The Past and Other Things That Should Stay Buried(39)

“No, but—”

“Then, let’s do this.” I move toward the gurney and hop up.

“Wait,” Dino says.

“Look, whatever sappy bullshit you’re going to say, save it for my funeral. Bury our past with me and let it stay buried.”

Dino shakes his head. “I was going to ask you to get undressed first.”

“Oh. Fine. Definitely don’t want you doing it for me.”

“Trust me. There’s nothing I want to see less than your naked body.” Dino tosses me the sheet I’d woken up covered in and then turns around without being asked.

I shimmy out of my clothes, folding each piece and setting it aside. “Why, because girls are icky?”

“No, because I kind of loathe you. Also, you’re like a sister, and no one wants to see their sister naked.”

I finish getting undressed. My brain understands that the temperature is lower, and part of me recognizes that I should be cold and shivering, but there’s a disconnect between my brain and body. It wasn’t this noticeable when I first woke up; the longer I’m not-dead, the less I feel.

I climb onto the gurney and lie down. “Done.”

Dino turns back around. I expect him to wheel me into the freezer so he can be done with me, but he goes to one of the cabinets and gets some supplies.

“What’re you doing?”

“I have to fix your thumb so my parents don’t notice that your skin tore off.”

“Oh.” I lie there thinking about what I’m doing while Dino smears what looks like spackle around the edges of the tear. This is the best option. I died. Fate or God or the natural order of the universe decided it was time for me to die. If I was meant to live, Dr. Larsen would have found the weak blood vessel in my brain when Momma took me to see her for my migraines and she did a million different scans and tests. This, what’s happening to me, isn’t natural. If there’s one lesson I’ve learned tonight, it’s that no good comes of trying to bring back what’s dead.

“That should be good enough.”

I hold up my thumb. I wouldn’t know my skin had slipped off if it hadn’t been my skin that had slipped off. “You really are kind of talented at this.”

“So everyone keeps saying.” Dino motions at it. “Try not to move your thumb. Like, at all.” He stands by the freezer. “You certain about this?”

I stretch out my arms and fake a yawn. “If it means not having to see your face again, then I’m definitely ready.”

Dino opens the door and the first thing I see is another body covered by a sheet.

“Hell no,” I say. “I ordered a single room. No way I’m sharing freezer space with some other corpse.”

“Mr. Alire,” Dino says.

“I don’t give a shit who it is.”

“The lights will go off when I close the door,” Dino says, “so you won’t even see him.”

“You think that makes it better?”

Dino lets the door shut. The lock clicks into place. “I can leave you out here, and you can wheel yourself into the freezer when you’re ready.”

As if I’m ever going to be ready to sleep next to some dead old dude. But I nod anyway. “Yeah. Fine.”

“Okay,” Dino says. “So, I guess this is good-bye.”

“Later.”

“If this doesn’t work—”

“We’ll tell someone. Your parents or mine.”

“Promise?”

“Oh my God, will you leave already?”

Dino holds up his hands and heads for the door.

Now that he’s actually leaving, I’m not so sure I want him to. Every doubt I have rushes in to fill the space he’s vacating. I don’t know if this ridiculous plan of mine—which, if I’m being honest, isn’t much of a plan—will work, and if it does, then I’ll die alone, and no one should have to die alone. But if he doesn’t go, I’m afraid this won’t work. There are so many things I want to say to him, but the only word I manage to spit out is, “Slurpees.”

Dino stops and turns around. “What?”

“That’s what I went to 7-Eleven for. Slurpees.”

He pauses. “Yeah. That machine’s always broken. You should’ve gone to the one off Central.” He leaves and shuts the door behind him.





DINO

FUNERALS AREN’T FOR THE DEAD. Despite July’s protestations, the dead don’t actually care what outfit they’re buried in. They don’t care what kind of coffin they’re resting in when they’re lowered into the ground. The dead don’t care about the font or size of the lettering on their headstones, or even what their headstones say. Those are concerns for the living. For the people left behind. Funerals are our last opportunity to show the world how much we cared about the person who died.

Over the years I’ve witnessed quite a few funerals, and my “favorites” were the ones where it seemed like the people left behind were competing to see who could grieve the loudest. I’m not saying that they were faking, but grief isn’t loud. Grief is quiet. Grief is a strangled cry. Tears we hide. A scream in a vacuum where sound doesn’t carry. And though we try to share it, grief is ultimately a burden each of us must carry alone.