Free The Funeral Planner by Lynn Isenberg Page A

moment. “What about you? Any revelations on the psychology of the funeral?”
    “Plenty. Did you know an obituary is really a plea for help? A plea from the survivors to the community to be there and support their transition.”
    “I thought it was the deceased who was transiting.”
    “Nope. The result of their departure leaves the survivors to figure out a whole new social order. Funerals help survivors reconstruct a new social order inside their families and the community.”
    “I never thought of it that way.” I turn around. “Here, let me do your back now.” I take the washcloth from her.
    Sierra releases a small noise of appreciation. I get the signal and drop the cloth to knead her muscles. “Hmm. That’s the airplane ride, huh?”
    “Mmm-hmm,” she replies. “So are you seeing anyone right now?”
    “Was…but I’m playing the results.”
    “Don’t worry,” she says, as if reading my mind. “The right person will fit naturally into your plans. And if it’s any consolation, I think you’re very hot, Madison Banks.”
    Her comment mollifies me. “Thanks, Sierra. Are you seeing anyone?”
    “I lived with a woman but it didn’t work. Lately, I’ve been dating men again.”
    “Anyone special?”
    “Well…there is this one guy…Milton.”
    “Milton?”
    “Yeah. What do you think? Could I marry a guy with the name Milton?”
    “I would be suspect, unless he pleases you to no end.” I smile.
    “Not there yet… I’m taking it slow. But he does make me laugh.”
    “That’s huge. Seth and I didn’t laugh enough,” I reflect.
    “I’ll make you laugh.” A mischievous twinkle appears in her eye as she suddenly splashes water in my face. I reflexively splash back. A miniwater fight ensues.
    “Okay, okay, you win,” I say, my mouth filled with water and laughter.
    We laugh some more and sink inside the water to rinse ourselves off.
    Sierra gently runs her hand through wet hair. “It’s pretty interesting, isn’t it?” she asks rhetorically. “That the funeral, aside from being a socially acceptable place to weep and mourn in public, provides the last chance to learn.”
    “Learn what?” I ask, reaching for a towel.
    “That the dead are really dead.”
    I freeze.
    Sierra turns around. “What is it, Maddy?”
    “I don’t want the dead to be dead,” I whisper.
    She holds me in her arms. “Oh, Maddy…you know if it wasn’t for Tara’s death we wouldn’t be sitting in a hot tub in the heart of Las Vegas right now.”
    “No, I don’t imagine we would be.”
    “If Tara were here, what would she think?”
    “She wouldn’t be thinking at all. She would be out dancing.”
    “Then let’s go dancing, Mad. For Tara. Let’s keep her alive.”
     
    Couples and singles weave around the dance floor to a loud techno beat. Sierra’s hair is down and wild, and she moves with fluidity and grace, hips shifting to the rhythm of the music as if the vibrations emanate from her bones, not the speakers.
    I, on the other hand, can’t hold a beat to save my life. My hips swing out in fierce gestures. I shake my head and roll my shoulders with pronounced vigor. I catch myself in the mirror fumbling to the beat, arms awkwardly gyrating, legs swinging out as if trying to land on undiscovered planets in the solar system. I watch Sierra’s liquid-smooth moves. I stop dancing, shaking my head in defeat.
    Sierra glides over. “What’s wrong?”
    “I suck. What happened to me? I used to win every single dance contest growing up. Now I can’t even find the beat.”
    “That’s because you’re out of touch with the rhythm of life, from working too hard,” says Sierra, through the din of the drums. “Keep your feet on the ground at all times,” she instructs. “And switch your center of gravity from one hip to the other. Like this.”
    Her body moves fluidly. I attempt to duplicate her motions but to no avail. “I think I’m missing some vital hip coordination,” I say.
    “I can cure