Emma Jane Holmes - One Last Dance: My Life in Mortuary Scrubs and G-strings

EMMA JANE HOLMES has spent most of her adult life working in death care, and her passion for writing led to the publication of her blog, Heels and Hearses, which amassed readers worldwide. The popularity of her adventures in the funeral home surprised her, landing a book deal. The blog has since been unpublished, the stories to be found exclusively in the book you hold now.

When not working with the dead, Emma Jane could be found on stage as an exotic dancer, trying to be sexy. She attempted to maintain a divide between the two worlds but the adult industry was as fascinating as the funeral home and is the backbone to her strength and character today. Dancing is still an important part of her life; she often attends pole fitness classes pretending she doesnt know all the tricks, and wears sequins during the day, just because.

Emma Jane has left the city and mortuary behind her, currently living on the Mid North Coast of Australia studying a Bachelor of Arts.

www.harlequinbooks.com.au

For the dead who saved me.

To the rest of us, may our last dance be sweet.

I consider it a privilege to be entrusted with the care of the dead. My account of dealing with the dead is designed to throw light on the processes of death and break down some of the taboos surrounding it.

It is common for funeral directors to be asked why they chose the profession, and more often than not they reply, Its my calling. I just knew it was what I wanted to do.

I truly believe funeral professionals are little messengers to the world. People rarely consider mortality when on the school run, stuck in traffic, while grocery shopping or climbing the career ladder. So, summoned by a greater power to tackle death head-on, in suit and tie or mortuary scrubs, death-care professionals keep hearts and biceps strong. Taking care of the dead and their survivors, they teach the grieving what theyve learnt. Gazing down into dead faces daily, they are reminded that every moment in life is beautiful; even the mundane ones. No one appreciates a dentist visit like a funeral director. Hey, were alive to have our cavities tended to. And the pain, well, another reminder our nerve endings are still awake. Funeral directors are a grateful bunch, and enjoy being the beacon of education to those who seem to forget their own headstone inscription is not too far away. If there is a Creator, I imagine He (or She) sat up in the clouds with all His (or Her) human-creating ingredients and when sculpting the funeral director, with a huge twinkling smile, blessed us with a magic wand: You are going to be friends to the dead and teach the living because I have far too much on my plate to do it. Off you go, and stay strong!

* * *

This is a true account of my experiences but dates, names and locations have been disguised to protect the dead and their families as well as the stage performers I worked with, some of whom prefer anonymity. Utmost regard for funeral home confidentiality has been applied by concealing all company details. While I have worked as a funeral director, there is no A Touch of Comfort funeral home. Events may be out of sequence, and some characters are composites of more than one person drawn from different workplaces. Conversations have been recreated to the best of my ability.

There is some dark humour in the book, drawn from some of my more complex experiences. There is no intention to offend anybody but with such a confronting subject, I know it is likely that I will, and for that I beg pardon. We all have our methods of coping with what we experience and, for me, finding humour and lightness in the midst of death is an affirmation that life continues.

Emma Jane Holmes

Motorists are rushing past the things worth seeing, instead of stopping to enjoy them. Travel slowly, stop often.

George Ade
18661944
RIP

Rumour has it, Brad Pitt might be there! Josies voice chimed through the bluetooth as I switched lanes on the M5. This is huge for our agency, Emma Jane. Can I lock you in?

Normally Id never answer the phone while on body collection dutiesmy hand had bumped the answer button while reaching for the radio in the company vehicle and technically, I didnt have a corpse on board. Just part of one.

Emma Jane? The waitressing gig?

Sure, Jo, Ill be there.

You sound distracted, honey. Are you busy?

Im sure many girls would squeal at the prospect of seeing Brad Pitts glorious hair in person, but no famous actor could spur excitement within me the way death did. My eyes darted to the box in the seat beside me, fastened with yellow tape, Complete Organ written across the side in marker. Mr Stephens brain was inside, finally released from the forensic pathologist. Tests finalised, the organ was now in the care of A Touch of Comfort funeral home.

Im just in traffic. My voice reflected Josies upbeat tone, omitting the fact that a brain in a box was sitting in the passenger seat, activating the turn on passenger seatbelt light on the dashboard at every corner. Josie was my managerwell, one of my managers. The cheery entrepreneur owned one of the most popular lingerie/bikini waitressing agencies in the city, which made me a bikini waitress. Adjusting my tie in the rear-view mirror, I saw heels, bottles of hairspray and fake tan littered across the back seat. While Josie had no idea I drove across the city collecting body parts when not working for her (okayI do much more than collect body parts), likewise, my colleagues at the funeral home had no clue I wore sequinned heels after dark, serving drinks in a bikini with a garter full of cash.

Shit! My foot slammed the brake to stop me from careening into the back of the vehicle that had switched lanes abruptly. The Brain in the Box fell to the floor with a light thud, my latte splattering it. Great. How would I explain a coffee-sodden box to the mortician when I handed her the brain? I scrambled for the organ and wiped the damp cardboard with some tissues from the glove compartment. With the traffic at a standstill, I buckled the brain in with the seatbelt and patted the box. Safe now.

I know this scene might appear rather odd to most people, but situations like this are my everyday reality. The previous day when delivering a decedent to a crematorium, I had flown to the rescue and removed a pacemaker from the dead ladys chest before she slid into the cremation retort (the pacemaker had been missed on her paperwork). In case you didnt know, pacemakers must be removed prior to cremation to prevent an almighty bang and considerable damage to the retort. With no pacemaker storage container available in that moment, I popped it into my pocket and for the rest of the day walked around with a mechanical object that once kept someone alive in my pants, covered in yellow, slimy chest fat.

I have to go, Josie. Ill be there, Saturday.

Okay, love, take care. Talk soon.

Mr Stephens brain and I steered into the manicured lawns of the funeral home and a funeral director, suit pressed and shoes polished, bounced down the stairs to meet me.

Great timing. Kevin beamed, meeting me at the drivers side window. His moustache was set in twirls at the ends. New case just arrived in the mortuary for you.

Awesome. Disguising exhaustion with a smile, I stepped out of the car. Anything interesting?