Page 79 of My Killer Blind Date

He drags his sleeve across his forehead, then rubs his face, like he’s trying to get his bearings again.

‘So she’s really dead,’ he says, his voice mechanical.

I huff out my breath in a sob masquerading as a laugh. ‘I liked your version better, with her in Costa Rica or wherever.’

He nods slowly. ‘Would you like to do the honors? I can walk you through it. The second retort is almost to temp.’

I glance at the ovens, then down at the foot, which suddenly I don’t want anyone else to handle but me.

‘Yeah. I would.’

Devin guides me through the process – moving the foot out of the plastic bag into a cardboard receptacle. Loading it on to the conveyor. Back at the controls, he indicates the Start button.

‘When you’re ready.’

I take a deep breath, push it. The retort door rises, revealing the fiery interior. The conveyor moves the foot into the blazing light of the oven, then the metal door closes with a smooth swoosh. It feels too quick, too easy.

‘So that’s it?’

‘Now we keep an eye on the process.’

‘How long?’

‘Three hours for a whole body, give or take,’ he says, gesturing to the left retort. ‘But for this, not long. Maybe thirty, forty minutes? I’d say no more than an hour.’

I sit on the floor next to the bag of ashes, lean up against the wall and stare at the ovens, because it feels wrong to leave, even though there’s nothing for me to do at this point.

‘I’ll give you some space,’ says Devin. ‘I’m gonna go take a break.’

He heads out, and I’m alone in the cavernous silence of the basement. I try to imagine what’s going on behind the metal door. Do bodies literally catch fire? Or slowly blacken and crumble?

Thoughts ghost through my mind. Like the day Zoe came back from her first women’s march in DC, sweaty and stinky from the seventeen-hour train ride, sunburnt and exhausted but so full of life. I feel like we can really change things, Margot, if we all just band together. I really felt it – the power of the sisterhood all those old feminists were always talking about.

The memory skitters away as I think about her upcoming memorial. Her dad messaged me back this morning after I contacted him last night; he and his wife will be in attendance. Figuring out how to get in touch was a challenge. I’d already tried months ago via the area churches, to no avail. This time, I went through Facebook. Every Boomer I know is on it; surely Zoe’s parents weren’t the exception. Due to the astounding amount of Tim Dawsons, let’s just say it was a labor of love. Around one in the morning, I found a Tim who appeared to be the right age, married to a Sue, and living in Illinois. His bio said he was an engineer, but I shot him a message anyway, and now that he’s responded, there’s no doubt he’s Zoe’s dad. He must have changed careers.

I guess it’s good they’re coming. I wish I knew more about them. Obviously, I know Zoe was a victim of their controlling, ultra-religious bent, but she never went into a ton of detail. Still, things must have been bad for her to run away with her friend, junior year. It took three days for the authorities to catch up with them, and I still remember Zoe’s vivid descriptions of driving through the night, chugging black coffee from McDonald’s, blasting Taylor Swift’s ‘Welcome to New York’ as they drove into Manhattan right as the sun rose. A few days later, they were back, facing charges for car theft and expulsion from their private Christian school.

When Zoe started at the public high school fall of our senior year, I noticed her in the hall and immediately pegged her as not my type. I was a teacher’s pet who was always getting A’s. She was mostly getting D’s, because the teachers had pegged her as ‘trouble.’ But despite our surface-level differences, a deeper connection bonded us. Not just our angst, or our controlling families, but our desire to go out into the big, bad world and claim it. We became inseparable.

When Devin comes back, almost an hour has gone by, and my aching back is proof.

‘Should be done,’ he says. ‘Ready?’

Inside the retort, a small pile of ash and bone fragments awaits us. He hands me a long tool to scrape the hot remains into a receptacle. Next, we take the bin of remains to the bone grinder, which pulverizes the rough bits into a fine powder.

‘We have urns in the storage room, if you want to pick one out,’ Devin says, seeming like his normal self again, like he’s had a chance to regroup. ‘Then, we can store it here until the service on Wednesday. Why don’t you take care of the fresh ashes. I’ll add the ones from the beach later. The dust is really fine, so it can get messy.’

The storage room has a dank smell. There are quite a few urns to choose from, but at first glance, none of them seem to suit Zoe. They’re too ostentatious, too fussy.

I choose the best of the bad options, a beige ceramic container. It’s big enough to fit the ashes in the bag as well as her freshly cremated foot. I take my time with this process, not wanting to spill any. Finally, I put the lid on, label the bottom, put it on the shelf and turn out the lights.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Wednesday I arrive two hours before the memorial to set up.

Inside the lobby area, I vacuum the carpet. I open the double doors leading into the room where we’re hosting the memorial, and vacuum there too. Then, I unstack the chairs one by one and set them up in silent rows. At some point, Bill joins me to help. He leaves quietly when the last chair is positioned. He’s insisted on hosting the memorial at no charge, which I’m grateful for.

I’m pretty sure I’m dissociating as I set up the poster I had made of Zoe’s picture, with the dates of her birth and death beneath, because that’s the only way to explain how terribly calm I feel.