Читать книгу Raising The Dead - Mara Purnhagen - Страница 8

The rain stopped roaring on Sunday night. By Monday, it was barely a drizzle. The sky still loomed gray and bloated clouds moved fast and low, but the worst was finally over.

“I guess we’ll be leaving,” Trisha announced after breakfast on Monday. I had gotten used to having everyone around. We had developed a cozy routine revolving around simple meals and old movies. The house would seem empty without our guests, but part of me was relieved: it was difficult to be around Noah all the time. I kept noticing little things about him that I liked, such as the way he was careful to always clean up after himself and help my mom, and how he laughed at something on TV. It would be easier to see him as just a friend, I decided, once there was some distance between us.

With school officially canceled, I focused on helping my parents, who had reached out to overwhelmed authorities and offered to assist in their casket cleanup efforts. Over two dozen coffins had been unearthed during the storm, and it was essential to get them back to their proper burial spaces. One had been discovered wedged in the cart corral at a grocery store. Two were found lodged between trees at a local playground. And several had floated all the way to the high school, where they came to a strange stop on the drenched football field. The image of the splintered wooden boxes sitting near the 50-yard mark dominated the local media. Dad was not amused.

“There are thousands of people without power right now, and this is what makes the news?”

Despite the fact that he made a living off people’s intense interest in life after death, he was constantly annoyed by public fascination with the subject.

Mom researched local cemeteries, made endless calls, and confirmed that the coffins had come from a tiny graveyard a mile away.

“Some of them are from before the Civil War,” she told me and Dad. I had raided the pantry to produce dinner, which consisted of canned spaghetti with meatballs and buttered wheat bread. After a weekend without a trip to the store, canned goods were all we had left, but it was practically gourmet by my family’s standards.

I automatically grabbed ginger ale out of the fridge because I knew Noah liked it, then put it back when I remembered that he was gone. He was probably sick of sleeping on the couch and being surrounded by Shane and my family all day, I reasoned. He was probably sick of me, for that matter. After the time we spent in my room and his nap on my bed, he had seemed extra distant. Maybe he had sensed my crush, and was trying to define clearer boundaries. He wouldn’t need to worry about me, though—I was determined to take Avery’s advice and move on to someone who was interested.

“The police have taken custody of a dozen coffins so far,” Mom continued. “They moved them to the morgue already.”

“How?” Dad asked. I couldn’t imagine a flatbed truck stacked with century-old caskets driving through town. That was definitely an image that would attract the local news. Mom’s reply surprised me.

“Garbage trucks.”

“They put them on garbage trucks?” I couldn’t disguise the disgust in my voice. It seemed so disrespectful.

“Yes,” Mom confirmed. “The trucks are big enough to hold the coffins and don’t attract attention.”

“Still,” I said. “It seems so gross.”

“It’s practical,” Dad said. “These people have been dead for so long that they have no family members who would remember them. It’s the best way to transport them without attracting unnecessary attention.” He nodded, satisfied. “Very smart.”

It may have been practical and smart, but I couldn’t help think of the other Charlotte, the girl who had died over a hundred years earlier and who had spoken to me in Charleston. I wouldn’t want her thrown into the back of a garbage truck. I wouldn’t want anyone carted around that way. It was dehumanizing.

“We’ll meet with the caretaker tomorrow morning,” Mom said. “It’s such an old, tiny little cemetery that it’s basically been forgotten. The man I spoke with mows the grass twice a year, and that’s about it. This whole situation has him rattled.”

“But he’s willing to accept our help?” Dad asked.

“Yes.” Mom played with her fork. I was pleased to see that she had eaten all of the dinner I had single-handedly prepared, even if it was simply canned food heated in the oven. “He understands that the bodies need to be interred as quickly as possible. He also understands that we have an historical interest in the work.”

Historical interest. It was a fancy way of saying that my parents like to look at old dead bodies. One of Mom’s stock lectures focused on historical burial rites and practices. This was like winning the corpse research lottery.

She explained that she wanted to visit the cemetery first. A geological survey team would be there to make sure the ground was safe and that the caskets could be returned to the earth.

“How are you going to match the bodies with their gravestones?” I asked.

“That’s where my expertise comes in.” Mom finished her dinner and moved her plate to the side. “We’ll start by examining artifacts left with the bodies. How they’re dressed will help narrow down a time frame, as well. But we may not be able to correctly identify each one.”

“We’re talking about centuries-old wood,” Dad said. “How many even survived the flood intact?”

“Not many. But there’s about a dozen complete caskets. Cracked, but whole.”

“So some of the caskets aren’t whole?” I looked down at my half-eaten spaghetti. I wasn’t so hungry anymore.

“No. Most of them were damaged too heavily. Chances are the remains inside weren’t substantial, though.”

I hoped not. I could imagine someone emerging from their house after days stuck inside, only to discover a withered arm resting on the sopping wet lawn. My parents’ task was a strange one, but it held importance. It helped restore a kind of peace.

“How can I help?”

Mom and Dad looked at me. “We weren’t planning on having you help,” Dad said.

“We didn’t think this would be something you would be interested in,” Mom rushed to add.

“I’m not.” I had no intention of lifting coffin lids and peeking in. But I was used to being a part of the family team. It never occurred to me that I wouldn’t be involved in some small way. “I was thinking of clerical stuff or research or whatever. But if you don’t need me, that’s fine.”

“Clerical work,” Mom repeated. “I’m sure we could come up with something.”

“You could work from home.” Dad smiled. “We’ll call you if we need anything.”

It was a brush-off, and despite the fact that this was not a project I was eager to get too involved with, my parents’ quick dismissal of me stung. After dinner I went to my room and called Annalise.