eyes and take a step back.
“But it’s not mine,” I say quietly. “It belonged to your daughter.” Sometimes parents become confused, and part of my job is to keep them grounded in reality. Martha sits on the couch, staring toward the window with a calmed expression, but I worry that Alan is having an emotional breakdown.
“You’re right,” he says sadly. “But Emily isn’t coming home.” He holds up the shirt. “If this is still being worn, in a way, her spirit will be out there. She’ll still be part of the world.”
“I really shouldn’t,” I say, although if I’m honest, that T-shirt was my favorite part of this assignment. But we’re not supposed to keep artifacts of the dead. It opens up the possibility of lawsuits against the entire grief department, claims of unprofessionalism.
“Please,” he murmurs. “I think she would have really liked you.”
It’s just a shirt, I think. No one’s ever been fired over a shirt. I reluctantly take the fabric from his hand, and Alan’s face twists in a flash of pain. Impulsively, I lean in and kiss his cheek.
“Emily was a lucky girl,” I whisper close to his ear. And then, without waiting to see his expression, I turn and walk out of Emily Pinnacle’s house.
• • •
The night air is heavy with moisture as I step onto the wooden slats of the front porch; cool rainy wind blows against my face. The headlights of a car parked down the road flick on, and my muscles relax. I’m glad I won’t be hanging around for a ride; Aaron usually sucks at being on time. I reach into my hair and begin to remove the extensions, unclipping them and then shoving them into the bag on my shoulder, where I stuffed the Rolling Stones T-shirt.
The car pulls up, and I hold my backpack over my head to protect myself from the rain. I throw one more glance back at the house, glad neither parent is looking out the window. I hate to break the illusion for them; it’s like seeing a teacher at the grocery store or a theme-park character without its oversize head.
I open the car door and drop onto the passenger seat of a shiny black Cadillac. It reeks of leather and coconut air freshener. I turn sideways, lifting my eyebrows the minute I take in Aaron’s appearance. I pretend to check my nonexistent watch. “And who are you supposed to be?” I ask.
Aaron smiles. “I’m me again,” he says. “It was a long drive. I didn’t have time to change clothes.”
This was one of those rare moments where Aaron and I were on assignment at the same time—a mostly avoided conflict. It was probably a good thing that I was running late tonight. I scan my friend’s outfit, holding back the laugh waiting in my gut. He’s wearing a dark brown corduroy jacket with a striped button-down shirt underneath. Although Aaron’s barely nineteen, he’s dressed like an eighty-year-old professor. Sensing my impending reaction, he steps on the gas pedal and speeds us down the street.
“Twenty-three-year-old law student,” he explains, turning up the volume on the stereo. “But his real love was math.” He shoots me a pointed look as if it sums up his assignment completely. “The counselors are really pushing my age, right?” he asks. “Must be this sweet beard.” He strokes his facial hair and I scrunch up my nose.
“Gross,” I say. “You’re lucky Oregon celebrates its facial hair; otherwise you’d be out of work.” Aaron’s smooth, dark skin disappears every No Shave November, but that ended five months ago. I’m partners with a Sasquatch. “When are you getting rid of that thing?” I ask.
“Um, never,” he says, like it’s the obvious answer. “I’m looking fine, girl.”
I laugh and flip down the passenger-side mirror. The light clicks on, harsh on my heavy makeup. I comb my fingers through my still-red shoulder-length strands. Emily’s hair was ridiculously long, so I had to wear itchy extensions. I’m glad to be rid of them.
“Too bad,” Aaron
“But it’s not mine,” I say quietly. “It belonged to your daughter.” Sometimes parents become confused, and part of my job is to keep them grounded in reality. Martha sits on the couch, staring toward the window with a calmed expression, but I worry that Alan is having an emotional breakdown.
“You’re right,” he says sadly. “But Emily isn’t coming home.” He holds up the shirt. “If this is still being worn, in a way, her spirit will be out there. She’ll still be part of the world.”
“I really shouldn’t,” I say, although if I’m honest, that T-shirt was my favorite part of this assignment. But we’re not supposed to keep artifacts of the dead. It opens up the possibility of lawsuits against the entire grief department, claims of unprofessionalism.
“Please,” he murmurs. “I think she would have really liked you.”
It’s just a shirt, I think. No one’s ever been fired over a shirt. I reluctantly take the fabric from his hand, and Alan’s face twists in a flash of pain. Impulsively, I lean in and kiss his cheek.
“Emily was a lucky girl,” I whisper close to his ear. And then, without waiting to see his expression, I turn and walk out of Emily Pinnacle’s house.
• • •
The night air is heavy with moisture as I step onto the wooden slats of the front porch; cool rainy wind blows against my face. The headlights of a car parked down the road flick on, and my muscles relax. I’m glad I won’t be hanging around for a ride; Aaron usually sucks at being on time. I reach into my hair and begin to remove the extensions, unclipping them and then shoving them into the bag on my shoulder, where I stuffed the Rolling Stones T-shirt.
The car pulls up, and I hold my backpack over my head to protect myself from the rain. I throw one more glance back at the house, glad neither parent is looking out the window. I hate to break the illusion for them; it’s like seeing a teacher at the grocery store or a theme-park character without its oversize head.
I open the car door and drop onto the passenger seat of a shiny black Cadillac. It reeks of leather and coconut air freshener. I turn sideways, lifting my eyebrows the minute I take in Aaron’s appearance. I pretend to check my nonexistent watch. “And who are you supposed to be?” I ask.
Aaron smiles. “I’m me again,” he says. “It was a long drive. I didn’t have time to change clothes.”
This was one of those rare moments where Aaron and I were on assignment at the same time—a mostly avoided conflict. It was probably a good thing that I was running late tonight. I scan my friend’s outfit, holding back the laugh waiting in my gut. He’s wearing a dark brown corduroy jacket with a striped button-down shirt underneath. Although Aaron’s barely nineteen, he’s dressed like an eighty-year-old professor. Sensing my impending reaction, he steps on the gas pedal and speeds us down the street.
“Twenty-three-year-old law student,” he explains, turning up the volume on the stereo. “But his real love was math.” He shoots me a pointed look as if it sums up his assignment completely. “The counselors are really pushing my age, right?” he asks. “Must be this sweet beard.” He strokes his facial hair and I scrunch up my nose.
“Gross,” I say. “You’re lucky Oregon celebrates its facial hair; otherwise you’d be out of work.” Aaron’s smooth, dark skin disappears every No Shave November, but that ended five months ago. I’m partners with a Sasquatch. “When are you getting rid of that thing?” I ask.
“Um, never,” he says, like it’s the obvious answer. “I’m looking fine, girl.”
I laugh and flip down the passenger-side mirror. The light clicks on, harsh on my heavy makeup. I comb my fingers through my still-red shoulder-length strands. Emily’s hair was ridiculously long, so I had to wear itchy extensions. I’m glad to be rid of them.
“Too bad,” Aaron
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