Free Vanni: A Prequel (Groupie Book 4) by Ginger Voight

tree. I bought them for Susan. I want her to have them, and this is my last chance to give them to her.
    The mortuary isn’t that far from the house, so we brave the snow and the cold to walk the mile or so it takes to get there. I clasp Lori’s hand in mine, but we say very little on our journey. I say even less as we approach the modest brick building housing the funeral home.
    Funeral home . What a depressing fucking name for a building. The décor inside isn’t much better. It looks like an actual home, which is supposed to be comforting, but it’s not. I know behind several closed doors are caskets filled with corpses. The sickly sterile stench, mixed with an obnoxious combination of fresh flowers, nearly chokes me. I can’t fathom what my aunt is even doing in a place like this.
    The director, Bob or Frank or Johnny or fuck-all, greets us, shakes our hands, and speaks in hushed, sympathetic tones. It’s almost as if everyone is afraid to speak too loudly for fear of actually waking the dead. It lends itself to this whole charade, that the bodies in this wretched place were actually sleeping guests, rather than human remains.
    Remains , I think with a sinking gut. That’s all that’s left of any of us, eventually.
    He leads us to his office, where his assistant takes the clothes from Lori. He tells us what arrangements my aunt had prepared in advance. While they talk about the wake and the funeral service, I stare at the crucifix hanging behind the funeral director’s desk.
    It’s all meaningless to me now.
    Lori steps up to the plate like a champ. She loves Susan almost as much as I do, and her faith is equally important. Thanks to Lori, I know my aunt will have the respectful sendoff she wanted. As we walk back to the house, I hold Lori close to me. I’ve never needed her more, and that scares me.
    It reassures me how strongly she hugs back.
    When the guests come, she’s the one who manages everything. I sit in Susan’s chair and itch for another drink, but I won’t tarnish Aunt Susan’s memory amongst her closest friends by turning into a profanity-spewing drunk for everyone to see.
    Instead I sit quietly, and nod through all the stories from all the people who, in their fruitless attempt to make me feel better, pull my nerves to the breaking point. How little it comforts me to hear that Aunt Susan is likely teaching Jesus to play piano in heaven now, when her piano sits silent across the room. When her bedroom is locked tight like a tomb, or her kitchen isn’t full of the delicious aroma of her cooking, and each and every thing I see or hear is a reminder of her loss.
    God could have anyone in all of time and space that he wanted, from Beethoven to Liberace. Susan was all I had, and it fucking hurts that she’s gone.
    Lori shoos all our guests away by eight o’clock that night. I start drinking and do not stop until I pass out in Susan’s recliner.
    We hold the vigil on the 28 th of December, and her funeral on the 29 th . Both our brownstone and the parish itself are filled to overflowing.
    Fortunately, for the wake, I’m allowed to drink all I want. It makes it easier to stomach all the eulogies given as each sad guest extols Susan Faustino’s many virtues to the grieving crowd. My nerves are dead by the time we make it to the funeral. I barely even crumble as I spot the golden eighth note around her neck as I pass by the casket to offer my final respects.
    Her color has been artificially restored, so she looks like an old woman sleeping within the satin interior of a cozy box. She doesn’t look like Susan, though. Her dress barely fits over her shrunken body, and her eyes look as if they have been sewn shut, and they probably have been.
    There is no twinkle to be found, no smile to remember. She is, simply, gone .
    It makes my job as pallbearer much easier.
    I don’t have to volunteer for this job. Plenty of good strong men are willing to do it for me, including Tony, who shows up with his