The Past and Other Things That Should Stay Buried(3)

Mom’s hands explode with motion as she speaks. “You’re wasting your talent!”

“It’s my talent to waste.”

“When it comes to preparing bodies, I’m good, and Dee’s even better, but you could be van Gogh!” There are few things that get my mom’s cold, black heart beating. Concrete Blonde popping up on shuffle, a sale on black boots, a new Anne Rice novel, and talking about my potential.

“Van Gogh was considered a failure and a madman who ultimately took his own life. I’d hardly call him an appropriate role model.”

“Why can’t you be more like your sister?” Mom says.

Speaking of perfect offspring, Delilah waltzes through the kitchen door. She got my mom’s hourglass figure and my dad’s sunny disposition. She’s the optimal genetic mix of our parents. I wish I could hate her for it but . . . Oh, who am I kidding? I totally hate her for it.

“Because then I wouldn’t be me,” I say to Mom, ignoring Dee for the moment. “And aren’t you the one who drilled into us the importance of owning and loving who we are? Well this is me. I eat cereal for dinner, I dress like a slob, and I plan to waste my summer cleaning strangers’ dirty tables.”

Mom clenches her jaw as she slowly stands. She hugs Delilah and says, “I’m going to check on your father. We’ll leave in an hour.”

Dee nods. When Mom is gone, she strips off her white coat, tosses it over the back of the chair, and takes Mom’s place at the table. “Do I want to know what that was about?”

It takes a few seconds for my body to relax and my muscles to unclench. “I’m wasting my potential, blah, blah, blah; I’m a disappointment, etcetera.” I roll my eyes.

“You’re not a disappointment.” Dee frowns, but it’s not a natural expression for her. My sister glided out of the birth canal on a rainbow, armed with an angelic smile that bestows blessings upon anyone fortunate enough to glimpse it. “You wanna talk?”

“I swear to God if one more person asks me if I’m okay or if I need to talk or if I’m upset about July, I’m going to burn this house to the ground.”

“Mental note,” Dee says. “Hide the lighters.”

“I was a Boy Scout; I don’t need a lighter.” I get up, dump the rest of my dinner down the drain, and rinse my bowl in the sink. I flip on the garbage disposal and use the grinding hum to recenter myself and come up with a way to steer the conversation away from my mental state. “You nervous about Mom and Dad meeting Theo’s parents?” I ask when I return to my seat.

Delilah groans and scrubs her face with her hands. “The Kangs are awesome. It’s our parents I’m worried about.”

“Ten bucks Dad brings up skin slippage before the entrées.”

“I’ll murder him if he does.” Dee’s eyes narrow and her lips pucker. She doesn’t get angry often, but I’m familiar with the signs. I consider warning Mom to keep the sharp knives away from my sister, but nah. If Dee stabs them, it’ll be because they deserve it. “Do you remember what Dad told you the first time you asked him why people have to die?”

I frown, trying to recall it. “No.”

She clears her throat and says, “?‘Death is as normal as digestion. People move through life the way food moves through our bodies. Their natural usefulness is extracted along the way to help enrich the world, and when they have nothing left to give, they’re eliminated. Much like our bodies would clog up with excrement if we didn’t defecate, the world would do the same if we didn’t die.’?” Her impression of our father is scarily accurate.

I bust up laughing, which infects Dee, and once she gets started, it turns into a storm of snorting and donkey hee-haws that causes me to completely lose it until we must sound to Mom and Dad upstairs like we’re torturing farm animals. I clutch my side as I stand to get a paper towel to dab the tears from my eyes.

“How did either of us turn out so normal?” Delilah asks. Her cheeks are flush with joy where I just look splotchy.

“Who says we did? You’re a fusion of their weirdest parts, and I have no idea what I’m doing with my life.”

Delilah reaches across the table and rests her hand on mine. “You’ll figure it out, Dino. You always do.” She smiles. “And if you don’t want to work here, don’t.”

“It’s DeLuca and Son’s,” I say.

“Names can be changed.”

I sigh. “It’s going to be weird not having you in the house once you’re married.”

“I won’t be far,” Delilah says. “We’re planning to tell the parents at dinner, but Theo and I closed on a house last week that’s only twenty minutes from here.”

“Great,” I say. “Now I’ll never get rid of you.”

“Probably not.”

“So you’re really marrying Theo, huh?” The Wedding has ruled our lives for the last six months. Not a day goes by when there isn’t something that needs to be decided or tasted or fitted. But Theo’s a cool guy, and he loves my sister, which proves that there really is someone for everyone, even overachieving perfectionists who spend their days with the dead.

Delilah leans back in her chair. “That’s what the invitations say.”