Chapter 2 Black Pantyhose

As a second-year graduate student who was studying counseling, I was familiar with grief and loss. I interned at a practice that had people dealing with those two things walk through the doors every day.

I wasn't negating her feelings, but I would admit that I was assessing them.

Huffing, I came to the conclusion that my father was right and I reached out to grab the mug and take a sip of my coffee. I heard someone coming down the stairs and I prepared an apology before turning around to see it was only Zak.

He pointed up the stairs with a questioning look on his face and I just shook my head, not wanting to explain what had happened.

He shrugged and came over to pour himself coffee.

I sat down at the dining table and he followed suit, drinking his coffee black. I grimaced at the thought.

He looked at me, knowing I wanted to talk about something.

I sighed and placed the mug on the table.

''Do you think I overanalyze things?'' I asked him.

He fought back laughter as he placed his own mug down and signed back. ''You asking me that proves that you do.''

I scoffed and rolled my eyes as he laughed.

"You're lucky,'' I signed.

''You don't have to deal with people. You don't have to deal with emotions."

Zak was a data analyst for the military. He looked at computers ball day, every day.

''Psychology was your choice,'' he reminded me.

I sighed.

Why does everyone in my family make valid points at inopportune times?

We finished our coffee in silence and watched as our parents left for the mortuary. After they left, I began to clean, knowing there would be well over a hundred people in that house in the next days.

Zak helped at first, but ended up on the couch reading through my grandfather's old books.

Noticing a few things in the house that took up space like unnecessary plants and space heaters, I took it upon myself to take them up to the attic to make room for the guests that would be filling the space soon.

I carried one of the large space heaters up two flights of stairs band into the attic, dropping it with a thud once I crossed the doorway.

"Thanks for the help, Zak," I muttered sarcastically, rubbing the muscle in my back I was sure I had pulled carrying the heavy equipment.

I looked around the dusty attic, my eye drawing to the part that wasn't so dusty. I walked over to the bookshelf that was lined with old books, most of which didn't look like they had been opened in years. But there were three books on the second shelf that were dust-free and looked like they had been read recently.

My eyebrows furrowed, remembering the bookshelves in my grandfather's living room.

Why wouldn't he keep books that he was reading downstairs?

Feeling particularly nosey, I pulled one of the books down and looked it over. It had an olive green-colored cover with gold and black depictions drawn all over it. The edges of the pages were bright red and worn, so I knew it was a book that had been thumbed through frequently. I turned it over to look at the title and snickered at what I read: The Occult Truth of Lycanthropy.

"The old man always did have an active imagination," I muttered under my breath, smiling as I put the book back on the shelf.

I wiped dust from my hands onto my jeans and turned the attic blight off as I left the room. I could hear the sound of my parent's car driving up the path and all thought of the book was gone as I made my way downstairs.

The next day, the casket containing my grandfather's body was brought to the house, along with several arrangements of sympathy flowers that were placed around the house strategically by my mother.

We all showered and got ready to receive guests.

I wore an itchy, black shift dress with a pair of l God-awful black pantyhose. I put a long, burgundy cardigan over the dress so I could stay warm in the house and a pair of black riding boots that hid the warm, rainbow-colored fuzzy socks on my feet.

I was on my way down the stairs when I heard the doorbell ring and I stopped. The sound of guests speaking German to my mother as they arrived early for the funeral filled the foyer.

Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath. You can do this, Ella.

They're just old people.

I hated old people, especially those that I was somehow distantly related to. They always claim to remember you when you were two or three, or some other embarrassing age, and they can never believe how much you look like your mother.

I couldn't stand it.

Zak, on the other hand, loved the attention.

Unfortunately, there were always a few that never gave him the right kind of attention.

As the evening progressed and more and more people arrived, I was weaving my way through a sea of white hair and a cloud of century-old cologne when I heard it.

It was the sound of a man raising his voice in German. I looked to see where it was coming from and I felt a wave of anger rush over me as I realized he was speaking to Zak.

Walking over quickly, I put myself between Zak and the older man whose finger was in Zak's face.

"He's Deaf, sir. He can't hear your voice at any volume, so please quiet down," I said, speaking what German my parents had taught me.

"He's ignoring me!" The man shouted, ignoring my request. I rolled my eyes.

"No," I corrected again.

"He can't hear you."

"He's stupid then," the man said angrily.

I raised an eyebrow. "Communication is ninety-three percent non-verbal," I said.

"Just because he can't communicate the way you'd like him to for the remaining seven percent, does not make him stupid."

"Besides," I said, switching to English.

"You can't understand me now. Does that make you stupid?"

The man looked at me with furrowed eyebrows before dismissively waving his hand and walking away.

"Small-minded asshole." I muttered as he walked away.

Zak gave me an amused smile and I shook my head.

I envied him for not letting things get under his skin.

I almost began to sign to him before something caught my eye. In the crowd of aging people, there was a group of five men that I hadn't noticed before.

Built like soldiers, they were dressed in tailored black suits and they immediately stood out because of their age. I didn't figure they were any older than their early thirties.

They watched the crowd with sharp eyes that made me curious. I wondered who they were, and, more importantly, how they knew my grandfather. They made their way through the crowd, getting closer and closer to the casket that sat on the other side of the room.

Walking slowly, keeping myself parallel with them, I was trying my hardest to be inconspicuous.

I was so focused that my mother's voice cutting through the crowd frightened me.

"Thank you all for coming," she said in her native language.

The men stopped walking as everyone turned their attention to my mother.

"My family and I thank you for your condolences," she continued, placing her hand over her heart for emphasis.

"Before we begin the funeral, we would like to open the casket and allow everyone the opportunity to say their goodbyes to a wonderful man."

My mother and father motioned for Zak and I to meet them in front of the casket, I assumed to welcome everyone and give hugs to complete strangers.

I made my way through the crowd and over to them. Once we were all gathered, my father reached out and opened the casket.

I froze as my mother screamed.

The man in the casket was not my grandfather.

As soon as this realization hit me, his eyes opened.