pictures of them, with towering walls made of glass, all cubbies for ashes. The indoor ones were like mazes, and for every compartment where the urn was kept, you could decorate to fit the loved one's personality.

I kept eyeing them as we went through some of the paperwork.

I knew Mrs. Jefferson would push me to get an embalming, then for an open casket, then she'd push me for fancy boxes, which never made sense to me or my family; what's the point of getting a beautiful box only to bury it? My mom always said it was a marketing tactic to get funeral parlors more money. I remembered the process when Dad died, how much his funeral expenses were, and what was expected by the general public. A large service, caterers, slideshows, programs, embalming, flowers, burial service, reception decorations—the list went on and on. On top of that, there was paperwork, normal everyday chores, sending invites—basically everything you'd do to plan a wedding, except in the span of around a week and a half, and all the while dealing with visitors and grief.

In my culture, American culture, it was all expected.

My mom had struggled with it, and I understood why. Do something slightly off or unconventional and hurt funeral attendees will accuse you of dishonoring the dead. Maybe that was the reason why I wanted a cremation. But, if I’m being honest, I think it was out of a place of fear; the thought of wheeling four bodies up the aisle was unbearable.

"So, let me look at my list here," the Director murmured, pushing up his glasses. He was a roundish man, who seemed more fitting as an 1800s blacksmith than a man dealing in corpses.

Mrs. Jefferson tapped her nails on the table, gazing up at the iridescent lights.

He flipped a page. "Alright, first things first, what route are you wanting to go?"

"Cremation."

Mrs. Jefferson's fingers stopped, and turned her eyes to me. "That's not what we discussed."

"We didn't discuss anything, you just talked and I listened." I couldn't shift my view to meet her eyes. She was one of those women who thought she could get what she wanted whenever she wanted it, apparently that trait applied to my family’s remains as well. I felt so dull that the conflict didn't even stir a fire. I continued on, counting off my fingers. "I don't want embalming, I don't want to do a viewing, I don't want absurdly priced caskets. Mom wouldn't want that."

She sighed, and threw a leg over the other, the surprise leaving her face. "How would you know that?"

"She made it quite clear, when Dad died. I watched it all."

"Debbie was modest. She didn't know what was best for her." Her eyes narrowed. "This is about money, isn't it? These things are expensive for a reason, June. This is important." She leaned over and looked at the booklet that sat on the table in front of us. She flipped a couple pages and tapped it with her nail. "This one. I'd chose this white one with the silver embellishments. It'd look beautiful with a white and red bouquet in the middle. Debbie loved gardening," she explained to the Director.

“Well, then get that one for yourself.” I went on saltily, and the Director choked. "This has nothing to do with money. Mom thought it was stupid paying so much to have something buried. She always said that in the old days they just built a casket and stuck it in the ground." My brow furrowed, and I could feel my ears turning red. “Why do we preserve bodies anyways? It’s not like we’re going to dig them back up or something. When did it get like this, anyways? Why is it such a process?” I looked towards the Director, who seemed to be oddly enjoying the minuscule confrontation, yet confused by my anger. I was confused too, but as suddenly as it came upon me, it left, and I felt tired. "Cremation for all four."

Mrs. Jefferson was beside herself that I disregarded her opinion, which in any other circumstance would have been a great victory. I signed some paperwork, giving them permission to burn the bodies—their bodies. Their bodies were there, somewhere in that building, laying naked and blue on shelfs, labeled and numbered like chicken thighs in the grocery meat aisle.

Don't think about it.

"Uh—I was thinking about the community center for the service." Words just tumbled out of my mouth, trying to distract my mind. He went down the list and I answered every question. It was just like with Dad. A strange feeling of déjà vu overcame me, and I felt seventeen again, in high school and babysitting for the neighbors, living off birthday gift cards and boxed lunches.

"Well," he closed his folder with a new gentleness that didn’t exist before my tangent. "The last thing we need to do is choose urns. Follow me."

We got up (Mrs. Jefferson walking coldly in front of me) and I followed him into a hallway. We passed empty rooms, some small, some large and full of plastic chairs, one brimming with people. I distinctly heard a woman sobbing in a fit of mania, and when I turned to the sound, saw her crying into the chest of an open casket. I quickly looked away.

We entered a back room, full of shelves and different types of urns. Small wooden puzzle-box urns and lamp shaped ones, vases and themed, silvers and golds, all with unique designs. Many had doves imprinted on them, or 'In loving memory' on chocolate colored nameplates. I stared at all of them, overwhelmed and in slight awe. The room itself was sunny and welcoming, and browsing through urns was much more achievable to me then browsing through caskets; they didn't give me the shivers.

He swung an arm around him, his dumpling shaped face breaking into a smile. "What do you think? We have everything in stock. You can customize the name plates, the ones on these are only samples. What styles are you thinking of?"

No one ever told me that shopping for urns for your relatives is like shopping for clothes at a boutique. It was morbid to me, how the staff treated it. They were smiling, advertising various finishes and designs, saying things like 'These sleek cylinder ones with a matte finish are very popular this year' and 'This one will look great displayed on a bookshelf!'. Then again, that was their job. They were probably getting paid commission. The Director guiding me was kind enough to not push expensive products. I think that was partially due to what I said in the planning room, about pricey caskets.

By the end of it all I was winded. Mrs. Jefferson didn't stay mad at me, at least on the surface, and once in the car she was back to her old self, talking about the funeral plans aloud despite not hearing anything I said.

She dropped me off at my house and sped down the road. I stood on the front step for a moment, the setting sun beating down on my back as I stared at the wood.

Tonight you'll make that shepherd's pie, drink two glasses of water, and maybe watch something.

I had to make plans before going in. If I didn't, I'd just sit on the couch and watch the tree outside the living room window repetitively hit the pane. Over and over. If I were idle the thoughts would creep in, and I feared that I wouldn’t be able to claw myself out of that pit.

I scratched my scalp, greasy and dark from the oil. All the little specks of dandruff in it I could see in the door pane's reflection. It dawned on me how dirty I looked, and yet I didn't care. I unlocked the door with my mom's keychain (it had a small rubber cow on it that was missing a leg, and one of those self-defense stabbers), the door creaking as always, and flicked on the light. I could see directly down the hall, into the back mudroom and through the ripped back screen door. The thought occurred to me to try entering through the back of the house to access the shower (the bathroom was the last door in the hall), but I knew it was locked.

I preheated the oven, and stood while the numbers slowly climbed. When it beeped I put the dish in, and set a timer. I watched the entire timer run down, checked the food, reset the timer, and watched it again. Just standing there. Watching it tick down. Tick. Tick. Tick.

The house was dark behind me. The hallway loomed. Don't think about it.

All those empty rooms. A car missing from the driveway. Don't think about it.

That woman at the parlor screaming. Embalming fluid. Don't think about it.

I looked down and saw my mom's slides, where I had discarded them four days before.

Mom's slides.

Mom's slides.

Mom's—

Liquid oozed from one eye, thick and clear as sugar water. It ran down my face, burning, sliding, reforming, then dripping. It hurt so bad coming out I whimpered like a child, "Mom." Another followed suit. Then another.

The timer ticked.

The AC roared.

After four days of chipping, chipping, chipping away at me, something clicked in my head, and I had made the fatal error. I let my mind slip, leading myself to slaughter. So simple a truth, and yet I couldn't grasp it.

"Mom’s dead."