Page 82 of Mourner for Hire
“On the way up,” I clarify. “I heard you talking to someone.”
Her cheeks flame, and her eyes go wide, but she answers. “My friend, Morgan.”
I take her in a moment. “Oh,” is all I say.
“On the phone,” she clarifies, pushing past me.
She almost makes it to the trailhead when I say, “There isn’t any service up here.”
I watch her swallow hard.
“You aren’t helping your case, Vada.”
“Oh, yeah, what case is that?”
“That you aren’t a lunatic.”
She chews on the inside of her cheek then clenches her jaw.
“Fine.” She pulls her backpack tighter. “I am crazy. A fucking lunatic. I set out to destroy you and take every bit of your legacy. I talk to ghosts and spend my Saturdays Ouija boarding… or whatever it’s called.”
I can’t help it. I toss my head back and laugh.
“Believe what you want, Dominic. But the more you beat this situation to a pulp, the more you insinuate about me and talk shit to all your friends, the more it tells me and everyone in this town that all you do is think about me.”
The last word falls off her tongue with a breathy threat and a painful shred of truth. Vada is always on my mind, no matter how much I want her gone.
She doesn’t wait for me to respond. But as she adjusts the pack on her shoulders, I notice something. A heart-shaped birthmark.
It looks eerily familiar.
A vague memory of a friendship surfaces. Nothing substantial. Sand castles and apple slices. Foot races andfighting over toys.
“I think I know you,” I whisper, just over a breath, but she doesn’t hear me.
She just disappears behind the pines.
Instead of returningto my apartment, I drive straight to Mom’s house. A SOLD sign hangs in the front yard.
The dumpster still sits in the driveway, due to be picked up next week. It’s strange how muchstuffdoesn’t matter when a loved one dies. I’ve spent the last two months cleaning out her house and prepping it for sale. I have a box of her rooster collection that I have no idea what I’ll do with. Joelle handled the garage sale, and I donated the money to the humane society under the name of our family dog, Darius Ruffker.
Don’t ask. All our dogs had names that were a play on famous people’s names.
Drew Barkermore.
Hairyson Ford.
Darius was our last family dog. He died when I was in high school. Mom and Dad were too sad to get another, and quite frankly, I wasn’t around anymore to convince them.
The red door squeaks as I step inside the house. I used to hear my mom in the kitchen singing, and the smell of cinnamon sugar would fill the air. Now it just smells like Windex and Pine-Sol. The carpet is new, and there’s a fresh coat of beige paint, ready for the next family to make their very own imprint on a fresh canvas.
We sorted through so much of the house before Mom died. She didn’t want to leave me with “a mess.” But the problem with that is that everything after her death felt transactional. The reading of the will. The funeral plans. Deciding what I should keep and what I should sell.
The only box left is my memory box, and my realtor left it on the kitchen counter for me to pick up, along with a beer and a note.
Make one final memory. Sorry for your loss.
I crack open the beer and take the box out to the back deck. The air is crisp yet warm, and the maple trees are turning a burning shade of orange. I take in the yard one last time. I grew up here. I learned to climb trees and ride bikes. I studied for tests at the kitchen table and had my first kiss in the driveway.
