Page 145 of Mourner for Hire
She smiles and exhales, her relief apparent, and then I hear the creak of the front doors and footsteps inside. I turn toward the noise. “Were you expecting company?”
She looks surprised and then shakes her head. “No.”
“Are you sure?” I peek my head through the doorway. Again, I hear footsteps. “You must hear that. The floorboards are creaking. Anyone here?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Something seems to catch her eye. I don’t know what, but the smell of lilac hits my nose, and I turn to Vada. “I bet it’s Mom.”
Vada’s eyes go wide, and tears kiss the corners of her eyes.
“I bet she’s doing one final inspection.”
I walk through the house, following the creaking of the floorboards. I don’t know why, but I start laughing.
“Mom was meticulous. And such a control freak down to the color, the shade, and the look of every drape, every throw blanket, and pillow, which is surprising considering the place was outdated and rather ugly if I’m honest.”
I stare over at Vada, and she’s smiling at the couch.
FIFTY
VADA
Annabelle twirlsaround the room and sits on the couch. “He’s right, Vada. You did a beautiful job.”
I smile at her but immediately look at Dominic. He tilts his head. “It’s my mom, isn’t it?”
“Who?” I ask while shaking my head.
“She’s here. It’s my mom.”
“Oh, this is perfect!” Annabelle says.
“No, it’s not,” I snap toward her even though the sentence works in response to Dominic.
He slowly shifts his gaze to where I’m looking. “You do see ghosts, don’t you?”
There’s very little humor in his tone, and I’m unsure how to be truthful without sounding delusional.
I lick my lips, buying time.
Dominic steps toward the couch and swipes his hand over it as if he’s trying to make her materialize in a way that he can see what I see.
What he doesn’t see is his mother swat at his hand and jerk backward. “I hate when people touch my face. Even my son.”
My lips twitch to smile.
Dominic notices.
“She said something, didn’t she?”
Of all the ways I thought anyone would respond to this weird hallucination that keeps happening, I didn’t think it’d be this: awe. Still, I say nothing.
He crosses his arms. “I knew you were a witch.”
“Witches don’t see ghosts.”
“Ah-ha! You admitted it.” He laughs. “What does she look like? Ghostly pale? White sheet? Broomstick?”
“Broomstick?” Annabelle shouts, aghast.
