Page 128 of Mourner for Hire
I forcefully splay my hand in the direction of the headstone. Gregory Baxter is written in Bookman Old in all caps.
Dominic’s eyes go wide. “I forgot his name, okay?”
A dramatic sigh puffs out of me, and I fall to my knees, thermos in hand.
He holds out the paper cups from the basket for me to fill, and I do.
“Tell me something, Vada.”
Instead of responding, I just look at him and then back to the apple cider.
“How much are you getting paid for this?”
I finish pouring and tilt my head at him. “How much did the bar make last week?”
He draws back with confusion.
“Oh, so because my job is unconventional, that means you think you have a right to know how much money I make with each transaction?”
He holds up his hands. “I was just curious. This is wild?—”
“Wild. Crazy. Unconventional. Out of the norm. Weird, even. For some reason, since that’s my job, everyone thinks they get to know what’s in my pockets.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, and I wave him off.
“It’s fine. I’m proving a point. Everyone thinks they have a right to other people’s bank accounts if their salary is something they can’t look up on Google. What happened to the old days when money and religion were off limits?” I sigh. I didn’t realize how much this annoyed me until this moment, but I continue to process my feelings out loud. “We measure the worth of so many people based on how much money they make or what financial legacy they’ll leave behind. But what about the impact on people? It shouldn’t matter how much Greg or Benjamin or Marilee pays me for their final wishes. What matters is what they would say if they were alive. If they could walk into this cemetery and thank me and show their gratitude, then that is all I care about. Maybe more people with regular jobs should follow suit.”
I look away, my almost embarrassing outburst getting the best of me, but I can feel Dominic search my face.
“Is that why you got into this?”
I look at him, awaiting further explanation.
“Just to complete final wishes, or…”
His expression is genuine so I absorb it for a moment before answering.
“Maybe there’s this part of me that wants to leave a legacy, but I think it’s more than that. I want to ensure the people who are gone don’t feel left behind. We don’t get to choose how we die, and I’ve read that many people who have had near-death experiences say they have a moment of panic right before they die. Whether it’s regret or fear… or simple loose ends they didn’t get to tie or apologies they didn’t get to say. Death does that. It scares life back into you.”
“Have you ever been close to death?”
The question surprises me, and by his reaction, I can tell it registers in my expression.
“Sorry, if that’s?—”
“No.” I shake my head. For once, I want to talk about it. “Yes. I almost died once.”
Maybe it’s the moonlight, but it would seem Dominic’s eyes fill with tears. He doesn’t press, but he holds my hand, and for some reason, his touch is not just my undoing, but the wrecking ball crashing through the dam holding back all of my fear, trauma, and secrets.
“My mother died when I was eight in a car accident. I was in the backseat. I remember having a headache for a few days, but that was it. I remember waiting at the hospital with some social worker until my dad drove down from Seattle to get me. I didn’t see him much before then—at least that is what I’ve been told. I don’t remember most of my childhood. All I remember is it made no sense that my mother died and my father would never answer any questions about her. I don’t even think I saw him cry over losing my mom or the absence of me for the first eight years of my life. But he drank.” I tilt my head and watch the fog roll in over the cemetery. “I used to think beers rhymed with tears because I was convinced that was my father’s version of crying.” I chuckle a bit.
Dominic doesn’t, but he tightens his grip.
“Anyway, no one was at her funeral. That I do remember. I sat in a black plastic chair next to my dad and stared at my feet dangling over the maroon carpet. I think if my mom could have had a different funeral, she would have. I have always had all these questions about Mom—when you lose a parent that young, all your memories turn into feelings, if that makes sense. I can’t remember her, but there’s this strange, warm ache in my chest that makes me want to both laugh and cry when I think of her. Maybe that’s love. I think that’s me missing her and feeling whole because of her at the same time.”
“I think so, too,” he says, still holding my hand. He opens his mouth and seems to hesitate over his next words.
“What?”
