Page 86 of Mourner for Hire
My jaw is so tight, I almost crack a molar. I try to take a breath, but it stays trapped, the anger of grief pounding on my chest. “Yeah, well, I can try.”
“Leave her alone,” Marylou reiterates.
“Why? She doesn’t belong here?—”
“Because your mom wanted her to be here.”
I shake off her answer even if it logically makes sense. The issue is: grief recognizes logic, but it refuses to let logic manipulate feeling. Even still, I drive home to my apartment.
Chelsey is opening up the bar when I arrive. Lemons, limes, and oranges have been prepped, and she’s freshening up the chalkboard menu with chalkboard markers.
“Hey, boss,” she throws over her shoulder.
“Hey, Chels. I’m going upstairs to change. I’ll be fast.”
“No rush,” she says, still outlining the drink items. “Hey, do you still want to keep the Vada on here? I know it’s a crowd favorite, but…”
I hesitate. The memory of her lingers in everything I do.
“Leave it. We won’t be open much longer as is.”
She gives me a sad nod. “Your mail is in the office.”
I don’t say another word, and I don’t make eye contact as I move past the bar and through the kitchen to my small office. The desk is littered with expense reports and payroll, and the mail is in the black plastic slot next to the light switch.
I see the school’s emblem immediately and tuck it under myarm with shaky fingers. I’m not ready to know about early acceptance to the resident program out at Good Samaritan in Corvallis, nor am I ready to make the plunge in that direction. It was my mother’s dying wish. When I remember that, I also remember Vada and her obnoxious presence in this town and my life—she is my mother’s dying wish.
I may not understand, but if I’m going to accept this situation, I need to try.
At least, the fuzzy remnants of memories are making it easier. It’s a shame she didn’t like the prank I played on her today. She used to love those. At least, I thought she did. But I don’t know her anymore, and I’d be a fool to blindly trust someone I only knew until I was eight. But accepting her is what my mother wanted.
I head upstairs to my apartment and toss the mail on the end table. I try and fail not to think about Vada. I know I need to make peace, but it’s hard.
These things may have been my mother’s dying wishes, but she said something else, too. She reminded me to live a life I want to live.
THIRTY
VADA
“Let me take you horseback riding.”
“Why?” My messy bun is sliding down the side of my head, and my hands are still covered in paint, despite my relentless scrubbing.
I’ve been buried in renovations for days, avoiding all port locals since the vibrator debacle at the supermarket.
Connor snaps his chin back. “Because it’d be… fun?”
I eye him curiously, his gaze landing on the latte and pastry bag in my hand. Something Sweet has quickly become a daily stop for me. I’m covered in grime, sawdust, and pent-up frustrations. Horseback riding might be good for me.
“Did you get the pumpkin bread or the apple cider donut?”
I can’t tell if he’s moving past the question to avoid rejection or if his mind wants to ask me a million questions and he doesn’t know what order to let them come out in.
“Donut,” I answer quickly. “When is horseback riding?”
“When do you want to go?”
I remember the buzzing Google Alert while I put a final coat of paint on the cabinets.
