Anyone who has never made a mistake has never tried anything new.
~ Albert Einstein
Any hope Brianna had for sleeping late on Sunday was cut short by the shrill ringtone on her smart phone. Caller ID said Restful Oaks. Edwin? Why was he calling her at this hour on her day off?
“Hello?”
“Good morning,” Edwin said in his usual mortician yet Southern drawl. The man would make an incredible narrator for a haunted house.
“Morning,” she mumbled. “Is something wrong?”
“I hate to ask this—”
“You need me to come into work, don’t you?”
Crap. Her hopes of roaming Savannah and beginning to enjoy the city went right out the window. Why was her life two steps forward, one step back?
“Yes,” Edwin said.
He sighed so loud, she had to pull her ear away from the phone. “We have a body which requires some...discretion...and the family wants this matter done and settled.”
“And this can’t be done tomorrow?” she asked. As soon as she said the words, she wanted to take them back. Normally, she’d have bitten her tongue, but he’d woke her up, for Pete’s sake.
“No. The family didn’t get along, there are matters which need to be cleared up, and we need to accommodate their wishes.”
“You’re right.” She felt a pang of guilt. This was part of the mortuary business. While there would always be job security, people didn’t die between nine and five. “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
“Great. Thanks.”
She hung up and looked at a wide-eyed Plato. “Sorry boy, I can’t take you to the park today.”
He whimpered.
No sign of the Graysons. No whispers after she’d gone to bed last night either. Maybe they were in hiding, giving her some time to decide if she would help them. She didn’t object, nor was she about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Freedom from voices and spirits was a welcome thing. No sense questioning it.
Forty-five minutes later, she stood in the preparation room next to Edwin, staring at the body on the table. Ian Kendall was only sixteen. The file said he’d run away from home four years ago.
His weatherworn skin resembled an old fisherman’s, someone who’d endured Mother Nature’s bitter moods. Living on the streets, away from friends and family, tended to age people faster than a presidential term.
“What happened, Edwin? He’s only a kid.”
Edwin clasped his hands together, an enclosed knot at the end of noodle-like arms. Ladies and gentlemen, meet the human Muppet.
“All signs point to pneumonia. He didn’t appear to be seeking medical care,” Edwin whispered. In the confines of Restful Oaks, Edwin always spoke in hushed tones.
Brianna stared at the boy’s Goth appearance. He had ivory skin and thick, black eyelashes. Smudged eyeliner caked his lower eyelids and a plum-colored lipstick had begun to fade from his lips. But it was the multicolored Mohawk that captured her attention.
“I’ll need some extra time to work with his hair.”
Edwin stepped closer to the body. “I wanted to speak with you about that. Ladies?”
Two frumpy old women entered the room. They held each other arm in arm as if holding on for dear life, like one would slip away into death by walking into a funeral home.
“Brianna, this is Myrtle and Evelyn Kendall. Ladies, this is our cosmetologist, Brianna McNeil. She’ll be handling Ian’s makeup and hair.”
What was Edwin thinking? Standard practice didn’t allow relatives into the preparation room. People who saw their loved ones before they were prepped tended to get upset. The flesh color in the bodies hadn’t been contoured, and sometimes there was bloating. It was never a pretty sight, so why had Edwin brought these women into the room? Why the urgency in calling her in on a weekend?
The old ladies waddled to the kid’s body and began to comment.
“Such a sad thing.”
“Yes, indeedy.”
“He never listened, always ignored folks. I told him time and time again to cut his hair.”
“He caused quite a ruckus.”
“Now look at him. With that awful Mohawk.”
“He never listened to anyone, not even his own mama. What kind of kid doesn’t obey his mama?”
“She was always too permissive, you know.”
“That she was. Thank heavens his daddy knew better.”
“Sad.”
“Tragic.”
“I just can’t get past that awful hair.”
Brianna shifted her gaze between the two frumps like watching a tennis match. The women looked like Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee, but without the propeller hats.
“Edwin?” she prompted. Please take them to your office and let me work.
He didn’t seem to get the hint. Instead, he offered a comforting pat on both women’s shoulders. “We will see to it that your nephew is buried with a respectful appearance.” He flashed Brianna a stern glare.
The two women gave Brianna the once-over, as if evaluating whether she would obey.
“Please don’t cover up my hair,” a hoarse voice said.
Brianna jumped and metallic adrenaline surged into her mouth. Yuck.
“Are you okay?” Edwin asked with sincere concern on his face.
“Yes.” She dug her nails into her palms. She really didn’t need her boss knowing about her gift. When her hands lifted to rub the pendant, movement flittered across the room. When she looked, the young kid’s nearly transparent form sat on the edge of the preparation table, his dark eyes shining with hope.
“Can you see me? Hear me?” the ghost asked.
She bit her lip but nodded in what she hoped was a nonchalant way. If Edwin or the clients suspected she was talking to ghosts, she’d be out of a job quicker than she could say grits.
The boy’s ghost form smiled. “Fantastic, thanks. Please don’t let my aunts take charge. Please. They never understood me. My hair was the first thing I had that was mine, something I could control. They never let me have a say in anything. Don’t let them have a say in my death.”
Brianna leaned toward Edwin. “May I have a word with you in private?”
One of the women marched up to her, leaving no personal space. “You are going to follow our instructions, aren’t you? I do not want to see that horrible Mohawk on my nephew. He needs to look respectful for the service, and every single member of our family hates that sinful hairstyle he has.”
“Meet my Aunt Myrtle,” the kid said. “Such a tolerant woman.”
Brianna couldn’t help herself. She smiled, even though it wasn’t appropriate.
Myrtle frowned, and the lines on her face made her cheeks sag a bit. “I don’t think this is funny in the least.” She turned to Edwin. “Are you going to make this woman do her job or not?”
Edwin gripped her arm. “Brianna—”
“Of course I’ll do my job, ma’am,” Brianna said. “Edwin, please give me a moment in private?” And get your hand off of me!
He ushered her toward the doorway, leaving the women to their commentary.
“The family,” Edwin said, “wants the Mohawk gone. Use a toupee piece, something that will be a better appearance.”
She took a deep breath. There was a tactful way to make her point without disrespecting her boss. “I understand the family’s concern, but Ian Kendall was an individual. To cover up his hair now means covering up his identity.”
Edwin’s thin lips turned downward. “Yes, but we need to do right by the relatives.”
Why did the living insist on managing everything, including the dead? What about the voices of the deceased?
“I thought our job was to respect the dead,” Brianna said. Working in the funeral business meant compromise, a balance between making the family happy and abiding by the deceased’s wishes. At least, that’s what Edwin had taught her in training. It’s how her own family ran their funeral home in Boston.
“Just do as I tell you on this one, Brianna. Apparently, one of Ian’s relatives is running for office and the family doesn’t need any kind of scandal.”
Politics or not, why was Edwin changing his rule for these horrible old women? They clearly had no understanding of who Ian Kendall ever was.
She looked at Ian’s spirit once more. The tension creases between his brows spoke volumes. The kid would never have wanted to be buried this way. Ian Kendall was an individual, not a conformist. She had to try to make Edwin see reason, even if he barked at her.
“This kid left home at age twelve,” she said. “He lived and died on the street to get away from his relatives. I’m not saying the hair won’t be a problem, but shouldn’t we try to compromise?”
Edwin wrung his bony hands together. “This is how we do things. Appearances are important, but I appreciate your dedication to your work. Leave your personal feelings aside and do what’s right for the family.”
Was there no changing his mind in this? “But—”
“Enough.” Edwin’s eyes flashed with anger and impatience. In a split second, he changed from serene funeral director to something—else. Something eerie. Mean.
“Restful Oaks is my life,” he said. “I’ve struggled to build my career, and I’m not going to ruin my reputation because you feel empathy for some runaway kid.”
Wasn’t he being a bit dramatic? She wanted to do her job and respect the dead Restful Oaks sent onward. Always make the bodies look their best—it was the code she lived by. But respecting the individual was paramount.
She lowered her voice, wanting to appear respectful. “I didn’t say anything about ruining your reputation—”
“I don’t even own the funeral home. Begley does.”
She coughed and struggled for breath. “Begley owns Restful Oaks?” Meaning Begley controlled her home and her job? Helping the Graysons could cause her some serious trouble.
Edwin nodded. “He’s kept me on as funeral director and manager. We’ve established a low-rent rate for life, thanks to his granddaddy and mine being fishing buddies. I can’t jeopardize my business. Fix up Ian’s body and call Margie when it’s done.”
With that, Edwin’s slender hand grabbed her wrist. Ouch—that would leave a bruise. He led her back to the preparation room and escorted the two women out, but not before looking back to give one long, last glare with a clear message: She’d better do as he’d requested.
Damn. Left alone, Brianna traced each colorful spike of Ian’s Mohawk with her fingers. His ghost crouched in a back corner.
“I’m sorry, Ian. Nobody seems to understand what you were about.”
“Can’t you do something?” he asked. The room turned cold when he spoke.
“I can’t leave your Goth appearance as is or I’ll lose my job.”
Ian approached his empty shell of a body. “I don’t want to get you fired.”
Brianna couldn’t stand to look into those dark, individualistic eyes any longer. She had to find a way. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Really? Thanks.”
She combed the two front spikes down, cut and layered them, and brushed the hair around his face. Leaving the other spikes intact, she moussed them behind his head, adding an extra pillow to hide the orange and green hues. She dyed the front two spikes brown and draped the acceptably colored hair around his face. Instant conformity with a twist. His aunts would be pleased to see the Mohawk was gone, yet Ian’s spirit could move onward with individuality undamaged.
Brianna glanced to where Ian’s ghost sat. He was smiling. “You do good work.”
“Thanks,” she said. The dead had never commented on her cosmetology skills before. If they could talk all the time, how easy it would be to ensure she presented the appearance they wanted.
Wait. Why was she wishing for more voices? No. Not good. No more voices, thank you.
She stared at Ian’s body on the table. “May you be more understood in your new realm than you were in this life.”
Warmth spread across her shoulders, relaxing the muscles. She glanced up. Ian’s ghost had disappeared and taken the cold air with him. She took one final look at her handiwork and smiled. She’d done the right thing. Edwin would never know.