The Funeral Singer (3 page)

We ran through the entire concert once. We sounded horrible, but that was one of the things I loved about chorus. In six weeks, we’d go from twenty-seven clashing, pitchy voices to one full, awesome sound.

Afterward, Pete gave me a ride home. “We suck,” he said as we pulled away from the school.

“Pretty much. Except for your solo. Dude, that song is perfect for you.”

“Thanks. Yours, too. Ms. J really knows what she’s doing. It’s like the whole song came together at that point.”

I shrugged. “I guess. Unless you blinked.”

“Come on. That song is proof that it’s not how many lines you have, it’s what you do with them. It sounded so dark and ominous with all our voices, and then to have you come in and lighten it up with those two lines … It was powerful.”

“Whatever.” I had to admit, they
were
cool lines. They were infused with an odd mixture of melancholy and hope, like so many of the funeral songs I performed. Still, I was a junior. After this year, I’d have only one other All State concert in my future. One more chance to make my mark.

“Think of it this way: You have more solo lines than Maria Lopez.”

I grinned. I hated to admit it, but that did make me feel better. I rolled down the window and stuck out my hand, pressing my palm against the rush of the cool March air. All my life, all I’d wanted to do was sing. I loved the way songs combined words with music to transform both into something different, something deeper and more powerful. Something that could make people smile, or cry, or feel nostalgic. Something that stuck in their heads and they could remember forever.

As Pete pulled into the funeral home parking lot, a familiar flash of green, purple and black caught my eye. A Grime bumper sticker? I wasn’t used to seeing those here. After all, most of my Dad’s clients were about fifty years older than the typical fan.

Whose car was that? What if it was Zed’s? My heart began to race. He could be inside right now, wrapping up some final details with my dad or maybe picking up something the band had left behind.

I thanked Pete for the ride, jumped out and darted up the funeral home steps. I paused. Dad wouldn’t want me walking around the funeral home like this, wearing jeans and a hoodie, but if I went up to the apartment to change, I might miss my chance. Whoever owned that car might leave before I got back. I dropped my backpack on the front porch and opened the door. This could be my second chance to see Zed, and I was determined to make the most of it.
Please, please, please let him be here.

CHAPTER FOUR

The smell of lilies hit me right away. Ugh. I hated it when families went lily-crazy. They were gorgeous, but they stunk up the place. I’d once read that our sense of smell is tied more closely to our memories than any of the other five senses. The smell of a certain type of food or cologne can transport us immediately back to a moment from our past. Funerals gave people a chance to create one final memory of the person who died. Why would anyone screw that up with this sickening-sweet stench?

Dawn was on the phone. I could tell by her soft murmur that it was an at-need call, somebody who had just lost someone. She glanced up from the front desk and gave me a brief wave. Other than the soothing lilt of her voice and the gurgle of a small fountain bubbling near the entrance, the place was quiet.

I headed down the hall, passing the chapel. A sign on the door announced the service being held tonight for Mildred Jackson. Dad was nowhere to be seen. He was probably in the prep room, getting Mildred ready.

As I continued past the visitation room and the arrangements office toward the back of the building, I heard the muffled sound of my mother’s voice coming through her office door.

Who was in there with her? Was it Zed? Somehow I couldn’t imagine him coming here for grief counseling. Then again, even though Zed was two years younger than Mick, they were supposedly really close.

My hands began to sweat. What should I do? This was so unfair. This could be my big chance to meet him, but what if he came out in tears?

I sat down on a lavender velvet settee outside the office. If Zed was in there, I’d better think of something to say when he came out. Dad always taught me to simply say, “Sorry for your loss.” But that seemed so ordinary, so … forgettable. I needed something he would remember. Maybe a lyric from one of their songs? “He’ll never come back, but that don’t mean he’s gone,” the line on Mick’s vault. No, that would sound totally fan girl.

The voices inside the office stopped. I held my breath and listened. Was Zed crying? I crept up to the door and leaned my ear against it. My heart stopped as I heard my mother’s voice directly on the other side. “I’ll be right back with that paperwork.”

I took two quick steps backward as the door opened. Mom’s expression registered somewhere between startled and confused, but she recovered quickly. “Melanie, I’m so glad you’re here.” She moved aside and motioned me into the room. “I have someone I want you to meet. Or maybe I should say, someone who wants to meet
you
.”

What? Zed wanted to meet me? My heart raced. Why? What should I say? As my eyes adjusted to the soft lighting in the office, someone stood and turned toward me. Only it wasn’t Zed, it was Mick’s grandmother.

I froze. In an instant, I was back in the cemetery with her advancing toward me. The tightness in my chest and the ringing in my ears returned as if on cue.

“You remember Ruth Nolan.” Mom placed her hand on my arm and watched me warily. “We were just talking about the song you sang at the burial ceremony.”

Mrs. Nolan stepped forward, took my hand and held it gently in both of hers. If she noticed how clammy it was, she didn’t let on. “I wanted to thank you,” she said. Her voice cracked slightly and her eyes grew misty. “You have such a lovely voice, and ‘Amazing Grace’ is one of my favorite hymns. Michael always liked that one, too.”

“Michael?”

Mrs. Nolan cocked her head. “Yes. My grandson?”

“Oh, right.” Of course. Mick. The ringing grew louder. I was going to screw this up. Royally.

Mom led me to a chair, eased me down into it, and turned to go. “I’ll be right back,” she assured us, closing the door behind her.

“Did you know him?” Mrs. Nolan asked as she sat down next to me.

I gripped the arm of my chair. “Um, no. I mean, I knew who he was, of course, but I’d never met him.”

“Ah, well, he was a wonderful boy. I’ll bet you never knew this about him: He loved to garden.” This was surreal. Mrs. Nolan was acting as though we were two friends sipping iced lattes at Starbucks. At least it meant she was unaware of the freak-out session going on inside me.

I nodded slowly. “Garden? Really? That’s nice.” Not brilliant conversation, but it was all I could manage. If Mom didn’t take too long, maybe I’d get through this without doing too much damage.

“Yes,” Mrs. Nolan answered. “Garden. Ever since he was a little boy. It started out as a fascination with the snails that invaded my pumpkin patch one year, but eventually, Michael really took to it. For eight years in a row he entered the county fair for the largest squash. Won lots of red and yellow ribbons, and finally took blue a few years ago.” She beamed at the memory.

I’d never even realized Fairfax had county fairs. I always thought those were a Midwestern thing. I tried to imagine Mick, with all his tattoos and piercings, listening to gospel hymns and weeding gardens and accepting a blue ribbon for Biggest Squash.

“Of course, he’d gotten into some trouble in the last couple of years.” Mrs. Nolan continued, her voice falling to a near whisper. “You probably know all about that. Those horrible tabloids. I don’t understand why they couldn’t leave him alone. He was a kid. He needed help.”

Mick’s trips in and out of rehab were well documented when “Medium Well” hit the charts. The press hadn’t run anything recently, but that must have been because The Grime had fallen off their radar, not because Mick was clean.

Mrs. Nolan sat silently. I had the feeling she wanted me to say something, but what? I was horrible at this, nothing like Mom or Dad. At least my breathing had returned to normal, and the ringing in my ears was so faint I barely noticed it now. I loosened my grip on the arms of the chair.

Finally, Mrs. Nolan spoke again. “Anyway, I just wanted you to know that the Mick Nolan you read about in those trashy papers wasn’t the Michael we knew. He was a beautiful boy, with a beautiful heart. If only … I never understood … those damned drugs … ” Her voice cracked and faded, and she closed her eyes.

Oh, no. Just when I thought we were going to get through this. I grabbed a tissue off my mother’s desk and handed it to her.

Mom and Dad always talked about the five stages of grief. They said the funeral was supposed to help people get through the first stage, denial—to see with their own eyes that the person was dead and buried. But I’d heard enough eulogies to know that while funerals could help people accept the fact that their loved ones had died, they couldn’t always help them accept the way they’d lived.

“I wish I’d known Mick,” I said finally. “Sounds like he was an awesome guy.”

Mrs. Nolan patted my knee. “Thank you.” She took a deep breath and gave me a thin, wavering smile as she dabbed at her eyes. We sat again in silence, until at last the office door swung open and my mother breezed in carrying a manila folder.

“You’re back.” I stood slowly, grabbing the back of the chair for balance. “I’d better go. It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Nolan. You’ll be in my thoughts and prayers.”

I shot my mom a look, shut the door behind me and sank into the settee. Man. I had to have the world’s craziest parents. Between my dad embalming bodies and my mom dealing with … that
.

I placed my head in my hands. This was the first time I’d had such close contact with a mourner, a
real
mourner, since Annalee Vinetti died. I shuddered at the memory.

Annalee was twenty-two years old and had just graduated from college when a drunk driver rammed into her brand new Mini Cooper on Route 29. Because of the injuries from the accident, the family held a closed-casket ceremony, but they placed photos of her all around the chapel. She was beautiful.

Annalee was six years ahead of me, but she’d sung in the Edison High School Chorus and was an alto just like me. For the final song of the service, the family requested “Wishing on a Star”—not the Beyonce version but the original Rose Royce composition. Apparently Annalee had performed that song her senior year. I was never so nervous. It was an amazing song, and I really wanted to do it—and Annalee—justice. I started out strong, with just the right amount of emotion, but when I reached the end of the sixth verse, the part about “hopin’ on all the days to come and days to go,” my voice cracked so badly, I had to stop.

Twenty-two. Twenty-freaking-two. What were her hopes? What would her “days to come” have brought? I stifled a sob and peered down. I couldn’t finish. My dad faded the music out. The entire chapel was in tears.

I should have slipped away then, but I wasn’t thinking straight. Instead, I sat and watched the rest of the service. Afterward, as I crept past the chapel door, Annalee’s mother stopped me. Her face was etched with pain, but something in her eyes flickered as she reached up and stroked my cheek. “Beautiful, so beautiful. You’re so much like my Annalee.”

I froze. I looked nothing like Annalee. Maybe she meant I sang like her.

One stroke. Two strokes. Three strokes. Just when I thought she’d finished, Mrs. Vinetti grabbed me in a hug so tight, it nearly knocked the air out of me. The smell of her perfume made my head swim, and that was it. I saw black.

When I came to a few minutes later, the room was in a state of chaos. Apparently I’d set off a chain reaction. Mrs. Vinetti had dropped me to the floor and passed out on top of me. Annalee’s older sister had thrown up on both of us. And one of Annalee’s uncles had begun shouting at Dad as if the whole thing were somehow his fault.

“Are you okay, honey?”

I jumped at the sound of my dad’s voice. I was back in the hallway again, sitting on the settee, but I could smell the mixture of Mrs. Vinetti’s perfume and puke as if it still clung to me. Or was that the lilies?

“Yes, I’m fine. I just … ” I stood and hugged him.

“What’s wrong?” He gave my back a few tentative pats.

I pulled away. “Nothing. I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t be down here in my jeans. I’ll see you later.”

I bolted down the hallway and through the lobby, waving goodbye to Dawn as I passed her desk. I flung open the front door, but as my feet hit the porch, I stopped short and gasped. Because standing there, with my backpack in his hands, was Zed Logan.

CHAPTER FIVE

Dressed in jeans and a faded Billabong T-shirt, Zed somehow managed to look even hotter than he had the other day in his suit. He pointed at me. “Melody, right?”

“Right. I mean, wrong. I mean … Why are you holding my backpack?” Brilliant.

Zed grinned and handed it to me. “Just admiring the sticker on the front pocket.” Of course. My Grime sticker. The one that shouted:
High School Fan Girl!
“So. Are you Melody or aren’t you?”

“It’s Melanie, actually. With an ‘n.’”

“Then Melody’s what, like, a stage name?”

A stage name? Seriously? Zed Logan thought I’d have a stage name? Zed Logan knew I existed? Zed Logan was here in the flesh, on my front porch, talking to me as though it were the most normal thing in the world for him to … talk to me?

I lowered myself onto a bench.

“You okay?” Zed crouched down in front of me, his deep brown eyes level with mine. For a moment I thought he was going to take my hand.

I took a deep breath and blinked hard. “Sure. I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

“I was asking whether Melody was a stage name.” He said this slowly, as if he were talking to a four-year-old.

“Right. No, that was a mistake. Channel 4 got it wrong. I’m Melanie. Just Melanie.”

Zed straightened back up. “Oh. It
would
be a great stage name, though. For a singer.”