As Bright as Heaven(15)

I nod.

“All of the things in here are used to make it seem that the dead person has just fallen asleep in this world and will shortly wake in the next. People have an easier time saying their farewells that way.”

“But you already told us that. What is all this stuff for? Why do you need it?”

“Well, let’s see,” he says.

We step close to the cupboard, and I can see now that the tubes and bottles and tins look more like theater cosmetics than stuff in a doctor’s office. Papa picks up a container and opens it. There is waxy paste the color of flesh inside.

“Sometimes when people die it’s because they got hurt,” Papa says. “It’s too hard to look at those who got hurt so badly they died. So, Uncle Fred uses this restorative wax and the other things here to cover up injuries.”

I pick up a little roundish stick with funny metal loops at either end.

“That’s a modeling tool. For shaping the wax.”

I point to a little brown box labeled Eye Caps.

“Uncle Fred puts those under the eyelids. To keep their eyes closed.”

I look up at Papa, imagining someone’s eyes popping open after they’re dead. “Why don’t they stay closed?”

“There are a lot of things about the body that start to change when a person dies and the soul leaves.”

“It starts to rot,” I say, and I don’t know why I say it, because it makes me shudder.

He reaches out to touch my shoulder.

“What’s in there?” I say quickly, pointing to the tall, shiny tank. The funny smell is coming from it; that’s certain. I can’t remember the word Evie said for what is inside it.

“That’s the embalming fluid. It goes into the body to make it look good for just a little while longer so that everybody can gather to say good-bye. It can be dangerous to work with if you’re not being careful, though. That’s why Uncle Fred says this room is off-limits.”

“Why is it up so high?”

“Gravity helps the fluid get inside the body.”

“You have to cut the people to put that little hose in, don’t you?”

“Just a little cut, Maggie. Uncle Fred fixes it when he’s done. You can’t even tell.”

Somehow I know right then the other tank is for taking out the blood to make room for the special liquid. Farm. Farm . . .

I will have to ask Evie later to tell me again what it is.

And then I ask Papa the question he probably knows is the real reason I’m in the embalming room. “Did someone do that to Henry?”

Papa puts his arm around me. “No. We didn’t need to wait to say good-bye. Everyone who loved Henry was right there. And he already looked perfect, so nobody had to fix him. Remember?”

Of course I remember. Does he really think I’ve forgotten? This is a room for dead people who need to look like they are only napping.

“Is Uncle Fred mad at me for being in here?” I ask.

“He doesn’t know.”

So Evie only told Papa, no one else. She must have whispered it in his ear.

We are quiet for a minute or two. “Is Mama going to do their hair?” I finally say, for she had told me she’d asked Uncle Fred if she could. It didn’t strike me as curious when she first said it, but now that I know more about this room, I’m wondering why she wants to. Mama seems different here in Philadelphia. Happier, if that’s possible, and that seems strange to me because we’re here without Henry, and Quakertown—where he’s buried—is so many miles away. This is the strangest room in the world to want to be in.

“I think so,” Papa replies.

“Why does she want to?”

Papa shrugs. “Sometimes we need things to do to keep our mind off other things.”

“Things that make us mad.”

“Or sad. Yes.”

Mama doesn’t seem mad or sad to me, but she does seem like something. But not mad. Not sad. Something else.

“Can I help her in here sometimes?” I ask.

Papa stares at me for a moment. “What for?”

“I want to help her. Hand her the curling rods. The lipstick. That kind of thing.” That’s what I tell him, but really, I just want to be near Mama. I want to know why she’s such a strange kind of happy. Although happy isn’t the right word. I don’t know what the right word is.

He is quiet for a moment, no doubt thinking the same thing I just was. This room is a weird one to want to be in. But it’s not all bad, what happens in this room. I think it’s mostly good. Ugly is made pretty again. Isn’t that a good thing?

“I just want to help her,” I say. “I’m not afraid of the bodies. And I won’t touch anything I’m not supposed to.”

“I’ll need to think about it,” he says, in a way that sounds more like no than yes. “Come. Let’s both get back to what we were supposed to be doing, hmm?”

I ask him as we turn to leave what embalming means and he says it got its name from balm, a sweet ointment that makes a wound feel better. Like in the hymn. The Balm of Gilead. A balm that heals the wounded soul.

“Then why does this room smell so bad?” I ask as we step across the threshold and into the sweeter air of the hallway.

And Papa says he doesn’t know.