“I’m your friend,” Jenny said.
“Thank you, Jenny. But I want to live by the ocean. And I want to move somewhere the people are nicer.”
Jenny laughed, but Ms. Sutland just gave her a puzzled look, as if it hadn’t been a joke at all.
“I didn’t sell any of your things on the computer.” Ms. Sutland pointed to the shelves near the front of the store, where Jenny’s pottery was displayed.
“That’s okay.”
“I mean, I didn’t put it for sale on the computer. Because, I thought, Jenny ought to put them for sale on the computer herself.”
“Okay,” Jenny said. “So I need to take everything home with me today?”
“That would probably be best,” Ms. Sutlandsaid. “I’ll have to lock up the store when I leave.”
Jenny felt like crying. Ms. Sutlandhad always been nice to Jenny, when nobody else was. Probably because she was too eccentric to notice how weird Jenny was.
“You can’t go, Ms. Sutland,” Jenny said. “This town won’t be the same if you leave.”
“The town already isn’t the same,” Ms. Sutland said. “It’s a different place now.”
Jenny drank her tea and looked out the dusty window at the town green.
Chapter Eighteen
Esmeralda studied the face of the dead man on the table. Fernando Aguilar Ortiz had lived seventy-one years, and his face was leathery from a lifetime of hot sunlight. Thick calluses covered his hands. According to the pictures provided by his family, he had a cheerful smile but a dark, serious look in his eyes.
Her job was to bring him back to life for a day.
Esmeralda glanced at the embalming room door to make sure no one was coming. Then she touched her right hand to his cold, stiff face.
Immediately, she was in the village of Rio Pequeño in Mexico, caught in a swirl of bright costumes, the sound of maracas and guitarron and vihuela, clapping hands, rhythmic voices. It was a saint’s day festival, though she wasn’t sure which one. She looked up as she held tight to the hand of an older man with a gray beard.
This was Fernando Aguilar Ortiz’s first memory.
His life unfolded around her. It had not been a very easy one. When he was a little boy, a deadly fever had swept through the village, taking several cousins, an older sister and a younger brother, and his mother.
Fernando had attended a little bit of school at the Catholic church in town, but mainly he worked for his father, who raised goats. When he was sixteen, he fell in love with a neighbor girl, Lucia, and they were married, but Lucia had not survived her first childbirth. Neither had the child.
Soon after, Fernando made his way illegally into America. He worked first on a farm, and then got a better-paying job with a landscaping company. He met another girl and married her, and they had five children. In time, he created his own landscaping company with one of his good friends and two of his sons. He had seventeen grandchildren, who gave him delight without measure.
He’d been diagnosed with cancer when he was sixty-nine. His two devoted sons and his eldest daughter came to see him over the following two years, as did five of his grandchildren. The others lived too far away or were too busy, and this brought him sadness, but in his heart he forgave them.
He had died nine hours ago at the UCLA hospital, with one son at his side.
That was Fernando Aguilar Ortiz’s last memory.
Esmeralda had embalmed the body and dressed it in the coat and tie provided by his family. Now the real challenge began, using cosmetics to bring the semblance of life back to his face. The art of the mortuary cosmetics included using color to make the body appear to have a living circulatory system. Small, careful traces of red mixed in at just the right spots could bring a healthy and vital appearance to the deceased's face.
Once she had seen someone's life, Esmeralda’s understanding of the person helped guide her in making up their face and styling their hair. Maybe it was just small touches—a little shading here and there—but she did her best to subtly bring out the personality and emotional richness the deceased had possessed. The final viewing created a lasting memory image for the person's loved ones, and Esmeralda felt it was important that the families have a positive experience.
And it was much better than working with the living.
Esmeralda became absorbed in her work. On her headphones, she listened to Vivaldi. Esmeralda had not always listened to music while she worked, but in the last few weeks, she’d had a few nightmares about work. In these dreams, the embalming room stretched on forever, with mortuary tables as far as she could see, each with a body waiting for her attention. She couldn’t work fast enough—the bodies were rapidly decaying and crumbling, putting her into a panic to preserve them.