Good Mourning by Elizabeth Meyer Read Free Book Online

gurney, took off his hat, and simply said, “I am Bill from the funeral home, and this is my associate Elizabeth. Please accept our condolences. Would you mind directing us to the appropriate room?”
    The butler led the way through the grand foyer and down a long, wide hallway. The apartment had the feel of a museum—grand and formal, perhaps like the person who lived there. My heels click-clacked down the hall until we entered a bedroom bigger than many New York City apartments, with ten-foot windows overlooking Central Park. Next to a four-poster bed was a hospital bed—they are commonly brought into homes during hospice care—and in that bed was an old man in blue herringbone pajamas. He looked peaceful, like he was still sleeping, and I instantly felt comforted by the reminder that death—at least the looks of it—wasn’t nearly as scary as it was made out to be on TV and in movies. At least not for most people.
    Bill went right to work pushing the gurney next to the bed and pulling out a body bag. He requested that the butler leave the room, because nobody should have to watch someone they knew and cared for be stuffed into a plastic bag. Once the coast was clear, Bill turned to me and said, “Okay, are you ready for this? It’s a piece of cake. Lucky for you, you have the best possible teacher.” I looked hard atBill as he rattled off the rest of the instructions: He would count to three, and then we’d hoist the sheet under the body, lifting the corpse into the bag that was already open on the gurney. Bill would hold the upper half, and I would take the legs. I felt nervous as I moved to the end of the bed and gripped the sheet, but I gave Bill an approving nod. There was no taking this back. I was doing this removal.
    The man was heavier than he looked (the term “deadweight” is no joke). My arms shook as I pulled up the lower corners of the sheet and shifted my weight from my left leg to my right. It was a relief to have the body safely in one piece, on the gurney, ready for transport. I was feeling pretty awesome about successfully completing my first removal, when I looked down at my feet. My $600 Gucci heels, the suede ones that Monica had scoffed at earlier in the day, were covered in a brownish fluid.
    â€œOh my God,” I said, lifting up my left foot.
    Bill surveyed the damage and shrugged. “Gotta watch out for that. They leak,” he said, before putting his hat back on and leading the gurney out the door.
    The doorman was waiting for us in the lobby and gave us the go-ahead so that we could move through with as few people seeing as possible. Bill wheeled the gurney, body bag on top, onto a platform on the back of the van, which lifted with a flip of a switch. Then he closed the doors, slipped off the gloves, and got back in the driver’s seat. I was still sulking about my shoes on the inside, but I badly wanted to impress Bill now that I had seen him in action and wouldn’t dare complain.
    On the ride back to Crawford, I heard a thud-thud-thud sound coming from the back of the van. I felt like the guy we had just picked up, a little blue in the face and dripping God knows what fluids from orifices I was trying to block from my mind, was knocking at us, like, Hey, assholes, the least you could have done is strap me in .
    â€œWhat is that?” I asked, the thud sound ringing louder and louder as we drove back over the potholes. I looked down at my stained shoes and wondered if this whole thing was maybe a big, messy mistake.
    â€œThat?” Bill said, pointing behind him.
    I nodded.
    â€œThe gurney bangs up against the divider,” he said with a shrug. “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.”

    BY THE TIME I got back to my apartment that night, I was too tired to make dinner, so I pulled a pint of chocolate froyo out of the freezer and collapsed onto my couch. My whole body hurt—never again would I wear