Anna in the Afterlife Read Free Page A

the sight of him.
    At her bedside, the nurse was urging her family to say goodbye and leave. A good idea—Anna had so many last-minute things to think about now.
    The nurse counseled them: “You know, the dying find it hard to die while the family is here. She feels your energy and that’s what’s holding her back. But hearing is the last sense to go—so you could all say a few words of farewell to her.”
    â€œHappy New Year, Mom-Mom,” her granddaughter whispered in her ear, shocking Anna with the news. New Year’s Eve! What a convenient night upon which to die! How fitting. How economical! She wouldn’t have to pay even for one minute of the new year, not one minute of the new month, in this hellhole. If she could exit before midnight, even her tax liability would end here.
    There was a flurry of all the heads of her beloved people bending over her bed, some tentatively stroking her good hand, her forehead. It was an ordeal for them, she understood this. She was wasted, emaciated, hollow, a bag of bones. Her eyes had rolled up into her head, her mouth hung open, her bony chest heaved with irregular gasps.
    Don’t worry , she wanted to say. I’m up here already, I have my beautiful auburn hair falling full down my back, all my fingers are ready for Mozart, my heart is open to Chopin. My beloved Abram is going to kiss me at the stroke of midnight. Go home, children. This is nothing at all, this getting of wings. Go home and live a while longer. Welcome the New Year. No one ever dies; it’s just a fairy tale .

Desairology
    IN THE DAYS when Anna was still walking the earth, she picked up a magazine called “Finest Finger Nails” in her doctor’s waiting room and read an article called “Is Desairology for You?” A caution in red ink just under the title warned that desairology was an aspect of cosmetology that required a mature and courageous person. “Caring for the nails of the deceased can be a meaningful part of your career.” The desairology practitioner was advised to execute contracts with her living clients, having them stipulate (as was necessary in any important pre-need planning such as wills, trusts, and burial plots) the color of the polish they preferred in death. Sparkles and swirls were not recommended for so serious an occasion but false nails were acceptable for the sake of ultimate beauty.
    Anna hoped that someone would not soon be painting her dead fingernails. She expected they would go on having a life of their own. Hair and nails were reputed to grow for months, even years, after death.
    The article warned that even if one could overcome the natural repugnance of working on the nails of the dead, the desairologist must understand it was a physically dangerous vocation as well. Mortuaries usually required the practitioner to sign a waiver excusing the mortuary in case she contracted a disease during the service. She was urged to be immunized for tetanus, hepatitis B, and tuberculosis. For extra safety, the gloves and clothes she wore during the service should be sealed in a plastic bag until they could be decontaminated. “Don’t let the idea scare you,” said the article. “Your client never hurt you when she was living, she’s not going to hurt you after she’s passed on. Just be as cautious working on a corpse as you are on a living body.”
    Even though Anna herself had passed on, she cringed at the idea of being exposed to additional fatal diseases from a manicurist. She was aware her body could not defend itself: it was about to be turned over to unctuous funeral directors, hairdressers, and—God help her—desairologists. She would have nothing to say about it. Anna had formally died at 8:35 P.M. on New Year’s Eve; the mortuary guaranteed pickup within two hours. Her remains—a terrible ruin of loose skin and skeleton bones—were still on the bed in her room in the nursing