Driving With Dead People by Monica Holloway

Author:Monica Holloway [Holloway, Monica]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781416940029
Publisher: Simon Spotlight Entertainment
Published: 2008-03-04T08:00:00+00:00

Julie and I had just picked up Kimberly Sanders from the airport in the hearse. She was only two years older than us, but had died of cancer anyway. She flew in from Phoenix in a Carrington cherry wood casket with eggshell crepe interior. It was the fanciest (and most expensive) coffin Julie and I had ever seen.

Kimberly had always had curly red hair, but when they opened the casket to check her and removed the ten-by-ten swab of cotton from her face, she had no hair and no eyebrows. Only freckles.

We were driving the hearse up and down Main Street, when I saw my dad in the Valley Inn Restaurant. He was sitting at the counter alone, his head bent over a bowl of chili. His shoulders were rounded and his glasses had slid halfway down his nose. Earlier at the store I’d overheard him say he had a dinner at the Elks Club. I wondered why he wasn’t there.

We drove by at least four more times, thinking Kimberly might enjoy one last night of cruising Main Street, and Dad was still sitting there, drinking a cup of coffee and looking around.

We unloaded the hearse and parked it at the mortuary. After throwing Lowell the keys, I drove Julie to her house in the Mustang. On my way home I drove through town. Dad’s truck wasn’t at the restaurant, so I decided to stop by the Elks Club just to see if he’d ended up there. I ran into a couple in the parking lot who’d known Mom and Dad when they were married.

“Hi, Monica,” the woman said.

“Oh, hi.” I didn’t know what to say so I said, “I’m looking for my dad.”

“Oh, we don’t see much of him anymore,” the woman said.

“Why not?” I asked.

“He tends to overstay his welcome, if you know what I mean.” She smiled.

“No kidding,” I said, not understanding.

“Your father is funny for about five minutes, until you realize he’s all surface, no depth.”

I hated my dad, but I could have punched this woman. Her husband took her arm and said to me, “I’m sorry, she’s had a few too many.” As he was escorting her away, she turned and said, “What I’m trying to say is, your father doesn’t wear well, does he?”

They wandered to their car and I stayed put. Maybe Dad wasn’t such a big shot after all. Maybe people had him figured out.

When I got home, I was hungry so I poured a bowl of Rice Krispies and sat down at the kitchen table. I caught my reflection in the small-paned windows. There I was, head down, shoulders rounded, eating a bowl of cereal alone. Dad and I looked nothing alike physically, but our lives were similar. I ate alone, I exaggerated stories, and I didn’t let people see the depth in me. Maybe I didn’t “wear well” either.

I pushed the cereal down into the milk with the back of my spoon and thought back to the day when Dad was a good guy.

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