She was pronounced dead at
exactly the right time. It didn’t really matter if the mortgage had been paid,
the hedges had been trimmed, or if the toilet that always ran would run or not.
On the way to the funeral, Elaine nestled
snugly in her casket—makeup perfect, hair just so. She was no longer concerned
with what other people thought. She was dead and, contented by that fact,
decided to hang out a bit longer.
The oak doors to the funeral home parted for
her grand entrance. The tacky, over-decorated interior with its inoffensive,
whitewashed walls and delicate lighting gave Elaine a calm reassurance that
death was the right choice.
The hearse driver was joined by two men in
suits who, smelling of cheap cologne and sweat, helped load her onto a dull
black cart so she could be wheeled to the appropriate place for viewing.
“Got any big plans this weekend?” the driver
asked the room.
“Just watching the Bills lose,” one of the
sweaty men said, apparently answering for both of them.
Elaine remained silent. The question wasn’t for
her anyway.
Carting her down the middle aisle of the
sanctuary, the men continued their conversation. One had placed bets on a
sports betting app and thought he wouldn’t lose any money. The other was taking
his wife and children to the zoo. Elaine thought it was too cold to take anyone
to the zoo, even the animals.
Grunting, the three men lifted her casket
haphazardly from its transportation and onto a fine mahogany pedestal, freshly
shined with furniture wax. It seemed like the perfect location to her, centered
adjacent to the podium where the pastor would say some kind words.
“It’s almost time,” one man said to the other.
Elaine thought he must be one of the hourlies
that tended to the funeral. He was dressed well enough—black suit and black
tie, average mourning attire.
Now, Elaine would wait.
Jason, her husband of forty-one years, wandered
into the sprawling room, and, noticing him, her attendants turned in greeting.
Why were they so worried about him? She was the one who was dead.
Condolences were passed between them, hands
shaken. Elaine was still waiting.
Her husband didn’t walk straight to her.
Instead, he paused at the threshold like he had forgotten his reason for
attending, then drifted toward the front. Elaine watched him take in the
flowers, the pews, the podium, ignoring her.
Elaine listened as one of the hourlies cleared
his throat. “Mr. Hart. You can… you can have a minute, if you’d like.” This was
likely common practice.
Nodding, Jason agreed. Suddenly reverent, the
other men backed away and the room quieted to a carpeted hush. The lights
seemed to dim themselves for the occasion.
Approaching the casket, Jason stopped, hands
hovering over the polished wood like he was afraid she would jump out at him in
reanimation.
Elaine waited.
He leaned in, close enough that if she’d still
been breathing, she would’ve smelled old coffee grounds and Old Spice on him.
Scanning her face, he stood there, searching for something that wasn’t
there—irritation, judgment, instructions.
“You look…” he started. “You look like you’re
about to tell me I did it all wrong.”
Elaine watched him, waiting.
Jason swallowed, nervous.
“I fixed the toilet,” he said.
Elaine almost laughed—not that it was funny,
but because it was exactly the kind of thing she had been waiting for: the
smallest change in him, the most domestic proof of love.
“You always said it sounded like an animal
dying,” he whispered. “You were right. I fixed it yesterday. I didn’t tell you
because you are gone now… and I can’t. I just can’t…”
Elaine could see the tears in his eyes. He
pressed his fingertips to the edge of the casket, gentle.
“I paid the mortgage,” he added quickly, like a
man checking a list of items before heading to the checkout counter. “And I
trimmed the hedges. They look… acceptable. Not great. But acceptable. Don’t be
mad.” Elaine always did have strong opinions about the state of her
shrubberies.
Just a bit longer now. Elaine felt herself
fading.
Staring at her, Jason wept for a short moment,
seeming to allow himself to feel.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now,” he
said. “I kept thinking you’d just… keep going through the chemo. Like you
always did. Just keep fighting.” He stopped, voice cracking on the thought.
Elaine felt his voice, an echo, deep inside
her, as if she still were alive.
Behind them, a line began to form and the first
visitors trickled in: their friends and family, children, grandchildren, some
people Elaine didn’t even know. Maybe some ol’ bitties from church. Jason
straightened, wiped his face, waited to greet the procession.
But before he turned away from her, he leaned
in close one last time.
“If you can hear me,” he murmured, “show me you
are still here.”
Considering the room, the delicate lighting,
the whitewashed walls, the overdone decor, Elaine made a decision. She wasn’t
interested in rattling chains or making a big deal of anything. She had always
hated a fuss.
So she did the only thing she could think of.
The lamp nearest her flickered once.
Jason froze.
Elaine flickered it again.
Gasping, Jason nodded slowly, understanding.
“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay. I love you too.”
Approaching Jason, someone said, “She looks so
peaceful,” and Elaine thought, That’s because I know he’s going to be fine.
Hands shaking, Jason turned to greet the
people. But every few seconds he glanced back toward the lamp, like he expected
it to blink again.
Elaine decided against it. One visitation was
enough.
Contented, Elaine let go, knowing she was
leaving him with the mortgage paid, the hedges trimmed, and a toilet that, for
once, didn’t run.
Bio:
Kyle Yandle is a fiction
writer from North Carolina. His work has been featured by After/Thought
Literary and Down in the Dirt. His debut novel, Finding Sound, is forthcoming
from Moonshine Cove Publishing, February 2026.
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