What research? If I leaned much closer I’d fall through the door, but I was on high alert. This is what I needed to know. Robert Killiam had been a doctor. Might he have done something valuable if he’d lived? Critical? I couldn’t change anything for him. But maybe I could for the next one.
“You know you’re dead meat if my father or Mr. Ludwig finds you here.”
I almost screamed I was so startled by Ryan’s whisper, soft against my ear, but he’d anticipated that, slipping a hand gently over my mouth. He was close behind me, his chest against my back, and I could feel his warmth, smell fresh soap on his skin.
“I’m going to let go of you,” he whispered, “and we’re going to walk to the prep room. Be quiet.”
I nodded and he released me. My heart was thudding with the fear of having been caught and, strangely, something else. I hadn’t been so close to anyone, touched like that, since Jack. Ryan looked nothing like him, but the way his arms felt wrapped around me was too much of a reminder. It hurt.
Ryan took my hand, his grip firm and gentle at the same time. He studied my eyes for a second as we stood less than a foot apart, then he turned and led me silently down the hall. Neither of us spoke until the prep room door closed behind us.
“What’s up with you?” Ryan leaned against the steel table in the center of the room, facing me, his arms crossed. I stood by the door, absently rubbing my hand, still warm from being in his.
I’d been trying to think of an explanation, but the hall is only about twenty feet long—way too short to come up with something good. I shrugged, moved to a nearby counter. It occurred to me that Ryan would probably tell his dad and I’d probably get fired. That would suck because, aside from hoping to learn something, I actually liked working there.
“Really, Cassie,” he said. “I’ve been watching you and something’s off. It’s like you’ve got some kind of … I don’t know … sick fascination with death.”
“No, it’s not that.”
“It’s not? What is it, then?”
“It’s … I’m …” I wasn’t sure how to answer, but fired or not, I didn’t want him to think I was a freak. “I’m just trying to learn about it,” I said.
Ryan looked skeptical. “What do you mean? Learn what?”
I bit my lip, trying to phrase the truth carefully. “People believe such different things about death, you know? Where do we go? How does it affect the people left behind? What if …” I paused, making sure it sounded okay. “What if someone didn’t die when they did? Like that guy out there, Dr. Killiam. How would things have been different for his family or, I don’t know, the world even, if he were still alive?”
I held my breath, waiting for Ryan’s reaction. He just stared, making my ears and face warm. Maybe they are bedroom eyes, I thought.
“That’s pretty deep,” he said finally.
I shrugged. “I’m not perverse or anything. Really. And I promise I won’t do it again if you …”
Ryan held up his hand. “I’m not going to tell my dad. But seriously, Cassie, you can’t do that … spy on the wake. You would have scared the crap out of my dad or Mr. Ludwig if they came through there. What if they yelled? How do you think the family would have felt?”
“Yeah, I know.”
Ryan walked closer, stopping by the counter perpendicular to mine. He wasn’t tall but he looked strong, his body lean, like a mountain biker or rock climber, with solid, tanned arms, even in winter. “So what have you learned so far?”
“Excuse me?” I was still thinking about his arms.
“In your studies here,” Ryan said, his gaze direct and amused. “What have you learned?”
“Well …” I thought for a few seconds. “I’ve learned that the body is just a body.” I met his eyes, feeling like I needed to prove something. “A vessel. People look different when they’re dead. No matter how well Mr. Ludwig sets the features or Victoria does the makeup, it’s never quite right because the thing that animates them is missing,” I said. “The soul or essence or whatever.”
Ryan raised his eyebrows, looking at me speculatively. “Maybe … but you know Mr. Ludwig and Victoria work from the outside, not in.”
“What do you mean?”
“Think about the stuff we do: using cotton to make the earlobes hang right and the cheeks look round, molding the lips to the right fullness and width,” Ryan said. “We can use pictures and the body’s clues—like where the lips change texture and color—to set the features, but we can’t replicate the body’s quirks. When people are alive, their brain directs muscles to work a certain way and produce a certain look.”
“Huh.” That had never occurred to me. I spoke slowly, considering it. “So you think the difference in how they look is totally anatomical and not about the soul leaving the body?”
“It’s possible. They might look different for very basic, scientific reasons,” Ryan answered, deftly hoisting himself up to sit on the counter. “Have you learned anything else?”
I was still leaning and probably too short to do what Ryan had done with any grace, so I stayed put. “I’ve learned that very few people are ready for death. Except maybe the very old or sick,” I added, thinking of the man on the bench in Chicago.
Ryan nodded.
“What I’ve been thinking about a lot lately is the people left behind,” I told him. “I mean, what we do here is really about them, right?”
“Of course. Undertaking is for the living,” Ryan answered. “We help them say good-bye.”
Something about the way he said it made me look at him more carefully, feeling like we’d moved beyond intellectual sparring to a place more personal. “Have you ever lost anyone close to you?” I asked softly. The question was both too forward and anticipated. I could read the answer on his face even before I asked it.
Ryan nodded. “My mom.” He said it without averting his eyes or trying to hide the shadow that passed over them. “She died when I was eleven. Cancer. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to deal with.”
I nodded.
“I know you’ve been through it, too,” he said. “I’m sure you understand.”
“I do.” We were silent for a moment and I thought, this isn’t how I’d pegged Ryan at all. Maybe I should have. I don’t think you can be in this business without a great deal of sensitivity. “I wonder about them,” I said finally. “My parents, my grandmother.” Mr. McKenzie who got hit by a car, the girl who jumped in New York, Walter Ness. All the people whose deaths I’d had a hand in. “What do you think happens to people when they die?”