Hunter had never been in a funeral home before. She’d never had any reason to. When her grandmother had passed, the service had been held at their house. Hunter and Mercy were barely out of diapers. Her great-grandmother had died before she and her sister had been born. It seemed all Goode women were destined to an early end.
The heavy wooden door of Parrott Family Funeral Home creaked open in ominous, horror movie fashion. Hunter slipped inside to the foyer. Wood paneling, forest green walls, and black-and-white photos of woodland scenes greeted her. It smelled like flowers and cedar with a hint of cinnamon. Hunter didn’t know what she’d expected, but she hadn’t prepared herself for normalcy.
Hunter cleared her throat. “Mr. Parrott?”
It was silent for a moment before another creaky door opened. “Be right there, girls,” Emily’s dad and Goodeville’s only funeral director called from down the hall.
Hunter took a deep breath. She felt lighter. Maybe it was the fact that the bright Illinois sun no longer burned her tender eyes. Or maybe it was because she and her sister were taking steps forward. This wouldn’t be the new, happier life Hunter had envisioned, but there was something to be said for putting the past in the past.
“You ready for this?” Hunter groped the empty air beside her as she searched for Mercy’s hand. She turned. No Mercy, only the ornately carved door and more black-and-white forest photos.
The old wood floors creaked under Hunter’s feet as she moved toward the door and hefted it open. Mercy was waiting just on the other side. She sniffled and brushed her pink-tipped nose on her sleeve. “I can’t do it.” Her chin quivered and Hunter fought the urge to scoop her sister up into her arms and rush back to the car. They had to do this. Anyone who had ever lost someone they loved had to do this. It was as much a part of life as living.
Hunter propped the door open with her foot and slid the long sleeve of her shirt down over her bandaged arm. “I’ll do it alone,” she whispered as she reached out and took Mercy’s hand in hers. The weight was back. It hadn’t been the dark colors and warm light of the funeral home or the fact that she was there to move forward, begin her new life. It had been the absence of her sister.
Hunter swallowed the thought along with the knot forming in the back of her throat. “Really, Mag, you can go home. I’ll have Jax—”
“Abigail wouldn’t want that.” Mercy dropped Hunter’s hand and slipped past her into the funeral home.
Hunter sagged against the door as it shut. She wanted to say something that would make everything better, that would fix her sister, but grief wouldn’t exist without love. And Mercy had loved their mother so, so much. Hunter rubbed her finger along the raw flesh that rimmed her thumbnail as she studied Mercy’s slumped shoulders and the way she hugged her arms against her middle as if her insides would spill onto the floor if she didn’t hold them in. Was despair a testament to love? Hunter bit down on her fingernail. It couldn’t be. She loved her mother just as much as her sister. But Hunter had been through more than Mercy. The teasing, the name-calling, the bullying. In eighth grade, Rachel Leech had cut off her ponytail because dykes don’t have long hair. A jagged piece of Hunter’s nail tore free and she clenched it between her teeth. Her life had been a series of devastating events, one stacked on top of the other in a perverted game of Jenga until this—the pièce de résistance. But Hunter wouldn’t let her mother’s death topple her. As Mercy would say, Abigail wouldn’t want that.
Footsteps creaked down the hallway as Mr. Parrott neared the foyer. “Sorry to keep you two waiting, had an unexpected call that I couldn’t get away from…” He stilled as he caught sight of Mercy. “I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am.”
Mercy hiccupped and tightened her grip around her core.
Mr. Parrott dipped his fingers into his collar and pulled gently. “I’ve known Abigail my whole life. She introduced me to Helene…” He continued to tug at his collar as he spoke. “Abigail actually gave me a special cookie recipe. She said that it would make Helene’s true feelings known. We were married three months later.”
The floor groaned under Hunter’s weight as she scooted closer to her sister. Did hearing stories like this help? Is that what Mercy needed, to relive all the good times? Or did she need to pack away her anguish and shove it in a forgotten corner of her mind? Either way, Hunter would carry on. She’d watch pieces of herself flake off and float away like she’d been doing her entire life.
Mr. Parrott rubbed his hands together and took a deep breath. “You’ll have to excuse me, girls. I was shocked to get the news this morning. Haven’t quite processed it yet.”
“We understand how you feel, Mr. Parrott.” Hunter had meant for her words to sound comforting, uniting even. Instead they fell out of her mouth bland and dry and flat.
He moved aside and motioned for the twins to step down into the sitting room. “Dominic. You both know you can call me Dominic.”
Hunter did know she could call him by his first name. He’d been saying the same thing since they’d entered high school. She’d always seen it as a prize they’d been given for going through puberty. But Hunter didn’t believe in being given prizes. She believed in earning respect.
Mercy let out a strained sigh and descended the stairs. Hunter followed her sister as she dragged her feet across the maroon-and-gold Turkish rug until she reached the edge of the closest settee and plopped down. The sunset yellow glow from the overhead chandelier sparkled off the round glass coffee table that separated the girls from the funeral director.
“What happens next?” The dry leaves stuffed in Hunter’s pocket crunched as she sat down next to Mercy. “We’ve never had to do anything like this before.”
Mr. Parrott straightened a stack of brochures before he removed the top folder from a pile of folders neatly arranged in the center of the coffee table. “I need both of you to sign a few documents that will allow me to proceed with funeral preparations. Then, we’ll need to go by the sheriff’s department to identify and claim your mother.”
Mercy’s sob was cut short as she clapped her hands over her mouth.
“But I have a good relationship with Sheriff Dearborn.” Mr. Parrott removed a few papers from the folder and slid them across the table. “With your signatures and Goodeville being the tight-knit community that it is, I’m sure I’ll be able to claim Abigail on my own and make sure everything is taken care of before I head out of town. Then, when I return, we can proceed with the funeral.”
Hunter nodded and flattened her palm against Mercy’s back. With each inhale, her sister trembled like the wind-battered surface of Sugar Creek.
“If you’ll both sign and date the bottom of each of these pages, we can move on to the death certificate and necessary burial permit.” He plucked a pen from the table and offered it to Hunter. “Mercy.” The creases of his forehead deepened as he went on, all the while speaking to the wrong twin. “Take your time. We’re in no rush.”
Hunter snatched the pen from the funeral director’s outstretched hand. “I’m Hunter, not Mercy.” Without reading the pages, she pressed the tip of the pen against the first paper and drew the loops and swishes of her practiced signature so hard the letters imprinted across the other four sheets.
“Apologies, Hunter.” Mr. Parrott cleared his throat and rubbed his palms against his thighs. “You girls wouldn’t happen to have your mother’s birth certificate or know if she created a will, would you?”
Mercy scooted to the edge of the settee and snatched the pen off of the table. “We want Abigail buried at home. Does it say that somewhere in these?” She picked up the pages and shook them. “I won’t sign anything if we can’t have our mother buried at our home.” Mercy’s wide-eyed, panicked gaze swung to Hunter. “I won’t sign these, H. I won’t!” She threw the papers down and they drifted to the floor.
Hunter gripped her sister’s knee. Mercy was sinking, pulled under by the anvil of grief she’d pressed into her heart.
Mr. Parrott swept up the papers and returned them to the table with an undisturbed grace that spoke to his years of handling the bereaved. “I will list the burial location when I file the permit. If there’s an issue, the city will get back to me quickly.”
“There won’t be an issue.” Tears splatted against Mercy’s shirt, darkening the heather gray fabric. “Our family members have been buried at our home for hundreds of years.”
The funeral director clasped his hands and nodded. “They have been, and Abigail will be, too. I’ll make sure of it.”
Hunter picked the pen up off the floor and handed it to Mercy. She met her twin’s eyes and telegraphed the look to her—sending her strength and understanding through their unbreakable bond. “Here, Mag. Let’s sign these and go home.”
Mercy nodded, a short, jerky movement, and wiped her face on her sleeve before taking the pen and signing each of the papers. When she was finished, Hunter wrapped her arm around her sister and helped her to her feet. Hunter needed to do something for Mercy. But the one person she would have gone to for advice was now waiting at the sheriff’s office to be claimed.