Page 28 of Mourner for Hire
She snaps and sits up, leaning on her knees. “This is Purgatory.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “You haunting my life is Purgatory?”
“Yes!” She laughs, standing and twirling in a circle.
“There’s no dancing in Purgatory,” I say, standing and walking toward my apartment door. “I’m calling a priest.”
She cackles. “I don’t need a priest!”
“No, but I do!” I swing open the door. “Time for you to leave, Annabelle.”
As fast as I blink, she materializes in front of me, blocking me from opening the door. “I’m not leaving. You haven’t held up your end of the bargain.”
“This wasn’t a bargain; it was a transaction. One I promised to not take any money from if I don’t complete it. Which I’m not, and I won’t.” I shut my eyes at my speech of defense then take in a long breath and let it go slowly, balling my hands at my sides. “I can’t believe this. I’m arguing with a figment of my imagination. I am hallucinating?—”
“Hallucinating?” Annabelle says, staying right at my shoulder as I pace back and forth. “I am not a hallucination, Vada. I’m real.Well, not real, per se. I used to be real. This is my spirit.” She twinkles her fingers and does this weird prancy step.
I stare at her, dumbfounded. “This is insane.”
“I know! I was thinking the same thing. I died and was floating around Shellport, trying to cross over, and no one could see me or talk to me until you came along! Now, I know it seems crazy?—”
“It is crazy.”
“—but I really think it’s because I’m supposed to be your spirit guide.” She folds her hands in front of her as if that settles it. As if we just discussed a luncheon at church.
My jaw stays slack until I muster up the ability to exclaim, “Spirit guide? What do you think this is? Hocus Pocus?”
She shrugs. “Maybe. But anyway, you need to get back to Shellport and finish the list I gave you.”
“No,” I argue.
“Yes.” She crosses her arms.
“You aren’t even real!”
“I am, and I’ll prove it.”
I twist my lips. “How?”
“I’ll tell you something you don’t know.”
I shrug and gesture like go right ahead.
“Have you googled my son?”
“No,” I answer, but I had planned to do it later.
“Great. His Instagram handle is Dunner96. At six-forty-eight this morning, he posted a picture of us when he was six and I was thirty-three at Naper Beach. He is wearing bright red swim shorts, and I’m wearing a black swimsuit. My hair is permed. And the caption reads: Saying my last goodbye to the one who raised me.”
Her voice breaks on the last sentence, and tears spring to my eyes without my permission.
She nods. “Get your phone and check.”
Reluctantly, I grab my phone from my bag on the floor. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
Playing into delusions has never been my specialty. Not withmy job, my dating life, or my sanity. I open the app and search his handle. Sure enough, the picture is there.
“I told you I wasn’t lying,” she says. “Do you think I want to be here? Talking to you? I’d much rather be talking to my son and?—”
