The first woman I see when I enter is wearing a neat grey uniform and watering a small potted rubber tree. She gives me a broad smile, and even goes so far as to put down the watering can and formally welcome me. Judy could learn from this woman; a little peer-to-peer scaffolding wouldn’t go astray.
‘You must be Jack’s daughter. I’m Barbara,’ she says. She doesn’t drop her smile, but rather extends it further across her face.
The professionalism is astounding. The way she escorts me over to an armchair and hands me a glass of water with lemon in it. The way she excuses herself to go and get Shell. Even the air vaporiser in the room has a selection of oils to choose from. I wander over and add a few to the mix. Rosemary. Grapefruit. Pine. The aroma shifts instantly into something a little more laden, and I step back from the mist, pleased with my contribution.
On the table next to me there are pamphlets and business cards for grief services, as well as advertisements for hand-turned clay urns, celebrants, local mental health services. And, of course, there are the ever-present boxes of tissues placed around the room at strategic intervals. I pull a long, hardy tissue out of a box and shove it in my bag for later, and take one of the cards for a psychic too. My mother would have loved it here.
Shell walks into the foyer at a cracking pace, led by her hand, which I shake poorly. There’s a real art to handshakes and I seem to have regressed with my own. She looks to be in her mid-forties and she’s an odd colour, which sometimes happens when fake tan is applied in dedicated layers. Her skin is a flat caramel with a green tinge, and she has dark lines that run across the inside of her wrist, where the tan has collected. Other than that, she is beautifully groomed and wears a string of pearls over her immaculate grey dress and bolero. I can see why Jack likes her: she radiates that sunny positivity common to women who love watching musical theatre. I bet she would laugh off any miscommunication that arose between them, too. Women like her have beautiful lives.
‘Do you have a mother?’ I ask, realising that, as the first words out of my mouth, they are not a great introduction to who I am.
‘She passed,’ Shell says, sitting on a couch and gesturing for me to sit beside her. She bends down and adjusts her anklet, which is a gold angel on a chain. It might’ve been a gift from her mother.
‘I can’t believe that so many people experience this and still function,’ I say.
‘Jack told me about Josie. I’m so sorry.’
‘How did you cope?’ I ask.
‘Well …’ She crosses her legs, places both hands over her knee and looks up at a ceiling fan, which is turning lazily on the lowest setting. ‘I’m an Aquarius, so it took me a long time to forgive myself. I would be up all night going over every conversation we ever had. I was playing my memories of her on a loop, but not the memories I wanted. They were the ugly ones. The ones where I was irritated by her.’
‘What helped?’ I ask.
‘Nothing really—just time. I miss her, and think about her still, but she’s with me. Sometimes I’ll make decisions that I know she must’ve cosmically had a hand in.’
I see her nostrils twitch as she smells the new aroma I’ve made, but I can’t tell if she’s into it or not.
‘And you would know this yourself, being in the industry, but you’re already a bit paranoid that everyone around you is dying. After my mother went I clung to every person I met. I was a bit possessive, perhaps, as Jack has probably told you.’
‘Did you go to her funeral?’
‘Yes, we had a small one here—it was really special. I was there in the room with her while she was made up, and then my sisters and I all took turns helping to do her hair. She loved her hair a particular way, a very high French twist; we got there in the end.’
I think about what it would have been like to style my mother’s hair for her viewing. How carefully and slowly I would have brushed it out with the blow dryer wand, making it glossy and smooth. A full ritual in itself. I would have loved making her look so beautiful and peaceful. She would have loved it and I needed it.
‘Thanks for seeing me,’ I say. ‘I really want to work here. I’m not usually this open with people I’ve just met.’
‘To be honest, we really need you.’
Shell turns to the receptionist. ‘Barbara, am I wrong, or do we have a bunch of things that need doing now?’
‘Oh, there’s plenty to do!’ Barbara says, lifting up a vase full of fresh flowers. ‘This water needs changing for a start.’
‘I’ll do it,’ I say.
‘Perfect,’ Shell says.
When I’m done with a few odd jobs, I find my way to the bathroom and step inside the first cubicle. I kick the lid of the toilet closed then sit on it. I am not sure if it’s grief, but I have found myself seeking solace in bathroom stalls and I wonder if it’s because they are the only individual-sized room available in public. There could be a market in providing people with calm places to be alone with their thoughts. Maybe then I wouldn’t find myself so close to human waste while contemplating profound things.
I tap my feet on the tiles, grateful that
