Page 99 of Mourner for Hire
When I get in and slam the door, it hits me. I’m behaving just like these spoiled sons, throwing a temper tantrum about something my mom wanted. It’s weird and in so many ways unethical, but it’s out of Vada’s control.
I slam the car in gear and head for the highway, hoping to make it home with enough resolve to understand the whole situation. I wish Mom were here. I wish she’d said something. I wish she’d explained it. I wish she’d left a letter or a fucking clue.
As I turn onto the freeway, I search my brain for memories of Vada. The shoulder birthmark was a dead giveaway. It’s funny what our brains choose to remember, and for some reason, for me, seeing her birthmark opened my mind to memories locked away. Nothing completely vivid, but definite. Thanksgiving dinners at our house. Hunting for seashells on the beach. Rough outlines of memories from a long, long time ago.
I pick up my phone to call Mom, and my fingertipsgo cold.
I can’t call her anymore. I can’t ask her questions or have her help me remember. People often forget that. When time runs out, the questions don’t. The need to call or text for just one thing, one question really quickly, doesn’t go away. So much of my life was centered aroundDad will knoworMom will know. I can just ask them. Until one day, you just fucking can’t.
At this point, I have to trust Mom knew what she was doing, but I fear I don’t even if Vada’s job is starting to make sense.
Vada being an old family friend feels irrelevant. Old family friends end up being criminals, drunks, and con artists all the time. Just because we shared a few peanut butter sandwiches and carved pumpkins with our moms once upon a time doesn’t mean I owe her any loyalty. Nor does the kiss we shared and my unbearable attraction to her make me trust her with anything that has to do with my mom.
I don’t want to think about it anymore. I don’t want to concern myself with her job, her motives, or what any of it has to do with my family. I just want to find a way to move on with my life.
Even if there’s a part of me, deep down, that can’t stand that this is my reality.
I want her to finish her job—the sooner, the better.
I want her to walk right out of my life and not look back.
Because if she does, I know I’m not strong enough to fight it.
THIRTY-FOUR
VADA
October arriveswith a cool breeze and a new color palette against the coast.
I’m convinced the people who say the beach is best in the summer haven’t experienced it in the glory of Fall. The foliage and trees along the coast shift to bright shades of orange and red, burning bright against the pine trees. The tall blades of grass in the dunes turn golden, and the sunsets burn brighter, illuminating the tapestry of the season. Warm and cool. Bright and dark. Alive and dead.
I spend my time working on the cottage. The dumpster is half-full, proving its worth with every shag rug or warped board I toss into it. The interior is completely painted, and I’ve replaced all the fixtures. I decided to pull the top cabinets off the kitchen and have them be the base of the bookshelf I’m going to line the walls of the loft with. I sanded and prepped all the cabinets for refinishing and plan to paint them a soft shade of sage green. I still need to finish the kitchen, bathroom, bookshelves, and back deck, but I’m happy with the progress so far.
While this type of work brings me back to life, I’m finding my position as a mourner drags me to death.
I’m always exhausted after funerals. It’s like a big presentationafter months or years of preparation, and the one from earlier today was no exception. A twenty-six year-old named Jared from Tigard. He was twenty-three when he called me, and his only request was that I attend. When I asked him why, he said it was because he thought no one would.
I’m pleased to report that at least two hundred people were in attendance. But I’m also devastated. He was so lonely while he was alive and didn’t feel loved by anyone who came. And maybe they tried. Maybe they reached out, and he didn’t know how to accept the love, but I wish I could fly back to that moment in the coffee shop on Second Avenue and tell him many people love him. So many, in fact, that there was standing room only at his funeral.
I wish I could tell him to look both ways before he crossed the street and that no, even though the red hand was only blinking, it wasn’t enough time to get across. I wish I could tell him to slow down. Don’t rush. Life will pass in a flash whether or not he makes the light.
I don’t get to tell him those things because, unfortunately, I can’t time-travel, and the only ghost I see is Annabelle.
The funeral was three hours long, and many people in attendance shared story after story, highlighting how much this young man was there for them. I wonder if they realized he didn’t realize anyone was there for him in return.
And I also wonder if this funeral is affecting my mental state so much because I, too, have felt the same.
When I arrive back at Shellport, I order my usual from the Hungry Hermit and slip into the shower.
By the time I’m clean, freshly shaved, and have barely slathered myself in lotion, the doorbell rings, and I head over, wrapped in a towel, to a jubilant Lucy eager to earn her tip for the day.
“Sorry, I just got out of the shower,” I admit, though it’s obvious.
“Not a problem.” She hands me a bag of savory goodness.
“Extra special sauce?” I ask, taking the bag from her.
“Of course. Thanks for the tip!” She takes two steps back with a wave and hops on her bike, trudging down the path.
