“This is not a place for a young girl,” the driver exclaims.
He’s off on the young part. I just turned seventeen. And despite my previous hopes, Dad doesn’t share the cab driver’s, or my, assessment of the situation. “We’ll be fine. Right, Em?”
The driver rotates in his seat, reminding me of a possessed person in one of those horror movies. “Those are bikers.”
In his dark suit, deep blue tie and clean-cut blond hair, my father could be a model on the cover of a business magazine. He screams competence and authority and all that’s good in the world. So the next words cause the driver’s mouth to slacken. “My daughter is a relative.”
While the driver continues to gape in disbelief, I inwardly cringe. I’m related to them. More specifically, I’m most likely related to the men with the patch on the front of their vests stating Mother Chapter. Which, according to Eli, means the founding chapter of their club.
I’m a relative by blood and blood alone. We are not family in the ways that really matter. I may share genetic code with the people inside the building, but that’s where our relationship ends.
Dad and I climb out and the cab backs up, leaving us alone. Well, sort of alone. The side entrance of the funeral home opens and a woman with dark hair hurries out with a toddler on her hip. The baby’s hacking the type of deep coughs that cause chills to run down my spine.
Without missing a beat, Dad starts toward them and I follow. The woman sets the blonde girl with pigtails on the ground and the little thing is a combination of red face, tears and coughs. The woman rummages through her oversized purse, tossing receipts and pens and other crap onto the ground.
“Excuse me,” broaches Dad. “Can I help? I’m a pediatrician.”
The woman’s head jerks up and her eyes have a wild spark. “I can’t find my phone. I need my phone. I can’t get her to take the medicine. I can’t get her to take this.”
She shoves an inhaler into my father’s hand and he reads the prescription. “Asthma?”
The woman nods profusely. “Yes. We have that machine at home with the mask and that works, but this was for emergencies, and she won’t use it.”
Dad gestures to the child, who is now hacking out more air than she’s taking in. “May I?”
“Yes. Please. Help us.”
Dad kneels next to the toddler. With a few calm words and an expression that makes every toddler relax, he has the inhaler in the child’s mouth. It’s not working exactly like it should. I mean, the child is young and doesn’t suck in as much as she needs, but with Dad’s help, she’s inhaling some of the medicine and, more important, she’s no longer crying, but breathing.
The woman strokes the child’s hair as Dad continues to talk to both of them in his calm voice. He peers over his shoulder at me and my chest tightens. “Emily, I want to stay with them. Why don’t you go in, find Eli and pay your respects, and I’ll be in shortly to pay mine.”
I fidget with the purse in my hand, clasping and unclasping the magnetic strip that keeps it closed. Um...no? “I can wait.”
Dad inhales deeply and the disappointment is clear on his face. “Five minutes. That’s it. Find Eli, say hi, tell him we’re sorry for his loss and then we’ll return to the hotel, get your mother and go out to lunch.”
It’s dawning on me that Dad doesn’t want to be here any more than I do and that he’s ready to return to Mom. His words from yesterday as he was trying to explain why he was allowing us to take this hellish trip float in my head: it’s our job to support Mom.
Got it. This is the first time Mom has visited her childhood state in over seventeen years. If we check the “we attended” box then life can return to normal.
Dad excuses himself and walks over to me. “Sorry for snapping, Em. It’s been a rough morning. Go in and pay our respects, and I’ll be in shortly. And so you know, it’s okay if you want to stay longer and talk to Eli.”
Yeah, not going to happen. I pivot away from Dad, tug at the hem of my black dress to confirm nothing rides up and start for the entrance with my purse in hand. I whisper to myself, “No worries.” Even though I have a ton.
As I step closer to the entrance, I hear several conversations at once and someone always seems to be laughing.
“...nothing larger than a 10-gauge...”
“...take a Ford over that foreign crap any day...”
“You lost?”
Everyone stops talking and stares at me. Great. I meet the eyes of the guy that called me out. He’s part of the group, yet not. He doesn’t wear a leather vest like everyone else, but somehow he appears just as dangerous.
The guy leans against the corner of the brick building as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. He’s around my age, has black hair, is definitely ripped and he has suck-me-in blue eyes that wander over my body like he’s seeing me with my clothes off.
I cross an arm over myself and his lips edge up in response. My mom’s warned me about bad boys and I trust that she understands the world here better than I do.
I appraise my black high heels. Nice, they’re scuffed already. “I’m looking for Eli McKinley.”
Smoke rushes out of the mouth of the older man standing beside the guy my age. I’d wager he’s in his sixties and he scares the hell out of me. Well...everyone here frightens me, but him more. While the style here is stepped-out-of-a-trailer-park, he maintains the cliché of 100% pure biker thanks to his black bandanna, black leather vest and gray beard with matching ponytail. I attempt to ignore that his patch states Mother Chapter and President.
He keeps eye contact while taking a drag off his cigarette. “Eli’s inside.”
“Thanks.”
They continue their conversation and I open the door then steal a glimpse over my shoulder. The older man angles his head and his mouth moves as he mumbles something to the guy my age. The guy nods and pushes off the wall. Not wanting to be caught spying, I slip inside and the moment the door shuts behind me, I freeze.
Let’s get one thing straight. I hate funeral homes. Hate. I hate the smell of them. I hate the look of them. I hate the thought of them. Hate. And what I hate more than funeral homes are dead things. Dead bugs. Dead dried-up worms on the sidewalk. Roadkill. And since that ill-fated stroll in the woods at the age of eight when I fell into a hole and spent the night with a corpse, I hate dead people’s bodies.