Page 148 of Mourner for Hire
I stare down at the words.
Dear Vada,
Today, you are eight. Every year, I love you more, but I also like you more too. I hope you feel how much. In butterfly kisses and in hand squeezes. In home-cooked meals and fresh laundry. I give you little bits of love in all I do in hopes that one day you’ll realize how big my love is for you.
When Dad left
That’s where it ends.
Then it hits me.
It was my birthday, and we were headed to the bookstore and the donut shop. I stormed into Mom’s room and practically shouted, “Ready?”
She startled and tucked something away. I must have thought it was a birthday card I never got to see, and she never got to finish writing because thirty-two minutes later, a semi would veer into our lane on Highway 101, causing Mom to swerve, the tires to screech, and the car to flip three times before landing upright while Shania Twain still played on the radio.
One movement. One mistake. One second. And a little girl’s life was changed forever.
I hold the letters to my chest as memories start to crack open.
My mom and Annabelle at the beach or grabbing cupcakes at Something Sweet on Beach Street.
Wagon rides and sand castles.
Carving pumpkins and sneaking candy corn with Dominic.
Annabelle holding me at the hospital while CPS called my dad to pick me up.
A kaleidoscope of memories plays one after another as each memory topples off the shelves of my mind, cracking their spines on the ground and spilling out on replay.
The old dollhouse. The familiar perfume. The red wagon.This place.
A cool breeze shifts behind me.
“I used to live here.”
“Yes,” Annabelle answers behind me.
“How did I not see it?”
I knew my mother’s death was the catalyst for me blocking all of my memories away. I just didn’t realize how big every memory was—where I lived, who I loved. All of it lost and protected in the recesses of my mind. I didn’t realize I could be standing in the place I once knew like the back of my hand and not recognize it.
“Why didn’t I get to stay with you?” I ask, turning to see Annabelle.
“Your dad wanted you.”
“Did he?”’
Her flaccid smile falls. “I sent cards and packages. Tried to stay in touch with him as much as I could. But he would never pick up, and I don’t even know if you received any of my birthday cards.”
I shake my head. My dad so viscerally hated my mom, even in death. He isolated me from every part of her life from when she was alive, and I was just a child who had no choice. I spent my childhood searching for meaning, never really finding it, and not remembering it anyway.
Until now.
“You found it, didn’t you?” Annabelle asks.
“What? The letters?”
Her brow furrows. “No, honey. Your memory.”
