Page 23 of Mourner for Hire
Her words make my composure crumble. I don’t want to think about Mom dying. Growing up, it was just us—the three musketeers. When Dad died, it was like losing a leg. Now, with Mom’s prognosis, it feels like a cloud of confusion is drifting over me. Where do I belong without an anchor? Who am I without my family?
“Promise me you’ll let life change, and promise me you’ll create a beautiful lifeyouwant to live.” She pauses for emphasis. “I’m not dying until you promise me.”
I laugh a little. “Well, then I guess I’ll never promise you. Iguess I’ll be miserable and lonely, manning a bar that’s barely staying above the red.”
She flashes a wry smile and narrows her eyes.
“Fine.” I relent while grief grabs me by the throat and squeezes. My chin shakes no matter how hard I bite down on my lip, and as soon as Mom says, “It’s okay, honey,” every tear I’ve never cried pours from my eyes. I fall onto her shoulder, shaking and sobbing while she holds me like I’m just a little kid.
“You’re always my baby. No matter how big you’ve grown or how many of those stupid tattoos you get, you’re my kid. Just don’t turn into one of those weird men with mommy issues, okay?”
I snort out a laugh and drag a hand down my face.
“I’m not ready, Mom.”
She cups my cheeks and collects tears on her thumbs. “I’m not ready, either. But it’s not up to us when we have to say goodbye.”
SIX
VADA
TWO MONTHS LATER
The early Septembersun is bright as it rises for the day of Annabelle’s funeral.
She was right. She died nine months after our meeting, and the funeral was scheduled for six weeks after that. I’ve met with people closer to death than she seemed to be, and I believed when they predicted their death, but for some reason, when Annabelle told me, I had my doubts.
Even still, I received a call from her lawyer, Sully, before the Google Alert even pinged my phone. Annabelle died peacefully in her home with her son by her side. She is being laid to rest at the Shellport Seaside Cemetery, and I am expected to be in attendance. My best friend, Morgan, will be keeping an eye on my apartment while I’m away, watering my beloved fiddle-leaf fig tree. I packed a small suitcase of my belongings for while I stay at Annabelle’s cottage, but I’ll be honest, the idea of staying there fills me with nerves. I’ve never had a client ask for such a prolonged request.
A part of me is prepared to be run out of town with pitchforks and holy water. Another part of me is excited to stay at a random beach cottage and renovate it. This is what I always wanted for my life—to paint and design and decorate—butapparently, playing a part at a funeral pays more lucratively, and Annabelle is payingverylucratively.
Most of the time, I think of myself as a good person who stands on a moral high ground of some sort, stabilizing the career path I’ve stumbled upon. I only accept clients whose goals for their funeral I agree with, no matter if they’re petty, personal, or devastating. But this one is just… invasive, to say the least.
How will I attend the funeral and stay at the cottage without anyone looking upon my presence with moral skepticism? Perhaps it won’t matter. Time will tell.
One step at a time, I tell myself as I sit in the back row as I test the waters and catch my bearings. Four men carry her casket to the front, and my throat tightens. I can’t pretend to have known her, and what I learned of her that day were just glimpses of her life, but she was so vibrant. So full of energy and hope and humor. She didn’t fear death, because she truly seemed to love life.
I swallow my tears momentarily. No one is looking at me now—I should save those emotions for when I actually need to put on an act. The casket moves to the front of the aisle, and as they set it down, I catch a glimpse of him.
Dunner. It’s what my friends call me.
The memory of him vaporizes all of my composure as I put the two very obvious dots together.
Annabelle Dunne.
Dunner.
He doesn’t have a dog’s name. It’s his last name turned into a dog’s name.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter.
The couple in front of me scowls over their shoulder. I bury my face in the beige cardstock of the program. I need to get out of here. I need to slink right out of this seat and abandon my promises and the money.
A part of me is hopeful he’s a distant relative. Or maybe hejust volunteers at the funeral home after he’s volunteered at the shelter because he is just that precious.
But as the slideshow of Annabelle’s life starts playing, I realize her son is Dunner. Dunner is Dominic. The son of Annabelle. My client. The man I’m supposed to watch out for because his deceased mother asked me to…
The man who, after I consumed one beer, one shot, and two mojitos, held me as I cried myself to sleep in his apartment. I feel like a weasel. I have wormed myself into his life in two very separate and distinct ways.
