Page 29 of Mourner for Hire
“Oh, don’t you dare guilt-trip me about this.” I point an accusatory finger at her. “Maybeyoujust aren’t trying hard enough to communicate with him.”
She glares at me. “Go back to Shellport. Stay at the cottage.”
I ignore her and reach for the door.
It locks. I unlock it. It locks again. I whirl around, ready to scream.
“I’m calling the police.”
“And tell them what? You’re being haunted by a ghost and they won’t leave your apartment? That the spirit of Annabelle Dunne won’t ever be laid to rest until she knows her son is cared for by the woman of his dreams?”
I blink twice. “Why are you talking so fast? And also, what is this ‘woman of his dreams’ talk? Did you see him scream at me… at your funeral!”
Annabelle takes two steps into the room and flops back on the couch. “You have to go back to Shellport and stay in the cottage and renovate it and go through the closets and help him move on.”
“This is insane!” I shout.
“That’s love, baby.”
I let out a deranged and maniacal laugh—I don’t even sound like myself to my own ears. “We kissed once. We could hardly even use the word like.”
She stands quickly—she’s a rather agile ghost. “Ah-ha! I knew it! I saw the passion. He cared about you in some way. This will make all your duties even easier. Trust me.” She claps her giddy, manicured hands together and hops.
“Oh my God, get out. Please,” I beg.
She stays put.
“What else do you want from me? You hired me almost a year ago. I came. I shed tears and made sure he was fine. And guess what? He is fine. He hates me, loves you, and will miss you, but he’s fine.”
“Take him out,” she demands, and I laugh, throwing my hands on my head. “Come on, it’s basically in your job description.”
“No, I don’t stay involved with the families.”
“You promised?—”
“I didn’t know I knew your son. This is an ethical boundary.” I splay out my hands. “Also, it’s just really freaking weird.”
“You have a thing for my boy.”
I start pacing, hands on my head. “This feels gross. I’m not a funeral crasher. I’m a mourner for hire.”
“I’m not asking you to sleep with him.”
“You are asking me to spend time with him on what I am assuming is now his property while the ghost of his mother haunts me!”
“Hell, if you want to wait for marriage, that’s fine by me. Though, I am not particularly old-fashioned anymore,” she rattles on.
That’s what she does, I’ve found. There’s such a thing as rambling, and this woman is a straight rattler. This tink-tink-tink of words spewing out her ghostly mouth like an irritating chihuahua yapping at a doorbell.
“Marriage? My God, can you imagine you for a mother-in-law?”
“I’m dead. You’ll love it.”
I groan. “Please stop.”
She takes a seat again, finding a blank notepad and pen on the coffee table, and starts writing. “Now, he loves to hike, but hates to camp. I know, it makes no sense. He also loves the beach, but is terrified of the lake—again, makes zero sense. His favorite color is red, and he doesn’t have a sweet tooth, but could live off of tortilla chips and salsa.”
“Same,” I agree helplessly. I give up and flop on the chaise while she writes on my notepad.
