Gone But Knot Forgotten Read Free Page B

rubbed his whiskered cheeks against my ankles as I poured star-shaped kibble into his bowl. I stood and spotted the yoga studio flyer from yesterday’s mail. A flexible young woman sat smiling in the lotus pose, her palms pressed together in the prayer position. The last time I saw Dr. Lim at the UCLA Pain Clinic, he suggested I try yoga for the chronic discomfort of fibro. He pointedly looked at my hips. “It might help you lose a little weight while you’re at it.” I could have been so insulted.
    I reached for the phone and called the number on the flyer, still unsure whether yoga was for me.
    â€œSublime Yoga. Namaste .”
    â€œHello. My name is Martha Rose and I’m calling about your trial offer.”
    â€œGreat. I’m Heather. Let’s set up an appointment to give you a tour of the studio and afterward we’ll schedule you for a free class. When would you like to come in?”
    A long list of chores waited for my attention, beginning with the task of reading Harriet’s will and contacting Gan Shalom Memorial Park. “I’m pretty busy today, but how about tomorrow morning?”
    â€œPerfect. Give me your phone number and I’ll schedule a tour for nine on Thursday. And, Martha? Be sure to wear something loose and comfortable.”
    An hour later I showered and dressed in black slacks and a gray pullover. Ever since my hair turned salt-and-pepper, I discovered gray clothes complemented my coloring. With the accordion file next to me on the sofa, I prioritized the papers by the most immediate task first. The contact info for Gan Shalom Memorial Park, located in West LA, sat on the top of the pile. I punched in the number on my phone and after two transfers, a Mrs. Deener came on the line.
    â€œHello. I’m calling about Mrs. Harriet Oliver. My name is Martha Rose, and I want to make arrangements for her funeral.”
    â€œOh, yes.” Mrs. Deener spoke in a pleasantly modulated, almost unctuous voice. “The lawyer’s office told us to expect your call. You’ll need to come and sign release papers so we can transport the deceased from the county morgue. Although Mrs. Oliver is a prepaid, there are still a few decisions to be made.
    A prepaid? I bristled at the way the woman just reduced Harriet to a commodity.
    I looked at my watch. “It’s ten now. I can drive over the hill and meet you at twelve.”
    I got off the 405 Freeway at Howard Hughes Parkway and wound my way across Sepulveda Boulevard. A long driveway lined in Italian cypress trees meandered up the hill to the white marble administration building and chapel. Gan Shalom, one of several Jewish cemeteries in LA, had become a popular local destination. It was the first to offer “green” burials—not only politically correct but good for the environment. Here, according to ancient Jewish customs, the deceased could be wrapped in a shroud and placed in the ground without a casket or cement vault. Who knew that thousands of years of Jewish burial practice would become so LA hip?
    I pulled up to the complimentary valet parking, surrendered my car keys, and walked inside. I checked in at the reception desk at eleven fifty-five. At twelve sharp, and not a moment later, the middle-aged Mrs. Deener appeared in a baby blue wool suit and a brown wig drooping slightly forward. She clasped her hands together in front of her bosom and gave me the slightest smile. “Good morning, Mrs. Rose. I am so sorry for your loss. Shall we get started?”
    In her cozy peach-colored office, I signed papers and filled out forms. I insisted on reading everything and she didn’t rush me. I admired Mrs. Deener’s skill and patience in performing her slightly creepy job.
    Harriet specified she wanted to be buried next to her son in a section called Ayelet Ha Shachar, literally “Gazelle of the Dawn,” or “Morning Star.” Since this wasn’t the “green”