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of invalidated the heat treatment theory and cost the same amount), peroxide
therapy, hyperbaric units, flax oil, high doses of vitamin C, shark cartilage,
kelp, harmonic vibration therapy, whale song therapy, and thousands more each
one more whacked and expensive than the last. It was all bullshit. There were
doctors and clinics outside the US that I could visit for help, but I couldn t
afford gas money to York, let alone a plane ticket to Argentina or
Switzerland.
I slammed the keyboard in aggravation and the librarian gave me a stern look
of admonishment. A new headache pounded behind my eyes. Frustrated and angrier
than ever, I logged off and stormed out of the library. I had two more things
on my To Do list for the day.
* * *
Okay, so I was definitely going to die. I d given up all hope of there being
any last-minute reprieve. The doctor wasn t going to call and say that it had
all been a mistake, just one of those crazy mix-ups. Traditional medicine
wasn t going to work, and the alternatives were no fucking alternative.
My life was a bitch, then I died. End of story. It was time to shut the fuck
up and get on with it. Get on with dealing with it. Get on with dying. And
especially time to get on with making plans to cover my ass and my family. The
bank job was only part of that insurance policy.
Next on my list was the funeral parlor. Stop and think about it for a minute.
How many people really get to plan their own funerals? Not as many as you
might think. I figured that I d take advantage of the opportunity.
I d driven by the Myers Funeral Home a thousand times, but I d never been
inside. I guess it s that way for most people. A funeral home isn t the kind
of place you go to hang out on a Friday night. You don t go there unless you
have a very specific reason.
There were only two other cars in the parking lot, a black hearse and a
matching black BMW. I got out of the truck and stared at the building. My
mother had been taken care of by the funeral home across town, and this was
the first time I d seen this one up close. It was pretty daunting cold, gray
granite walls and huge weeping willow trees that kept the place hidden in
their sprawling shadows. Tall pillars and a stone archway crowned a set of red
marble stairs that led up to the main doors.
Swallowing hard, I climbed them. Dead leaves crunched under my feet. After a
moment s pause, I went inside. It was quiet, quieter than the library, and it
smelled like a hospital. You know that chemical, antiseptic smell? I don t
know what I expected flowers maybe, or even formaldehyde but not that empty
air.
An older man with jet-black hair and a matching black suit met me in the lobby
and smiled politely. He smelled just like the rest of the place. When he shook
my hand, his palm was like dry ice.
Good afternoon, sir. My name is Anthony Myers. Welcome to the Myers Funeral
Home. I m pleased to be of service.
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How you doing, I mumbled, letting go of his hand. I m Tommy. Tommy
O Brien.
How do you do, Mr. O Brien?
His usage of Mister in front of my last name made me think of the doctor. I
shrugged it off.
How can I be of assistance to you today? he asked.
Well, I struggled, unsure of how to put it, I need to check into funeral
prices and stuff like that.
He gave me a sad, sympathetic smile and nodded. I see. I see. Well, Mr.
O Brien, let me assure you that both of my sons and our entire staff are ready
and able to assist you. This is a family-owned and -operated business, so we
understand families quite well. We want to ensure that your immediate needs as
well as your anticipated needs for the future are fully satisfied.
Uh-huh. I nodded. It sounded like he was reading off a cue card.
Normally, we have family counselors on hand to answer your questions, but
since this is Sunday, I ve given them the day off. That s one of the benefits
of being the owner. I will, however, be more than happy to assist you.
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