Elizabeth Meyer - Good Mourning

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NOTE TO READERS: Names of people and places and identifying details of some of the people portrayed in this book have been changed.

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First Gallery Books hardcover edition August 2015

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Interior design by Davina Mock-Maniscalco

Jacket design by Regina Starace

Jacket illustration by Jae Song

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Meyer, Elizabeth, 1985

Good mourning / by Elizabeth Meyer ; with Caitlin Moscatello.First Gallery Books hardcover edition.

pages cm

1. Meyer, Elizabeth, 1985 2. Undertakers and undertakingUnited StatesBiography. 3. Fathers and daughtersBiography. 4. SocialitesUnited StatesBiography. 5. BereavementPsychological aspects.
I. Moscatello, Caitlin. II. Title.

RA622.7.M49A3 2015

363.7'5092dc23

[B]

2014039353

ISBN 978-1-4767-8361-1

ISBN 978-1-4767-8365-9 (ebook)

To Dad, Mom, and Damon

Happiness is beneficial for the body,

but it is grief that develops the powers of the mind.

MARCEL PROUST

Prologue

W ere all going to die.

Im not trying to bum you out. And I also know that somewhere, deep down, you are perfectly aware of the fact that none of us will be here forever. Death is a tough topicits scary to think about dying, and its not any less scary to think about losing someone you love. So we have a tendency to not talk about the end and all the things that come with it: funerals, gravestones, the nail-biting decision of whether to adorn your loved ones casket with orchids or peonies.

But not you, who picked up this book and thought, Give me some of that sweet funeral knowledge! Youre not afraid. Youre open-minded. And I dig that about you.

Not everyone is so relaxed when it comes to death, though. In fact, sometimes the people who have it all in this life are the ones who are most afraid of it. I guess when everything around you is so gosh-darn fabulous, you dont want the curtains to close. I get that. But even the people in the high-society circle Ive been running in since I was born cant escape the same fate as... well... every living thing ever. (I know, I know... Did she really just say high society? But theres just no term for the people I grew up around that doesnt solicit an eye roll. Trust me. Ive Googled.) I guess what Im trying to say is, death is hard for a lot of us to accept... and perhaps especially difficult for people who are accustomed to getting what they want, when they want it. Yes, your car is waiting for you. Yes, well find you a table. Yes, we can custom-make that for you. No is simply not part of their vocabulary. No, there is not a cure. No, there isnt anything else we can do. No, it wont make a difference if you pay me in Louis Vuitton suitcases filled with cash.

Dont get me wrong, the purpose of this book isnt to make fun of a bunch of silly rich people; in fact, I changed names and identifying details. If anything, death is the one experience other than birth that unifies all of usfrom the guy who drives the limo to the CEO of the company who built its engine. And since we cant avoid it, well, I figure we might as well embrace what weve got coming. Thats part of the reason I got into the death business in the first place. When I was twenty-one and most of my friends were Daddy-do-you-know-someone? -ing their way into fancy banks and PR firms, I was grieving the loss of my father, who had just died of cancer. Thats how I found myself in the lobby of Crawford Funeral Home, one of several premier funeral homes in Manhattan, begging for a job one day. This might not be politically correct, but Im just going to say it: anyone whos anyone in New York Cityor rather, anyone whos anyone whos dead in New York Citywinds up at Crawford. Its where loved ones said good-bye to everyone from John Lennon and Jackie O to Heath Ledger and Philip Seymour Hoffman. If you can afford it, its just where you go . One last social gathering to finish off a lifetime of champagne toasts.

Of course, not everyone in my life thought that my sudden desire to hang around dead people was as amazing as I did. Seriously, you would have thought Id traded in all my Armani gowns for some goth-chick combat boots and black lipstick. My best friend, Gaby, thought I was having a quarter-life crisis. My mom, well, she had to practically hold herself up against her Nancy Corzine sofa when I told her the news. But, Elizabeth, she said, her perfectly manicured nails digging into the velvet. You could work in fashion . Even my brother, Max, who usually doesnt give a damn what I do as long as it doesnt embarrass him (for which I should probably apologize now), was concerned. Does this have to do with Dad? he asked late one night when he called from his prestigious white-shoe law firm. Moms worried.

Maybe it was a little weird for a woman in her early twenties to choose to work at a funeral homeand Im sure my dads death had something to do with it. But mainly, I think I liked being there for people when they needed it the most. Ive said it a million times: just because you pull up to a funeral in a Bentley wearing Dior doesnt mean that it hurts any less. Death is death. Grief is grief. And as it turns out, I have a gift for planning last hurrahs for the richest of the rich (and sometimes the craziest of the crazy) so that their families can feel comfort during a really difficult time. When clients walked into the foyer of Crawford, with its ginormous ceilings and eight-foot oil paintings, I would greet them and theyd instantly relax. As one old lady in pearls once told me: I can tell youre one of us .

But things didnt always run so smoothly. There was the time I lost a body, the time I had to deal with a dead mans two wives (not ex-wives, wives ), the time I urgently raced around Crawford looking for a fucking brain. In my years there, well, I saw it all. And like any good funeral planner, Ive kept those stories locked up tight.

Until now.

ONE

It Starts with an Ending

Y ou know that feeling when someone tells you bad news, and for a second, its like youre watching someone elses life happen to your life? And then, after youve had a moment to absorb it all, theres this moment of panic. You realize you cant fast-forward to the happy scene where all the characters break out in a dance or clink their glasses of wine together over a table because Whew, thank God thats over . Now somebody roll the freaking credits. Thats how I felt when my dad, whom the rest of the world knew as Brett Meyer, told me he had cancer. If my life had a soundtrack, the music would have stopped in that moment. My dad? Cancer? Impossible.