Page 70 of Mourner for Hire
His encouragement falls on deaf ears, and he must sense it because he doesn’t continue, letting me wallow and be angry in an empty bar I can’t keep afloat just two months aftermy mom died.
I stare out the windows overlooking the valley as the sun begins to crest into the ocean, sending streams of golden light into the building. Life isn’t easy, I know this. There are no guarantees and no blueprint for how to live it. But everything seems to be happening at the same time, leaving me frustrated and confused about where my life is actually headed.
I sigh. “I just want good news. For once.”
TWENTY-FOUR
VADA
I haven’t eatenanything since Dominic dropped off cookies, and the inevitable sugar crash is starting to give me the shakes. Instead of beginning the scroll of doom on my phone while my stomach eats itself as I wait for the food to arrive, I examine the shell necklace.
The necklace has a conch shell.
It’s small, but it has a purpose.
I hold it up to my ear. I know the science of why it sounds like the ocean. It’s really the blood rushing through my ear and the sound waves that would normally vibrate out into atom after atom in the air are trapped by the glasslike walls of the shell, mimicking the sound of waves.
All at once, my vision spins, and I’m transported to a time where I am five years old, sitting on this couch, staring at my mom in a cream linen dress.
“Listen, sweet girl, you’ll hear the sound of freedom.”
“What’s freedom sound like, Mommy?”
“This.”
I pulled the shell to my ear and heard the whoosh-whoosh of the sea. The crash of each wave made me smile.
“When you hear this noise, think of me always, okay?”
“Okay, Mommy.”
“Do you hear it, Vada? Listen. Do you hear me?”
I can feel her breath on my skin as she whispers in my ear, blowing chills down my spine and making me lose my breath. It was as if she actually whispered it to me in this room, and the memory hits me so vividly that I drop the necklace and the shell chips.
“What… was… that?”
The doorbell rings, and I jump. It takes me three full seconds before I open the door to my first delivery of the day: breakfast burrito and a side of southern-style hashbrowns. The brown-haired young man hands it off and jumps back in his Honda Civic just as an old red Datsun clammers down the driveway. I accept the bagged white Styrofoam containers with a nod of thanks, and the old man walks back to his old truck just as a girl riding a blue bike with a basket comes rolling down the driveway, her teeth tight together as she’s trying to make a full stop.
The tires skid against the dry sand, making her lose her bearings enough that she slides into the lavender planted in the garden beds lining the house.
“I amso sorry,” she exhales. She has bright hazel eyes and fiery red hair under a baseball cap and helmet.
I shake my head. “It’s okay. Begonias will be going out of season any day now.”
“I know, but…”
“But it’s okay,” I reassure her, holding my hand out for the bag. “This must be my fish and chips with extra hot sauce from the Hungry Hermit?”
“Yes, and my mom threw in some extra cheddar biscuits.” She unclips her helmet and wipes her brow with the back of her hand. “Speaking of: please don’t tell my boss. And by my boss, I mean my mom… and my grandma and grandpa. They don’t want their restaurant to do delivery, but I begged and begged and told them I’d do it because I need the extra money and?—”
“Your secret is safe with me.” I take the bag and notice her ankle is scraped—not enough to be bleeding down her leg, but enough that she should clean it and cover it. “Why don’t you come on in and I can get you a Band-Aid for that.”
She looks down at the small wound. “I thought you didn’t like blood.”
I chuckle. “Word travels fast. Come on,” I say, nodding over my shoulder. “And no, I don’t like blood… but only my blood. That’s just a scratch. I can handle it.”
She grins at me. “I’m Lucy, by the way.”
