Page 20 of Mourner for Hire
I swallow hard. “How do you know about that?”
“A few internet searches. I hardly even had to meddle,” she answers, voice teasing. Her eyes soften, and she leans forward—a motherly gesture. This is getting aggressively personal very fast.
I stiffen.
Ten minutes ago, I walked into this home a poised professional, and now, I feel like a failed businesswoman ready to crash out on my therapist’s couch. The idea is illuminating. I can already feel the creative spark igniting in my chest. A whole beach cottage. Unlimited budget.
“Annabelle—”
“And I’ll pay in addition to the unlimited credit card for the renovation,” she cuts in.
“I don’t even know how to put a price tag on this or even if it’s about the money for me?—”
“Twenty-five grand.”
My rambling thoughts stop so abruptly, I can hear the blood rushing through my ears.
“That’s a lot of money.”
She giggles. “I know. But I’ve already written it in the will and talked to my lawyer—wait till you see him. He’s quite the looker. Probably too old for you, though.”
I scratch my jaw and try to catch up to her rambling. “I haven’t even written up our contract for this?—”
“I know, and I did it, because I hoped you wouldn’t say no.”
The assumption surprises me, but I think nothing of it. I’m a mourner for hire. My income is as sporadic as my Google Alerts.
“This is a lot of trust in me.”
“So don’t let me down!” She points at me and winks.
“And what is it I’m supposed to find exactly?” I query, and she smiles.
“You’ll know when you find it, I promise.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Can you be at all specific?”
“No, that’s not how it works, I guess.”
“You guess?”
She shakes her head quickly. “Anyway, trust me. And no offense, who would pass up twenty-five thousand dollars at yourage?”
I inhale through my nostrils and hold it for two seconds before letting it go slowly.
“Fine. I’ll do it.”
“Yes!” she exclaims, pumping her fists in the air and standing.
I can’t help but flash her an astonished smile. “You are very excited to pay a stranger twenty-five grand to do all these things after your funeral.”
She flops down. “Honey, we aren’t strangers. Not completely.” She smiles softly, taking my hand in hers. She reminds me of someone I can’t pinpoint in so many ways—a tender-hearted, rambling maniac with a heart of gold. “I knew your mom.”
I swallow hard and slip my hand out of hers—cold, prickles of hesitation climbing up my spine. “Really? I barely remember my mother.”
She nods and gives me a watery smile. “She was wonderful.”
A wave of panic hits me. My mind is already exhausted by the possibility of trying to remember. I’ve been through it all before. I’ve been hypnotized. I’ve meditated. I’ve been in psychotherapy for years, and nothing has surfaced. I’ve developed peace with not knowing, and accepted that I’d rather avoid triggers of hope.
