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Again, the car was filled with silence. Travis had called us an Uber, and even the driver knew not to speak. It could’ve been Travis’s natural ability to intimidate or the fact that our destination was a morgue—or both.
When we arrived, Travis and I stood in front of the building, three stories of nearly non-descript architectural features. Taupe brick, a few rectangular windows, double doors that perfectly matched the brick, and a sign that almost looked generic.
America took a few steps forward but stopped when she realized we weren’t following. “You two okay?”
I looked up at Travis, who was staring at the building, a deep line formed between his brows.
“Oh my God. Oh my God, I didn’t even think, Trav. You shouldn’t have come,” I said, covering my eyes.
He peeled my fingers back and then kissed them. “I want nothing more than to be here with you.”
“But …” I began.
He shook his head. “Is this hard for me? Yeah. I hate seeing you go through this because I can relate.” He looked at the building. “But I’m glad I can hold your hand through it.”
We walked in, and I let America handle the people at the desk. I gave them my ID, and then we waited.
And waited.
And waited.
… and waited.
Finally, a man in navy blue scrubs came to the door.
“Mrs. Maddox?” he called.
The three of us stood, and Travis steadied me as we walked forward.
The man asked me several questions as we walked to the back, and I answered, but moments later I wasn’t sure what had been asked. We went through a swinging door, and then another, to a large sterile-looking room that smelled like a combination of a hospital and a deep freeze.
The man led us to a wall full of silver drawers with thin handles. He doubled checked the numbers and then pulled.
I saw my mother lying there lifeless, and again, I felt nothing. The numbness scared me more than what I was looking at.
Then, the tears came.
“I’m sorry, we need a verbal confirmation.”
“It’s her,” I said, turning my back to her.
America and Travis never left my side.
Signing forms and making our way back outside was a blur. And between my panic that I was somehow broken for being unable to grieve at the sight of my lifeless mother and the pure rage I felt for Mick that he’d left me to handle everything—again—I was relieved that at least that part was over.
“I hate this town. I never want to come back here again,” I said, trying to breathe through my tears.
“Just one meeting with the funeral director and we can go home,” America said.
“Cremate her. Just have them cremate her and send her to me. Embalming and the makeup is for people to remember differently than what I just saw. I’ve already seen it. Just cremate her and send her to me. I’ll … figure it out later.”
America was surprised at first, but then nodded and began tapping on her phone. She held the receiver to her ear and walked away, chatting with whoever was on the line.
Travis ordered the Uber and put his phone away, holding me with both hands. “I’m so sorry you had to see that, Pidge. I’m sorry your piece-of-shit father is, yet again, letting you down and making you do the heavy lifting in the family.”
“Well, I have you. He has no one.”
“Whose fault is that?” America said, rejoining us. “They’re going to email you some forms to sign and they’ll take care of it. It’s … it’s going to be fifteen-hundred dollars, though.”
