Page 110 of Mourner for Hire
“I thought we get new eyes and bodies, and everything is perfect in Heaven,” he counters.
“Ah, well, you don’t get that in Hell so maybe the coroner doesn’t want to chance it for you,” I reason, and a breath of a laugh escapes him.
He studies me for a moment. “Why did you bring that up?”
I clear my throat. “Because you are takingforever.”
“It’s been ten minutes.”
“You aren’t performing surgery, my God.” I’ve found him to be measured and meticulous with very steady hands, but if he doesn’t hurry it on up, I’m going to lose my mind.
His nostrils flare. “Don’t act like a toddler.”
I sigh. “Watching you measure this is like watching cement dry.”
He narrows his eyes at me and slips the pencil underneath his backward hat. “Fine. How would you do it?”
I take the pencil from under his hat, line up the piece of sheetrock, and mark it at the edges of the hole. I shift it and mark it again.
“Measure twice, cut once, Vada.”
I glare at him and measure the sheetrock against the opening again. “Looks good to me.”
“You’re stressing me out.”
I toss my head back and cackle. “I’m efficient. Now, can you mix up the mud while I cut this?”
The tense pulse in his jaw would indicate that letting me have my way is very stressful for him.
“Fine,” he says. “But if you cut that sheetrock and it doesn’t fit, you owe me fifty grand.”
I laugh. “Are you using your mother’s will against me?”
“Yes,” he says, cracking open the tub of sheetrock mud.
“You know I’m going to give the money back to you.”
“That never mattered.” He shrugs, then stares directly at me. “I’m sorry.”
I wait without prompting him to say more.
He grabs my hands, and I can feel the remnants of sheetrock dust on his calluses. “I’ve been awful to you. I’ve taken out a lot on you. I may not completely trust you yet, but I shouldn’t have treated you the way I did.”
I smile softly. “Are you groveling? Because you could do better.”
He laughs, rough and low. “No, just grieving. And I kind of suck at it.”
I reach up and cup his face, rubbing my thumb over his dimple. “Most people do.”
I watch the stern lines of his face soften with the ache of grief as it passes over his eyes. The more stressed out Dominic gets over this renovation, the more I realize it isn’t me he hates. At least, not necessarily. Dominic hates change. He hates the imbalance of life after loss. And while some may view a renovation as a symbolic way to start over, Dominic views it as me erasing his mother.
Just as the realization kicks in, I glance out the kitchen window and see Annabelle peering in with soft eyes. She clutches her chest and then outlines an air-heart with her index fingers.
“No!” I mouth, shooing her with my hand while Dominic’s back is turned.
“What?” she mouths back, her body doing full-blown charades. “You’re doing great!” She shoots me two thumbs up.
“Go!” I continue to mouth-shout while pointing in the direction of anywhere else.
