The Dearly Departed Dating Service

by Rae Renzi

  And, in fact, they didn’t need to.

  Because I knew exactly what they needed: someone to steer them, for a small price, through the murky waters of grief into the safe harbor of a new romance.

  Obviously, that someone was me.

  Chapter 4

  Craig watched Joy flounce down the corridor toward her workroom, her long golden ponytail swishing to and fro. She had the look of a late spring day—all sunshine and flowers and life bubbling over, but now slightly overcast, with a hint of rain. It had been what had attracted him to her in the first place, all that brightness and light, and it pained him that his death had been responsible for the slight dampening of her spirit.

  Her mood had been especially somber the past few days—the result of her financial woes, no doubt. But now something had put the spring back in her step. He was glad for that, because it might provide a little cushion for the talk he needed to have with her. He never had been good at this kind of thing. Being dead hadn’t changed that.

  He manifested directly in front of her. “Hey.”

  “Whoa!” She skidded to a stop, needlessly putting her hands up as if to brake for the non-collision. “Hey. How are you?”

  It seemed like a simple question, but he knew the subtext: Where have you been? She was right—he had been trying to back off a little, give her some growing room.

  He looked at her with a half smile. “Dead. You?”

  She snorted a little laugh. “Busy. What’s up?”

  “You know we’ve been together three years today?”

  She got that awwww look on her face. “Our anniversary.”

  “Three years, Joy, and I’ve been dead for two of them.”

  A flicker of panic crossed her face but was quickly replaced with a cheery smile. “The best three years of my life… except, well, you know, that first time when you died. And then those two weeks when you were alive, but not really. That was awful.”

  “Those two weeks weren’t exactly a picnic for me, either—the only part of me that was alive was the part that felt pain.”

  Joy’s face crumpled. Wrong thing to say—Joy had always felt bad about not stopping the surgeon from saving Craig’s so-called life. By the time he’d truly died, she’d had so many layers of grief—for his dying, for his not dying, for his limbo while impaled on life support, and finally for his true death—that he’d almost not been able to reach her through the spirit world.

  “Oh, Craig. I know, I know. But we’re great now, right? Perfect, in fact.”

  “Maybe too perfect?” It was his fault. He’d known all along that she was scared of losing him again, and he’d tried to spare her that by sticking around in spiritual form, thinking that with time she’d come to see the necessity of them both moving on.

  It hadn’t happened that way. Joy carried deep scars from the loss of her parents when she was a child. His death—especially how it had gone down—had no doubt opened those wounds, and her grandmother passing away last year hadn’t helped. And now, faced with losing her home, the one stable thing in her life, Joy was not in the best of places for this. But time was swiftly passing, and change would happen whether she was ready or not. All he could do to help her was to make sure the change was the best one.

  He was about to gently broach the subject when the door to Joy’s room popped open and Linda, the receptionist, walked out. “Who’s perfect?” she asked, pushing her black-framed glasses up on her nose. She glanced up and down the hall and lifted an eyebrow. “Talking to yourself again?”

  Joy’s gaze snapped away from Craig to give Linda a sheepish look. “Oops. Caught me. I was thinking out loud about a new technique. That’s all.”

  “You gotta get a life,” Linda said, a sentiment Craig had to agree with. As she took Joy’s arm, she added, “C’mon. I got an invoice I need you to check.”

  Joy glanced back over her shoulder at Craig and gave a tiny shrug.

  He waved her on. “Later.”

  Chapter 5

  When I finally reached my office in the Restorative Art department, I realized I’d forgotten to ask Mr. Botts about my pay. On the other hand, the measly raise I could get without credentials wouldn’t get me out of my pickle.

  I’d have to take matters into my own hands. And I could. My new idea was a success story waiting to happen. All I needed was a little time, some planning (at which I excelled), and a smidge of cooperation from certain people hanging around. I smiled to myself as I pushed open the door.

  Marybob had gone, so I looked forward to some peace and quiet, a little bit of breathing room to think about my idea, maybe while I tried out the new synthetic nose putty I’d ordered from a special-effects supplier. (Noses were frequently in need of special attention, as they protruded awkwardly from the otherwise fairly smooth sphere of the head. Something of a design oversight, if you asked me, since anything that stuck out was bound to get banged up sooner or later.) But, as luck would have it, the Restorative Art room was not empty.

  Luke’s body had been safely tucked away until his funeral that evening, but he, in his spiritual form, had returned from his wanderings and was eyeing with interest a new corpse, draped and ready for my attention. Standing beside Luke, gazing at the corpse with an air of bemused detachment, was a Departed I hadn’t seen before, a robust woman of thirty years, give or take a few.

  I glanced at the table before introducing myself. “Hello. My name is Joy. I’m the restoration artist here. Is this you?”

  She grinned. “Was. But this new me”—she ran her hands down her disembodied form—”is a whole hell of a lot more to my liking, I’m sayin’. Name’s Ruby.”

  The state of the corpse left a lot to the imagination, but I could believe her words were true. The photo Marshall—the other working mortician at Tranquility Park—had left on my workbench showed a hard-faced woman straddling a motorcycle, with a gap-toothed grin and a lopsided nose. Few would call her pretty, but her new disembodied form was handsome. Similar, I guessed, to how she might have looked in the mortal world if her life had been pleasant and pampered, which, on the available evidence, probably wasn’t the case.

  I lifted the drape to count body parts. Everything was there, and in approximately the right place, thanks to Marshall, no doubt. The man had the charm of a basement closet, but he knew his job. I think he even liked it.

  “Let’s see what we can do with you, Ruby. If you stick around awhile, it’ll be easier for me.” Which wasn’t to say it would be easy. Like most motorcycle accidents, this was a case in which the “art” part of “restorative art” would be more sculpture than painting.

  “Suits me,” Ruby said. “Anyways, I gotta make sure my old man’s okay—he got banged up pretty good, so it might take a while. He’s a tough old bastard, but he’s my old bastard. Wouldn’t be right to leave until he’s got his feet back under him.”

  An hour ago, this statement would have settled on me like a wet blanket, heralding, as it did, another not-quite-Departed waiting for her Bereaved to recover emotionally and physically so she could move on. Now it filled me with a feeling of satisfaction. More proof that my scheme for dealing with the Bereaved (and therefore the too-numerous Departed) was needed. It was obvious that it would be successful. How could it miss? I’d sort out the details later. Maybe after Ruby.

  But the afternoon was just as busy as the morning had been. Before I even finished with Ruby, Marshall appeared by my side. As usual, his plywood-stiff khaki pants and beige shirt looked as though they’d never seen the near side of rumpled and his shoes glowed with deep polish. Without uttering a sound, without so much as a twitch of a single pale eyelash, he conveyed subtle demand laced microscopically with gloom. I forced an amiable nod.

  He didn’t respond. He never did. His oaken demeanor had once tempted me to rap my knuckles on his arm for luck, but I had resisted. Offending him, if that were even possible, would be disastrous.

  He was indispensable to Tranquility Park because he did all the wet wo
rk. I’d seen him put bodies back together that had arrived in buckets. He seemed inured to the less pleasant aspects of his job, which, to me, would include most of it.

  Mr. Botts had once confided in me that he believed Marshall had no sense of smell. I agreed but thought Marshall might deviate from the norm in other ways, too. But that was okay. Everyone was different, and that was good. Life would be boring if we were all the same. I had no problem at all with Marshall. He made my life easier.

  Mr. Botts didn’t seem to share my opinion. On my first day of work, he’d said to me, “I should take you to meet… Marshall.” He’d proceeded to stay glued to his chair with a smile plastered on his face. His eyes had turned inward, and he had remained frozen in place and perfectly silent for an uncomfortable length of time.

  “Marshall?” I finally asked. I leaned closer to Mr. Botts to check that he was okay, that he wasn’t in the throes of some neurological disorder.

  When Mr. Botts came back to himself with a start, I realized it wasn’t a disorder that afflicted him, but a memory. When he spoke, it was without his usual verve. “Yes. Marshall.” He gazed out the window over my shoulder for a moment or two and cleared his throat. “Marshall is the other mortician. Highly experienced. Enjoys his work.” He gave a slight shudder. “He, ah, came with the business.”

  “Do you mean you asked him to stay when you purchased Tranquility Park?”

  “Not… exactly. His grandfather established the business, and Marshall…” His voice drifted away for a moment with his thoughts, then returned abruptly. “Ah… Marshall and I, we came to an agreement.” He erected a shaky smile and clapped his hands together. “Everything has a price.”

  I had to agree. My price for getting my mortician’s license was to work at Tranquility Park for the required year of supervision by qualified morticians.

  Tranquility Park hadn’t been my first choice, nor even my second, or third. It hadn’t made my long list, in fact. I had assumed finding an apprenticeship would be simple. My grades in mortuary college had been tops, and aside from the occasional spirited discussion with my instructors about the physiological consequences of death, I never called attention to myself, which seemed an excellent quality in an undertaker. But apparently what I considered my greatest asset, namely my stint in medical school, was considered a critical liability by others: they assumed I thought I was above undertaking.

  I was nothing if not persistent, though. When the obvious establishments wouldn’t have me, I scoured the city for funeral homes that were small, personal, and perhaps not so persnickety. I found Tranquility Park. Mr. Botts thought (correctly) he’d found a bargain. And here I was.

  Now, Marshall’s eyes snapped to Ruby’s corpse, on which I had just put the final touches, or so I thought. Ruby had a different idea, it turned out.

  He nodded once—his sign of approval. I smiled at him. “Thanks.”

  “Another one waiting.” He spun on his heel and walked out, leaving a slight chemical odor in his wake.

  By the time I finished embellishing Ruby to her satisfaction, I was getting a little frayed at the edges and my concentration was shot. Partly due to the distraction created by Ruby and a handful of other Departed: Luke, Craig, and three others who must have been additional corpses in Marshall’s care or whose demise had predated me. It made me wonder how long the Departed lingered. Wasn’t there a statute of limitations on earthly loitering?

  In any case, they were all in the Restoration Art room commenting on my work, discussing their new lives, and, of course, airing their wishes for their Bereaved to recover. I tried to shoo away one or two, but it was like trying to disperse a bunch of tethered balloons with a flyswatter.

  Marshall returned with the next body on a gurney. He parked it efficiently and marched back to his bunker—er, lab—without a word to me, which suited me fine. I was trying to recover my equanimity after dealing with Ruby (who wanted me to reconfigure her old body to match her new one, as if that were remotely possible), and a conversation with Marshall had little chance of moving me toward serenity.

  This corpse did not appear to have met a violent end but was terribly thin and pale. Marshall had placed a photograph on my desk, as was his habit, but now I couldn’t find it. I noticed three separate trays of clothing and accessories, each waiting to be put on the appropriate corpse, but nothing to hint which set of clothing went with this particular corpse. I quickly consulted the schedule, but it only indicated that the Trasker family would arrive at two o’clock for a preliminary viewing.

  Yikes! I had only twenty minutes before the family arrived. They simply couldn’t see their child like this.

  I couldn’t do much in the remaining time, but I could at least fix the face, and maybe the hair, if time permitted. That was pretty much all the family would be interested in, anyway, at this juncture of life and death.

  I quickly glanced at the corpse, and then at the assembled Departed. I was surprised to see that the obvious match—twiggish body, medium-length dark hair—was deep in conversation with Craig. I wasn’t surprised that she would want to talk to him—any female would—but I wondered, purely academically, of course, what the Departed girl had to say that so fascinated him. As if hearing my thoughts, they both turned their faces toward me. Craig winked at me, and the girl smiled sweetly.

  I didn’t really want to get into a conversation with her—I was much too busy—so I turned away and got to work on the body. Some skillfully applied makeup and some careful plumping up should do it. In my opinion, corpses—actually, living people, too—make a better impression when they look full, not empty.

  The girl was pretty, in a disembodied way, and seemed likely to have a Bereaved boyfriend to mourn her passing. That boyfriend, like all the other Bereaved, might need some help recovering from his loss. The sooner, the better, so she could move on. I was certain she had better things to do in the Hereafter than dawdle around the funeral home with my boyfriend.

  With an eye on the time, I started at the top, applying foundation to her face, color to her cheeks, a light dusting of eye shadow, and a subtle coat of mascara. I looked up to check my work against the ideal representation, but the friendly young girl—at least friendly to Craig—had disappeared, and so had he. Of course, the other Departed saw no problem with this and freely offered their opinions of how best to restore the corpse to the semblance of life. Exactly whose life wasn’t clear. I began to wish fervently that the missing Departed girl would return, with or without Craig.

  By the time I added a little curl to her hair and tinted her lips with gloss, she still had not reappeared. I finished only minutes before the family arrived.

  In retrospect, I realize I was probably distracted by the helpfully intended hints and suggestions offered by all the Departed hanging about.

  All except, apparently, the one I had needed. A point that became clear when the Traskers arrived to view the body of, it turned out, their son John.

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen that exact combination of confusion and shock on a group of peoples’ faces. I’m still not sure my spontaneously blurted-out explanation—that John was a well-known cross-dresser and we were honoring his lifestyle choice—was exactly the way to go. In any case, I quickly pulled myself together and hurriedly offered to re-equip him to their preference, which they accepted.

  Thank God I hadn’t plucked his eyebrows.

  Chapter 6

  By the time the Traskers finally left after seeing their son fully restored to his birth gender, my shoulders were so tight they had pulled up nearly to my ears, and a dull thudding pain hammered behind my eyes. I was frazzled, and I hoped the rest of the day would hold fewer surprises—unless they were the kind that came with money or some other way out of my dilemma. I know, fat chance, but it could happen…

  But Marshall foisted two more bodies on me, which were, of course, attended by their Departed spirits—a rambunctious octogenarian and a middle-aged priest. Father Doyle had wandered around the mo
rtuary, looking lost and confused. His dogma hadn’t covered being stuck in a funeral home for an undisclosed amount of time. He kept asking me if this was Purgatory. I assured him that on normal days, it wasn’t. Given the usual state of affairs that led the Departed to remain, I wondered—but didn’t ask (though I did wish Marybob were in the vicinity)—what kept him here.

  The octogenarian, Mr. McCarthy, was happy, lively, and chattered nonstop in a lovely Irish brogue. Like many of the Departed, he was cheerful and optimistic about the future, and was confident his dear wife would be along soon—she couldn’t live without him, you see. I’m sure he was right, and I’m sure she was dedicated, but, honestly, after spending only an hour or two with her dearly Departed, I could imagine she’d be glad for a wee bit of peace before joining her husband.

  Mr. McCarthy had very particular ideas about his corpse. He questioned my every move, and I was happy to explain the process step-by-step, which, in retrospect, might have been a mistake. Once he had a little knowledge, he came up with lots of suggestions for improving my technique. The first dozen or so I discussed with him, filling in the knowledge gaps so he could recognize why his suggestion wouldn’t work. Thereafter I just smiled and nodded and gritted my teeth. The pounding behind my eyes had escalated from ball-peen to sledgehammer. It had been a long day, and I had yet to make any progress in dealing with my impending disaster.

  At six thirty, I finally finished. I was pretty much used up, mind, body, and spirit, and ready to go home. When I pulled into the driveway, I turned off the car and sat staring at Gran’s—or rather, my—little house.

  The little bungalow was pale silvery green with white trim. Just now, the evening sun splashed across the wide front porch in an extravagant shade of pink, lighting up the brass light fixtures like a torch, dolling up the demure little house like glittery makeup on a debutante. Ivy threaded through the picket fence that enclosed the front yard and made a trellis for the pale pink antique roses spilling over the corners. Had Father Doyle landed here, rather than the mortuary, he might still be confused to find himself in heaven, yet on earth.