Page 135 of Mourner for Hire
“Don’t talk shit about my whiteboard,” I warn, my voice low.
She almost smiles. “Life allows you to do many great things, but it doesn’t allow you to do everything. Nobody ever has it all or does it all. The bar was never his dream. He gave up his dream to have a last few moments with the last parent he had. And he did that. He was there for me.” Her voice breaks like a wine glass held too tight, and she straightens it. “Now it’s his turn to do what he wants.”
A tear drifts down my cheek, and she reaches out to swipe it away, leaving the feeling of ice on my face.
I clear my throat and make a dramatic spin in the room to collect myself, grabbing a random box of pictures and holding it to my chest. “I still have so much to do, and this place is a disaster?—”
“Don’t worry about the mess. Just find it.”
“Find what!?” I shout, unable to hide my complete irritation with her cryptic tendencies.
“Just find it. You’ll start remembering things and find it.”
I blink and shake my head as a tear drifts down my face. “It’s a common trauma response. My memory won’t come back. My mother died a long time ago.”
“I know,” she confesses. “I also know that is why you do this.”
“You do?”
“Yes, I read the article, remember? You said you were eight. And there wasn’t anyone at her funeral. ‘For someone as full of life and dreams, it killed my eight-year-old spirit to see only five people at her funeral.’ You said that. It broke my heart because we were there, Vada. Everyone in this town was there.”
An angry strangle of emotion eclipses my throat. “No.” I shake my head, adamant. “No, if you were there, I would remember. I would remember!”
A gentle empathy casts over her expression. I can visibly see her restraining her response and also her sadness. “Vada…”
“No, I remember her funeral. I sat on a black plastic chair, and my feet were dangling underneath, and the pastor went on and on about eternal life, and I was with my dad, and no one was there.”
“Sometimes our brains can construct other memories to protect itself?—”
“I know what our brains can do!” I shout, the anger I’ve suppressed finally rising to the surface.
Tears fall down Annabelle’s cheeks like broken crystals. “I don’t know what memory that is, but it isn’t your mother’s funeral. Your mother was so loved.Youwere so loved.”
I nod once, not because I understand but because I want this to be true despite my anger. Hot, fresh tears rush down my face, while my heart wills my brain to believe it. To make whatever is being told to me true. I clench my jaw, barricading the angry sobs pounding in my chest. I absorb everything she just said, my heart breaking in muted fragments. “I need…” I begin, trying to calm my sobs as I stand from my kneeling perch on the ground. “I need to go to bed.”
I wipe my cheeks in haste, and when I reach the bedroom, I turn to look at her one more time. She stares directly at me, icy blue eyes piercing my heart.
“It’s going to be okay, Vada,” she says softly.
I stare off into the room, unwilling to meet her gaze. I close my eyes and inhale. When I open my eyes, she’s gone.
I know I should sit with my emotions for a moment longer, but I’d much rather distract myself. Lingering on the past does nothing but make me angry for a life I lived but may never know.
Plopping down on the bed, I open the box. I draw in a deep breath and hold it for three seconds, realizing this is all a ruse. I came here to complete something, not get all worked up over childhood trauma I’ve made peace with. And since we’re getting closer to the completion of the cottage, it’s time to get ready for the celebration she asked me for. The eclipse is also getting closer,and I had the bright idea to have her celebration of life on the day of the eclipse.
I let the reality of my duties dry my tears and calm my emotions as I scour the contents of the box in hopes of finding a picture of Annabelle to use for the invite to the party. There are a few random shots near the lighthouse. One of Hope Rock. Some fuzzy Christmas morning pictures. I smile at the five-year-old version of Dominic—my God, he was a cute kid.
I sort the pictures, as I’ve been doing, and then I see one that makes me stop in my tracks. It’s of two women, their backs to the camera, running toward the ocean. One is wearing a green two-piece bikini with her black hair in a messy, windblown top knot. The other in a rust-colored one-piece and her blond hair flowing in the wind. The brunette is Annabelle, I presume. And the blonde is… Well, I think the blonde is my mother.
Armed with a Diet Coke, I sniff, wipe my tears, and continue to sort through box after box of photos. This becomes my hobby night after night until the labor is done. Until the closet is cleared and the cottage is complete. I dig through the boxes, finding all the things I’m looking for to fill the gallery. It is going to be signature nineties and straight perfection.
A few days later, I bite my lip and smile as my phone buzzes with a text from Dominic.
Dominic
I think I miss you.
Me
