Page 49 of Mourner for Hire
Why is she here?
Who is she? Who is she? Who is she?
Then, I’m surprised. She doesn’t storm over. She doesn’t even seem emotional. She seems defeated—a checkmate of sorts.
The wife pulls down her sunglasses, and Vada does the same.
They hold their stare, communicating something in that glance. What? I don’t know. Then Vada nods, slides on her sunglasses, and turns toward me.
I slip away before she even knows I was here.
But there’s one thing I continue to confirm: she’s fucking crazy.
SIXTEEN
VADA
I ripmy veil off when I get in my car and slowly pull out of the parking lot so as not to be dramatic and draw any more attention to myself. And at this point, that is not something I should do. I already drew all the attention I needed. I planted the seed of doubt and infidelity in Ms. Sandra Bright’s mind.
According to Mr. Bright, Sandra had many suitors outside of their twenty-five-year marriage.
Many.
He brought receipts and evidence of her infidelity during our initial meeting. I was both impressed and devastated.
He must have seen my expression because he answered the unasked question with, “She’s the love of my life. I just don’t know if I’m the love of hers, and maybe, despite how much I love her and how little regard she’s had for the sanctity of it all, I want her to think she wasn’t the only one having a little fun. I figure let’s leave her with a question. She can have everything else. I just want her to be tortured with wonder like she has tortured me.”
I love Benjamin Bright. His heart. His sentiment.
I drive back to Shellport with a broken heart, sobbing for a good man gone too soon.
The emotional toll always wrecks me and leaves me wondering why I do what I do. Maybe I love the taste of my own tears. Maybe it’s because I haven’t cried enough for the loss of my own mother and it’s easier to place the burden of crying on someone else’s loss.
Maybe, maybe, maybe…
I arrive back at the cottage, wanting it to be my apartment, and collapse on the lumpy bed with a final sob. I jump when I hear a knock at the door and then trudge over.
Annabelle.
“Your life is depressing,” she says and walks in without permission.
“I thought you were going to give me space.”
“I thought you were going to figure out why I’m still here… Haunting you.” She enunciates the last two words with a very ghostly impression, and I scoff.
“You are not my responsibility.”
“I know, but listen. You need therapy doing what you do. I watched you cry the whole drive here. And you don’t even know Benjamin, and he did not know your mother.”
I gasp. “Excuse me?”
“Well, you know…” She bobs her head with her statement.
“You have got to get rid of thisfuckingnerve you have.” She is exasperating in the worst way.
“Right. I’m sorry.” Her usual chipper expression deflates then she adds, “I loved your mom so much.”
I freeze, holding her desperate stare. I can’t get past this feeling. I attend at least three funerals a month. Is it hard to keep track of the deaths? Yes. Does it break my heart and make me cry? Yes. Do I cry about the loss of my mom and how I felt losing her when I was eight each time? Maybe.
