Chapter 14 - The Dress Hanging Behind the Door
The dressing suite smelled like carpet cleaner and cold coffee. It was tucked off the ballroom annex, a low-ceilinged room with a mirror ringed in bright bulbs and a couch that sagged in the middle. My black dress hung on the back of the door in a clear garment bag.
I stared at it for a long minute before I touched it. Same short sleeves. Same hem that had wrinkled when they held my arms. The cleaners had gotten the tear stains out of the front, or close enough that I had to look hard to find them. The tag was still stapled to the plastic.
My name is Maya, and I was twenty-three the day my father was buried twice.
I unzipped the bag slowly. The plastic clung with static. I lifted the dress out and held it against me, checking the zipper in the mirror. My hands were shaking, so I set it down on the couch and sat beside it until the shaking stopped. I counted the way I had practiced in the apartment. In for four. Hold. Out for six.
A knock came, soft, two taps. The funeral director stepped in with a clipboard against his chest. He was younger than the man from the first service, his suit gray instead of black, his voice lowered like we were already inside the chapel.
“Miss Ellis,” he said. “We have you on the list. Front section is filling. I wanted to go over placement.”
I nodded toward the chair across from me. He didn’t sit. He stayed standing by the door, careful to give me space.
“The family liaison asked that we keep this service without cameras,” he said. “No phones. No recording. Through me, specifically. I told her we can request it, we can post a sign, but we can’t enforce what every guest does.”
I smoothed the sleeve of the dress on the couch. “She doesn’t want what he says on video again.”
He didn’t answer that directly. He glanced at his clipboard. “We can offer you a seat toward the back side, near the staff door, if you want to slip out. A lot of families prefer that for — for sensitive situations.”
That was the offer. Hidden, but invited. I felt my throat tighten and I went back to the breathing. In. Hold. Out.
“I’m not sitting in back,” I said.
He wrote something down, then stopped. “Where would you like to sit?”
I stood and picked up the dress. “Front. Side aisle. Same side I was on last time, but sitting down. I want to be able to see the screen without turning around.”
He studied me for a second, then nodded. “Front side aisle. I can hold that chair.”
I changed behind the folding screen in the corner. The fabric was cool when I pulled it over my head, then warmed fast against my skin. The zipper caught halfway. I had to breathe out to make room and ease it up. When I stepped out, the director looked away politely toward the mirror lights.
I checked myself. The dress fit the same, a little looser at the waist because I hadn’t eaten right in days. My hair fell forward over my shoulders in the same waves. I pushed it back behind my ears so nothing covered my face.
“My plan,” I said, half to him and half to myself, “is to sit down and stay down. Even if people stare. Especially if they stare. Feet flat. Hands in my lap. Breathe before I look up.”
He gave a small, professional nod. “That works. If you need to step out, the side door will be unlocked. No one will stop you.”
I slipped on the low heels I’d worn the first day. They pinched at the back where blisters had healed and reopened. I walked the length of the room once, couch to mirror to door, to make sure I could do it steady.
“Is the screen set up the same?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am. Same placement. Large display, center front.”
I picked up my small bag and checked what I’d brought. License. The folded program from the first service with his name printed wrong — no mention of a daughter. The lawyer’s card. Nothing else I needed to prove.
The director opened the door and stood back. The hallway beyond was dim, carpeted, lined with closed doors. At the far end I could hear the low murmur of guests settling and the soft clink of the annex doors.
I paused with my hand on the frame. My pulse was up in my ears. I did the count again. In for four. Hold. Out for six.
May you like
“I’m ready,” I said.
He walked ahead of me toward the main room doors, clipboard tucked under his arm to leave both hands free. I followed, keeping my steps even, the hem of the cleaned black dress moving against my knees with each breath I took.
