FIVE It was after five when Mom and her assistant, Manny, returned from the autopsy with Erin in the back of our hearse. It beeped slowly down the incline in reverse and stopped. Mom emerged, looking frazzled, while Manny proceeded to the rear, flipped open the latch, and removed the gurney. My gaze fell to the black vinyl body bag. That was all that was left of Erin. Bones and rotting flesh. Mom and I stood side by side quietly while Manny rolled the gurney through the garage door and into our peach-colored prep room, where that night Boo would perform her magic. With my assistance. “Do you have a moment?” Mom asked, gingerly pulling off her leather gloves finger by finger. “I’d like to have a talk.” This was more of a command than a request. We headed upstairs and down the blue-carpeted hall, with its creamy walls and framed paintings of pastoral landscapes, along with a zillion boxes of tissues. Though our rooms were designed to induce calm, I was feeling anything but. She ushered me into her office, the pretend one for meeting with clients, not the real one upstairs loaded with files and her computer.
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