Page 5 of His to Haunt
“This…is an elevator,” she explains.
I cock a confused brow. Not what I was expecting her to say.
“But, it’s…so low and narrow,” says Mom.
“Yes, well, it’s for caskets. Lowers them to the embalming room,” Stacy says matter-of-factly.
“Oh. Is that located in…the basement?” I ask, the vision of a hand painstakingly applying makeup to cold, ashen skin coming to mind.
She shuts the door. “Yes. Beneath the house.”
I sigh with a nod. Down there means out of sight, out of mind. I can’t imagine having to clean and decorate a former embalming room. I may lock off this closet altogether. The idea that something could ride up from the pitch-black bowels is unsettling. A zombified disease-carrying rat, for instance.
“So you know, a couple of the bedrooms on this floor were used as viewing rooms.”
She pauses, waiting for me to get her meaning.
“Oh, I see. To view the bodies,” I mutter.
“Mm-hm,” she says, turning.
We follow her as she opens doors along the hallway, peeking in.
“Most of the bedrooms are upstairs. One of the rooms has a trap door built into the floor—another casket lift. You can decide what you want to do with it. Also, there is a seasonal attic. But…of course, I can understand why you may not want to go up there just yet.”
We stop just outside a doorway, and Mom and I look at each other, confused.
“Why not?” I shrug.
Stacy blinks at me. “Oh, um. I’m…sorry. Well, the attic is where…Rachel...”
Mom gasps, startling me. “My Rachel wouldn’t try to hang herself. It’s a lie.”
Stacey’s eyes widen, stunned. She darts her gaze at me, and all I can do is shrug.
“I…uh…” she stammers. The moment goes awkwardly quiet.
I’d forgotten about the supposed attempted suicide. Mom had mentioned it a few months ago.
“She’ll probably be back in time for dinner. Why don’t you join us?” adds Mom, deepening the pit of awkwardness by several feet.
Stacy’s jaw slackens, a stupefied expression on her face. But I can say nothing to make this less awkward, to make Stacy feel less befuddled, or for Mom to feel saner. I can’t blame this on dementia aloud. Mom would deny it, then hate me for embarrassing her.
“Did you know Rachel well?” I ask Stacy, feeling pressure to at least say something.
She smiles. “I remember when she first came here. Just a teen. I’ve been the estate handler for some time, you see.” She sighs. “I…wish I could stay longer. How about I check in next week, and we can chat more?”
I nod at her. “Of course, yes.”
“Oh,” she says, pulling a big manila envelope from her large Louis Vuitton tote bag. “Rachel wanted me to hand this to you directly. I slipped some photos and history about the house inthere. I…tried and failed to get pics of the basement as she requested.”
I’m about to ask her why when a high-pitched meow rises, and I turn toward the twin black cats jogging up the hall, tails in the air.
“Oh, I meant to tell you about the cats,” offers Stacy. “Sorry about that. If you don’t want them, Zand says that he will take them. Just…let him know.”
I bend to pet one as it throws itself against my leg, nuzzling its head into my calf.
“Hey there, kitty.”