Collect My Body, Please

When I cut my wrists, I texted the undertaker my exact address.

Linden Court, Building C, Apartment 304.

Don't get lost.

Come in two hours.

I set the phone beside the sink and watched blood soak through the white towel wrapped around my left arm. The towel had been part of a matching set I'd bought when I moved into the apartment. One for my hands. One for dishes. One for guests who never came.

The phone rang before the screen went dark.

ELIJAH HAYES – FUNERAL SERVICES.

I stared at the name until the buzzing rattled against the porcelain.

Half a month earlier, when a doctor told me cancer had spread through my body, I'd gone home and searched for funeral homes. Elijah's listing had hundreds of good reviews. Families praised his patience. One woman wrote that he'd treated her father as gently as if the old man could still feel every touch.

His page also made one promise in plain print: We help the departed look like themselves again.

That was why I'd paid in advance.

I wanted one person to be gentle with me after I was dead.

The phone kept ringing. I answered.

"Ms Bennett?" A man's voice came through, low and distracted. "I'm so sorry. Something urgent came up tonight, and I can't make our appointment. I'll refund every cent. Is that okay?"

My grip loosened. The phone nearly slid from my bloody fingers.

"Your website says you come whenever the client calls."

"I know, and that's my fault. If a refund isn't enough, tell me what would be."

Fair.

I looked at the razor in the sink, the drops spreading across the tile, and the dress hem turning red where it brushed my wrist.

"This isn't about money," I said.

"Then tell me what you need."

The room tipped. I braced my hip against the counter and waited for it to steady.

I'd planned everything as carefully as I could. I had canceled the utilities for the end of the month. I had taped an envelope with my identification and medical paperwork to the refrigerator. I had even scrubbed the bathtub that morning because I didn't want strangers to think I'd lived like an animal.

All Elijah had to do was arrive after I stopped breathing.

"I'm going to die today," I said. "If you need more money, I can find a little. Please come. It won't take long."

The line went quiet.

"What do you mean, you're going to die today?"

"I mean I won't be here tomorrow."

"Ms Bennett –"

"Claire," I corrected, though I didn't know why it mattered. "My name is Claire Bennett."

It was the name my mother had given me. My family rarely used it unless they were angry.

Elijah's breathing changed. A chair scraped on his end of the call.

"Claire, where are you right now?"

"I sent the address."

"Are you alone?"

I gave a short laugh. "That's why I hired you."

"What happened?"

"I cut my wrists."

He swore under his breath. Keys jingled. A door slammed.

"Listen to me. Press something clean against the cuts. Hard."

"I already did. I don't want to make a mess for you."

"This isn't about the mess."

"It will be when you get here."

"Claire." His voice was sharper now. "You hired me for a funeral. You did not hire me to let you die while I listen."

I lowered myself to the bathroom floor. The tile felt cool through my dress. "You're an undertaker. Death is the whole point of your job."

"After death," he said. "Not before."

I closed my eyes. The dizziness came in slow pulses. "Then come after. Two hours should be enough."

"No."

"You already canceled."

"I'm uncanceling."

The bluntness of it caught me off guard. For half a second, I pictured a stranger in a suit racing across town because he was afraid of being late to collect a corpse.

"You're the undertaker," I reminded him.

"And you're the one dying?"

He said it as if he'd finally understood the terrible joke.

I rested my head against the cabinet and answered honestly.

"Who else would it be?"