Page 126 of Mourner for Hire
“He… um… died during surgery. His heart wasn’t strong enough to make it through the procedure. I didn’t get to say goodbye. I didn’t get to be there for my mom.”
“You couldn’t,” she cuts in.
“I know. But it still stings. Regret can still bloom in impossibility, you know?” Each point is punctuated with an ache in my throat I can’t clear no matter how many times I swallow.
“Dominic, he wouldn’t have blamed you,” she says softly, her voice like warm embers on my skin.
“It doesn’t matter. When you regret something, it doesn’t matter. Because I wish I had been there. I wish I had told him everything was going to be okay. I wish I held his hand and told him I loved him. I didn’t get to do that. There isn’t another way to frame it to make me feel better. I wish I had been there. Point blank period. And I will spend the rest of my life missing him and wishing the end was different.”
An exhale shudders out of Vada, but she doesn’t respond. She just grips my hand. Then it hits me…
Maybe I’ve always understood.
“I get why you do what you do,” I confess.
Her grip tightens, but she just looks at me, empathy encompassing her beautiful eyes.
“Death is unpredictable and unexpected. What an honor it must be to guarantee you give them the final word.”
Again, she doesn’t speak, but I watch a tear drift down her face and fall past her chin onto the flannel blanket.
“Any chance Chelsey can handle things at the bar tomorrow night? I want you to come with me.”
“To what?”
She smiles, tears in her eyes. “I have a very special funeral to attend tomorrow.”
FORTY-FOUR
VADA
“I think we’re late,”Dominic says as we pull into the parking lot of the cemetery an hour south of Shellport.
“We’re not,” I answer, pulling into a space in the far corner of the lot while a trail of cars is lined up to leave.
“Vada, they’re leaving.”
I place the car in park and smile at him. “I know.”
Without waiting for a response, I get out of the driver’s seat and round the car to the back, popping open the trunk. Dominic is soon behind, no doubt scouring the contents of the trunk.
Two sleeping bags.
A lantern.
Hand warmers.
Bug spray.
A thermos filled with hot apple cider.
“What are we doing?” he asks, not hiding an ounce of trepidation.
“Having a sleepover,” I answer.
“No, we’re not.” His defiance is comical.
“It’s all a part of my agreement, Dominic. So yes, we are.” I shove the sleeping bags at his chest, grab my basket of items, and slam the trunk.
