Page 50 of Mourner for Hire
But now, I’m faced with a woman who knew her once upon a time, trying to convince me of who my mom was and not what I have made her out to be.
She glances around at the destruction of her cottage. I haven’t gotten much done over the last few days—mostly prepping for paint and stripping the kitchen cabinets of years of grease and home-cooked meals.
“It always looks worse before it looks better,” I say in defense of my process.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to. I could sense you judging the mess I’ve made.” I eye her accusatorily.
She sighs. “You know what I think? I think you should lay down for a little bit and then in an hour or two, get up, maybe run those jasmine stone roller things over your eyes so they aren’t so puffy, and then go to the town festival. I promise it’s fun, and you will find some joy in such a terribly sad day.”
“I need to sand the kitchen cabinets, though,” I say, muffled through the pillow I’ve buried my face in.
“Ah, the cabinets will be here when you get back.”
I think a moment and say, “Okay.”
She grins.
“But please, let me take a nap.”
After a two-hour nap,I shuffle into the kitchen to grab a Diet Coke. As soon as I crack one open, I eye the pine ladder leading to the loft. I poked my head up there once or twice, but now, I’m getting a sudden urge to deep clean and purge up there.
I grab a garbage bag and climb the ladder, then take in the space.
A single bed covered in a pink comforter. A dollhouse rests in the corner, and a small white bookshelf is filled with board games. I run my fingers over a dusty nineties’ version of Clue.
“These are staying,” I say, pulling out Monopoly to make sure it’s the version with the real metal game pieces, but as I do, a purple journal with a flimsy lock falls to the woodfloor.
Abandoning the board games, I pick up the journal and run a hand over the worn purple cover. Hesitating for a half-second, I decide to open it. The lock breaks in one swift pull, revealing yellow, crusted pages as if water was spilled on them decades ago.
The first page says, “Dear Diary,” in early elementary handwriting on the top left, and the rest is completely blank.
“Hmm,” I muse aloud, shoving the diary in the garbage bag. There are a few random pieces of garbage and broken toys on the shelves I decide to toss, as well. When I reach the far side of the space, I spot a yellow and green Chinese finger trap. I take it in my hands, pushing it down so I can insert my index fingers on either end, and pull, trapping my fingers in the woven bamboo. I pull twice and then…
“We’re stuck forever!” I’m shouting, seated on a park bench.
“Forever and ever!” the small voice next to me says.
I turn to look, only seeing a blue and white striped shirt before my mom hollers down the street. “Come on, Vada. It’s time to go! Get your finger out of that thing!”
Then I’m free and skipping down the brick sidewalk toward her.
It’s like my brain pulled an old VHS tape of a memory out from the repressed places of my mind and hit play without rewinding to the beginning.
“Mom,” I breathe it out, shaking my head, heart pounding with possibility. I repress the feeling with a clenched jaw.
I don’t know if it’s a real memory or simply my brain compensating due to the repressed hope of wanting to remember her. Because, in all honesty, no matter how many times I placate my feelings and declare everythingfine, there is a relentless part of me filled with relentless hope that I will remember my childhood. When I sit with that feeling, I realize a massive piece of my identity is lost in the forgetting, making me feel like a ship without an anchor, adrift in an ocean I don’t even remember setting sail on.
I walk back toward the ladder, the floor creaking beneath my slippers, and make my way back down to the kitchen and my Diet Coke.
I know chugging half of a caffeinated beverage will do little to quell my racing heart, but I drink it anyway, convincing myself that whatever just happened was due to the weirdness of the entire situation.
Turning on a heel to go shower, my slippers squeak over the bubbled linoleum. It’s a cream and beige Moroccan pattern and was most likely installed in the nineties. It pops and bubbles in certain places and is covered in calcified dirt—the kind that accumulates after years and years of beach traffic. There’s a small tear in the corner by the breakfast nook. I dig my fingernails under it and pull until it rips completely, revealing—I knew it—beautiful hardwood floors.
I keep pulling and tearing, revealing square foot after square foot of real estate, awakening the vision I have for this space. My heart starts beating faster, and I renovate this space in my mind. Rich wood floors, warm white walls, sage-colored cabinets, bookshelves stuffed to the brim, and hanging potted plants. It will keep the arches and the charm, but in an updated bohemian way.
Thirty minutes later, the kitchen and dining area are exposed, revealing hardwood floors in very rough shape. They’re worn and spattered with glue residue, but they hold promise. I keep working, finding the edge of the carpet and pulling back, revealing the extension of the hardwoods.
