Page 83 of Mourner for Hire
And now, it’s been reduced to a single box. It’s filled with trophies, medals, and random artwork from over the years. There are several math journals and my science project from eighth grade—a diorama of the digestive system made with toilet paper rolls and balloons. At the bottom are class photos from kindergarten through sixth grade. One with my dad when I was ten, and another with my mom at my high school graduation.
I’m grateful for the photographs. There weren’t many at the house, so these may be all I have left. I used to hate when Mom would take pictures, as many grumpy adolescents do. It seemed so wasteful and unnecessary. Obnoxious, even. I didn’t realize how much pictures mattered until they were all I had left.
There’s another Kodak print on the bottom of the box, and I pull it out. It’s me, probably in first grade, holding a knife, aggressively stabbing a pumpkin I’m supposedly carving. Next to me is a little girl, her head tossed back in laughter. A tidal wave of recollection hits me.
I turn over the picture.
Vada & Dominic, age 7
I sigh. The ache of old memories pulsing to the surface.
Yep. Idoremember her. The more I linger in that realization, the more memories seem to surface. Carving pumpkins, eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on the beach. I have a vague recollection of her obsession with caterpillars and apples.
But the realization doesn’t make me feel any better. In fact, it just frustrates me more.
TWENTY-EIGHT
VADA
Days pass,and Dominic seems to evaporate into thin air.
Good.
If he isn’t going to help, then I need to focus on the tasks at hand if I want to complete this renovation and have it ready for the big party Annabelle wants to celebrate her life.
I spend my days pulling staples out of the wood floor, sanding cabinets, painting walls, and fielding calls from Connor. Each time he texts, or we speak on the phone, I don’t get the impression that he’s hitting on me; he’s just more or less the welcome committee in this small town, which is adorable but unnecessary. I came to work, and that’s all I want to do. I haven’t had a funeral to attend in weeks, so being able to fill my time with the renovation is a relief, not to mention Annabelle’s credit card to pay for my expenses.
Each day. I remind myself that I don’t care to make friends. I don’t want to get used to my homemade pumpkin spice latte and banana muffin from Something Sweet. I don’t want to learn the backroads like the back of my hand. I don’t want to grow accustomed to the endless deer traipsing near the cottage. I don’t want to, but due to longevity and my unforeseen tenderness for this town, it would appear I am.
I’ve diligently ordered from the Hungry Hermit every Wednesday, Thursday, and Saturday, rotating through the menu with ease. Fish and chips remain my favorite, but the clam chowder in a bread bowl is absolutely divine as the weather turns and the fall nights grow chillier. I enjoy my chats with Lucy before she hops on her bike and trudges down the sandy walkway. Based on what she tells me, I think her mother and I would be friends under different circumstances, but they’re staying behind whatever line Dominic drew in the sand.
So I just get to support their business from afar. And as much as I’d love to live off of eating only from the Hungry Hermit menu, I must also replenish my cupboards with some staples, so I head to the supermarket to stock up.
I mindlessly wander the aisles, still getting to know the lay of the land and deciphering my grocery route. I fill my cart with some fresh berries and a tub of spring mix and another of spinach, along with bagels from the bakery, cream cheese, smoked salmon, and capers. After grabbing granola, yogurt, and popcorn, I turn toward the toiletry aisle, clipping the heels of the person in front of me.
“Oh my gosh. I am so sorry. I didn’t see you crouched down there, and by the time I did, it was too late, and I know how bad that…” I ramble faster than my mind can realize I just about took out the Achilles of my arch-nemesis. I finish my sentence in lowercase, “…hurts.”
He sighs and grits his teeth. “Lovely seeing you here.”
“Always a pleasure.” I mimic his sarcasm.
He glances at the contents of my cart. “Changing of the guard?”
I squint at him. “I’m sorry. What?”
He reaches into the cart and pulls up the two family-sized tubs of spinach. “You won’t be able to finish this before it gets bad.”
“Excuse me.” I snatch the tub from him and place it back inmy cart. “One, it’s rude to touch people’s food. Two, you don’t know me and my eating habits?—”
“I happen to know you order a lot of takeout.”
I roll my eyes. “And three, I make a killer berry and spinach breakfast smoothie.”
“Sounds disgusting.”
“It’s delicious. I make it thick and sprinkle a little granola on it for a little extra oomph.” I mime holding a smoothie and sprinkling granola on top. He stares at me, unconvinced. “Anyway, my eating habits are none of your business.”
He clears his throat. “How’s the cottage?”
