The Mortician’s Daughter

by Nan Higgins

  About three-quarters of the way through the service, it was time. I stood to the side and just in front of the piano, and as my mom began to play, the lights dimmed and a slideshow of the deceased played on the screen behind the casket. I began to sing, and even though it was in a dark room behind a bunch of mourners instead of in the spotlight onstage in front of hundreds or thousands of people, the same thing happened that had happened every time I sang. My blood pulsed through my body, and I had goose bumps all over. My voice, strong and clear, filled the room, and I felt alive. When I finished, it was to the sound of loud sniffles and people blowing their noses rather than applause. I sat and nodded at a few people who looked over their shoulders to smile and mouth, “Thank you.”

  I’d wondered whether the prior was in attendance and had been scanning the room for her since I sat. I saw no sign. Over to the left, something in the doorway caught my eye, and when the lights came back up, I saw Sloane leaning there, resting her head on the door frame. She smiled and mimed clapping. I was overwhelmed at how glad I was to see her and how happy it made me that she hadn’t listened when I told her not to stay. My heart felt too big for my chest, as if it expanded to make room for this sudden rush of giddiness.

  A few minutes later, when I looked back, she was gone. I went home, and while I sat at the table eating an apple, I pulled my phone out and saw a text from her.

  Your voice is heaven.

  I typed a thank-you and hugged myself. I realized that she was becoming more than just a crush. I cared about her, and I thought she cared about me too. My phone vibrated, and I picked it up, expecting to see another text, but instead found a confirmation from Greyhound with an itinerary for my trip in two days. Not for the first time that day, I had doubts about my plans to leave. California held all my dreams, everything I’d worked for my whole life. Columbus held death. That was what I’d thought when I bought my ticket. The events of today made me realize it wasn’t that simple, and now I didn’t know what I was going to do.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I woke up shivering before my alarm went off the next morning and lay in bed, letting my eyes adjust to the early morning darkness. At some point in the night, I’d kicked my blanket to the floor. When I reached to grab it, my eyes went to a pair of shoes in the corner that weren’t mine. I rubbed my eyes and squinted; the shoes were attached to a person. I tried to scream but could only let out gasping breaths.

  Mrs. Braverman stepped out of the shadows, and I snatched my blanket from the floor and wrapped it around me. Terror gripped me with icy fingers, and I shook even as I scrambled toward the head of my bed. I tried to tell myself she couldn’t hurt me and to stay calm, but I was anything but calm. A ghost in my room was worse than any nightmare I’d ever had.

  “I tried to wait until you were awake. I must speak to you.” She sat on the edge of my bed, and I pulled the blanket more tightly around my shoulders.

  “My transfer keeps getting delayed,” she said. “It’s not right. I didn’t do what they said I did. I didn’t do it.” Her voice was hoarse like mine got when I hadn’t gotten enough sleep.

  “What do they say you did?” I asked, fighting to keep my teeth from chattering. “And who is they?”

  “They say I murdered my husband,” she whispered. “Sol died of a heart attack. I had an autopsy performed because it happened so suddenly.” She took a shaky breath, and I started thinking about why ghosts would need to breathe at all. “You don’t know the things they’re making me do for my dominion service. Simply horrifying.”

  “Clara, I’m so, so sorry you’re going through this, but I don’t know what I would even be able to do for you. I’m less than a week into my training. I’m just barely getting into the basics of what all this is about. I don’t have the power or knowledge to help you. Maybe my father—”

  “No!” She grasped my wrist, and a surge of pain flowed from my spine up into my brain. I cried out and grabbed my head. Before either of us could say anything else, black waves flowed over my field of vision, and I faded into unconsciousness.

  * * *

  “Are you okay?” Sloane paused to look at me before making her way into our classroom.

  I hadn’t gained consciousness this morning until hours later, when my alarm went off. When I went to turn it off, I saw it had been ringing for almost fifteen minutes. The stabbing sensation was gone, but what was left was throbbing pain that made me acutely aware of every beat of my pulse. I gazed around my room, looking for Clara in every corner. When I finally got out of bed, I’d kept my comforter wrapped around my shoulders. I knew it gave me no real protection but needed that false sense of security to help get me moving. The terror had grown and deepened as every drop of blood, every muscle, every bone in my body felt tense and strained with the weight of Mrs. Braverman’s visit and the belief that I would never feel safe again.

  I had rummaged through my drawers and pulled out the first articles of clothing my hands landed on, which turned out to be a pale blue tank top and orange shorts. I dressed without showering, and when I brushed my teeth, I started at my reflection. Bluish, bruise-like half moons sat under my eyes, and I’d never been so pale.

  “Rough night,” I said.

  “We can cancel our study date if you’re not up for it.”

  “No. Let’s study.” I’d decided I needed to tell someone what was happening with Mrs. Braverman, and for whatever reason, she was adamant I not tell my father. That meant I couldn’t tell Nick either because word would make its way back to Dad. “Can we still go to your house?”

  “Sure. You’re sure you’re feeling up to it?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Good morning.” Nick handed sheets of paper to us on his way to his desk. “Happy Friday. You good, Aria?”

  “Headache.”

  “Sometimes the residuals of a phantom frost take a while to shake,” he said.

  “I think that’s what it is.” I didn’t feel great about lying to him, but I didn’t have it in me to give it a lot of thought at the moment.

  “Well, we will be taking it easy today,” he said. “I made some notes on the things we saw and discussed yesterday. Let’s talk about the tour; you two can ask me any questions, and then I’ll let you go home, and you won’t have to think about ghosts again for a couple days.”

  “Sounds good.” I didn’t look at the notes he’d given us; I couldn’t bear to try to make sense of the letters.

  “What questions do you have?” He took his place on the edge of his desk. I hadn’t actually seen him sit in his chair yet.

  “Can we talk about the court proceedings?” Sloane asked.

  “Sure. What do you want to know?”

  “The man whose hearing we saw had been charged with emotional embezzlement. What is that, and why was he being punished for it?”

  Nick walked to the blackboard. “There are two types of crimes we manage in our court system. The first kind is earthly, and those are the crimes for which human courts do have punishments. When those kinds of issues are adjudicated at AfterCorps, it means that the prior either didn’t get caught in life or that they did, but the punishment didn’t suit the crime. This happens quite often with rapists, for example, who tend to have very light sentences compared to the damage they cause.

  “The second kind of crime is an unearthly one. Those are the crimes for which people aren’t prosecuted here in the United States but are severe enough that they keep priors from moving on. Emotional embezzlement is a perfect example of this.”

  Under the heading “Unearthly Crimes,” Nick wrote “Emotional Embezzlement.”

  “Jack Dugan had a string of four relationships in which he was emotionally abusive to his partners. He made them feel terrible about themselves, gave them feelings of worthlessness, and then leveraged their pain into power over them, always making them question themselves, question what he was doing to them. The common term regs use for it is ‘gaslighting,’ and it’s a relatively recent topic of
mainstream discussion. It’s been a crime punishable by the AfterCorps court system since our organization was established.”

  “Who established the court system?” I asked.

  “Your great-great-grandfather. Myron Jasper revolutionized interpretership in so many ways—the most significant, in my opinion, is that he modeled what we do after an earthly system of checks and balances that was already in place. It’s given interpreters a foundation to build our skills on, with guidelines that make sense to us. Before Myron, there were no clear-cut procedures, and interpreters were left to figure things out based on whatever information had been passed down to them. He spent his life researching different rituals and practices performed by hundreds of interpreters and streamlined them into something solid and practical.”

  “And priors are punished with dominion service, which I’m guessing is like community service?” Sloane asked.

  “Sort of. It’s imperative that we create a punishment that fits the crime. It’s the only way to achieve the kind of balance that allows priors to start out in the afterworld with a clean slate.”

  “What was Jack Dugan’s punishment?” I asked.

  “He had to shadow a reg who was being emotionally abused and gaslit. He existed with a woman who was going through an excruciating relationship and went through every emotion along with her, never leaving her side throughout dominion service and taking on a portion of the emotional ramifications. It’s a punishment to have to go through that, and it is a service, as well. The reg he shadowed never knew he was there, of course, but she didn’t have to bear the entire brunt of the abuse.”

  I didn’t know what to say, and I guessed Sloane didn’t either because she remained silent. On one hand, it seemed awesome that there were punishments for the kinds of crimes for which nobody seemed to suffer when they were alive. On the other, I couldn’t help but think of Clara, who seemed an example of a judicial system that was failing. My head throbbed more intensely when I considered her and my own messy situation for which I had no answers.

  “Other questions?” Nick asked.

  “How does the chief of transfers lose their eyesight?” I asked. “And who made that rule?”

  “Only your father and the COT know that. What else?”

  Frustration flared in me. I’d had to fight for every shred of information about interpreting and AfterCorps, and most of what I learned only opened up dozens more questions. Nick was more forthright than my father, but even he seemed guarded about what and how much to share. How were Sloane and I supposed to prepare ourselves for whatever lay ahead when the whole system was set up as a game for which the rules constantly changed?

  “Is there anything that will help Aria get over her phantom frost headache?” Sloane asked, and my heart filled with gratitude.

  “Heat helps a little. A hot shower does wonders, or if that’s not available, a warm washcloth.”

  The one day I skipped a shower.

  * * *

  “I’ll drive,” Sloane said. “I can bring you back for your car when we’re done.”

  I didn’t feel well enough to argue, so I let her guide me to her car and dropped into the passenger seat when she opened the door. Moments after she started driving, I fell asleep. I woke to her resting her hand on my wrist where Clara Braverman had grasped it, and I jumped.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to scare you. We’re home.”

  I looked around groggily, got out of the car, and followed her inside.

  “Sit here.” She pointed to the couch. “You can lie down if you want. I’ll be right back.”

  I didn’t want to lie on Sloane’s couch, and I didn’t want to be a mess in front of her, but it couldn’t be helped. I stretched out on the lumpy couch and closed my eyes. I didn’t think I’d fall asleep again, but I woke to a damp warmth on my head. Sloane was kneeling on the floor beside me, holding a washcloth to my face. I felt the edges of my headache begin to smooth out and soften.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “No thanks needed. Just rest for a while. I’ll keep the warm washcloths coming.”

  “You don’t have to do that.” I began to sit up.

  She cupped my chin with her free hand. “Rest. Please.”

  The “please” did me in, and I set my head back down. I slept for several hours, waking only when Sloane placed a newly warmed washcloth on my head. Finally, I opened my eyes. The pain had mostly subsided, and I was able to take a look around. Sloane sat on the floor a few feet away, reading our textbook. She looked up when she saw me and came over.

  “How are you feeling, champ?” she asked.

  “Better, thanks to you.”

  She smiled and took my hand to help me sit up. My mouth was very dry. “Could I have some water?” I asked.

  “Sure.” She was gone only moments before returning with a bottle of cold water. I drank the entire thing within minutes. I was starting to feel more human again.

  “Hopefully, you’ll be good as new before you know it,” she said. Her gray eyes darkened. “Aria?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What’s going on with you? Is this really a phantom frost headache from yesterday? You didn’t seem this bad on the tour, and you were fine when you sang. Better than fine.”

  “You’re right.” I got down on the floor and sat facing her, our knees touching. I felt nervous all of a sudden. What if she didn’t believe me or thought I was crazy? I looked into her eyes, filled with questions and concern, and knew that now was the time. “I have to tell you something. I think you’re the only person I can tell, but you have to keep it a secret.”

  “Okay.”

  “Promise?” I extended my pinkie finger. She linked her pinkie with mine, then pulled my hand to her mouth and kissed it.

  “I promise.” Her eyes were almost silver, and it was several seconds before I realized I had a dopey smile on my face. A potent twinge of happiness cut through all my fear and nervousness, and I felt surer of my decision to open up to her.

  “Okay.” I took a deep breath. “A prior has been…visiting me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The ghost Nick was talking about the other day, the one I saw for the first time at the funeral home, she’s come to me twice at my house. That’s the reason I had such a bad headache all day. She grabbed my wrist this morning, and it caused that phantom frost, which was, incidentally, the absolute worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life.”

  “I’m confused. Why didn’t you let your dad handle it?”

  “He wasn’t around. The first time I was in the upstairs hallway, and he was all the way down in the kitchen. This morning, he would’ve already left for work.”

  “But…but that can’t be.” She shook her head.

  “I guess Nick was wrong about not being able to communicate with priors without a guardian until after training. I mean, it’s not like ghosts can tell when you’ve had training or not…” I trailed off because she was still shaking her head.

  “You haven’t been released.”

  “Released?”

  “Yeah, it’s a whole thing. Your guardian and a few elder interpreters perform a ceremony releasing you to be able to communicate with priors without the ward of protection every child of an interpreter gets at birth. It’s the equivalent of learning to walk. While you’re learning, your parents hold your hands or make sure you have something solid to hang on to. When you’re ready, they let go, and only then can you walk on your own, right?”

  “Right.”

  “That’s what happens when you’re released.”

  “I’m not sure I totally understand that,” I said.

  She shrugged. “Nobody does until it happens. What I just told you is the explanation my mom gave me when I started asking about it a few years ago.”

  “Hmm. It doesn’t make sense, then. I know what I saw.” If what she said was true, and I had no reason to doubt it, something was very, very wrong, more than I’d even realized. I wondered if
I would ever know what it was like to not be always afraid again. I wondered how many more terrifying blows I could take.

  She held my hand. “I believe you and what you saw. I just don’t understand how it can be happening. I wonder why she’s coming to you?”

  I filled her in on everything Mrs. Braverman had said, giving her every detail I could remember and probably more than she wanted to hear. If she was going to help me, I wanted her to have the complete picture.

  “Sounds a little scary,” she said when I was done.

  “It’s been very scary,” I said, and before I could stop myself, I blurted, “I started sleeping with a night-light again.”

  “I don’t blame you. After hearing your story, I might buy myself one.”

  “You never had a night-light?”

  “Nope. The dark never bothered me.”

  “Tough stuff, huh?” I smiled. I wished I had some of her cool confidence.

  “Nah. Darkness is where the real is. Anything can seem nice in the daylight.”

  “That’s true.” I looked at her hand on mine, and she looped our fingers together so they were interlaced. I turned my gaze to find her staring, and seconds later, she leaned in and kissed me.

  Her lips were soft as they brushed mine, and I tasted a little of the mango pineapple ChapStick she used. The last of the chill in my head slipped away as the warmth of her mouth brought heat to the surface. I put my hand on her cheek and deepened our kiss, enjoying the feel of her tongue against mine. It lasted less than a minute, but I had to gasp for air when we pulled our mouths apart, my heart was pounding so hard.

  It had been a long time since I’d been kissed, and I’d never been kissed like that. I really liked this girl. She was the only good to come from all the terrible I’d endured recently, and I couldn’t imagine how I would have gotten through it without her.

  “What time is it?” I asked.

  She dug in her pocket for her phone. “Almost four o’clock.”