Page 12 of Mourner for Hire

EIGHT

VADA

Guilt and humiliation kept me from even looking in the rearview mirror as I drove all the way home to Portland.

A gray cloud is cast over the sky, letting a dense fog hover over the city.

I let out a breath. There were no ghostly encounters for the entire two-hour drive, and I made sure to keep my entire vehicle free of distractions that I could possibly construe as the undead.

My hands were on ten and two. Absolutely no true crime podcasts, and the radio was silent so I could see better.

That’s it, anyway. It must have just been my eyes—a hallucination triggered by grief. That’s a real thing: grief hallucinations. I didn’t see Annabelle in the cemetery. She didn’t speak to me. It was all in my head—triggered by her photograph or a song maybe.

When I finally make it to my apartment door, my humiliation has spiked to an overdose of mortification, and I slam the door shut behind me and flop on my couch, throwing my arms over my face.

“I’m calling Dr. Schmidt first thing tomorrow,” I mutter—a vocal reminder to myself.

“Who’s that?”

I scream at the sound of Annabelle’s voice, crawling up on the couch like a mouse is scurrying across the floor. My heart is pounding against the palm I’m holding to my chest, and a film of cold sweat immediately coats my skin.

Annabelle tilts her head, studying me as she moves through my apartment and takes a seat across from me on the chaise lounge.

“You all right, honey? I didn’t mean to scare you,” she says, then snorts, adjusting in the chair.

“Well, actually, I had a feeling I would, so I didn’t want to have this conversation while driving.

That’d be dangerous. Probably worse than texting and driving, or even drunk driving.

No, nothing’s worse than drunk driving.” She assumes the position on the chaise with a dramatic hand to her forehead, her black hair fanned out against the emerald velvet.

“What would we call it? Ghost driving? What is that one thing you kids used to say in middle school? Ghost ride the car?”

“Ghost ride the whip,” I correct with zero inflection. Half my body is numb, and the other is buzzing with nerves. Not quite fear. Annabelle is quirky, to say the least, and a rambling, overbearing, motherly jokester who talks too fast, to say the most.

“Ah, yes. Ghost ride the whip,” she hums the words and sinks further into the chaise. “These chairs are fabulous—very dramatic. Like me!” Her cackle echoes in my small one-bedroom apartment.

I stare at her, still crouching on the corner of my suede couch. She pops her eyes open and looks at me with a smile.

“I like your place,” she remarks, then looks around.

“Thanks,” I say wearily.

“Very eclectic,” she adds.

I nod and scan the apartment with new eyes.

The wood floors are original to the building, marked by years of use, and rich with a cherry stain.

My tan suede couch has clean lines but is rather comfortable for its size.

I opted for an emerald velvet chaise instead of a chair or loveseat because, one, I am dramatic, and two, working in death can be utterly exhausting.

The room is grounded with a bright Persian rug with hints of emerald and burgundy that match the kitchen cabinets .

Annabelle sighs. “Everything is so rich. The wooden countertops, the exposed brick, the colors of the rug.” She pauses and shimmies a bit into the lounge. “This velvet. It all feels so warm.”

“Thank you,” I say again, blinking hard and hoping my sanity has returned and she’s not there when I open my eyes again.

“They don’t tell you that about being dead.”

“What?” I ask, curiosity getting the best of me. I settle into the corner of the couch, easing my way into my lunacy.

“It’s cold here—when you die. I thought Heaven would feel like the warmth of the sun on an August day, but it feels like nothing.”

She seems to think for a moment about what she just said. Either that, or she’s about to drop another weird truth about being dead.

I clear my throat. “Well, you aren’t in Heaven so?—”

She snaps and sits up, leaning on her knees. “This is Purgatory.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “You haunting my life is Purgatory?”

“Yes!” She laughs, standing and twirling in a circle.

“There’s no dancing in Purgatory,” I say, standing and walking toward my apartment door. “I’m calling a priest.”

She cackles. “I don’t need a priest!”

“No, but I do!” I swing open the door. “Time for you to leave, Annabelle.”

As fast as I blink, she materializes in front of me, blocking me from opening the door. “I’m not leaving. You haven’t held up your end of the bargain.”

“This wasn’t a bargain; it was a transaction.

One I promised to not take any money from if I don’t complete it.

Which I’m not, and I won’t.” I shut my eyes at my speech of defense then take in a long breath and let it go slowly, balling my hands at my sides.

“I can’t believe this. I’m arguing with a figment of my imagination. I am hallucinating?—”

“Hallucinating?” Annabelle says, staying right at my shoulder as I pace back and forth. “I am not a hallucination, Vada. I’m real. Well, not real, per se. I used to be real. This is my spirit.” She twinkles her fingers and does this weird prancy step.

I stare at her, dumbfounded. “This is insane.”

“I know! I was thinking the same thing. I died and was floating around Shellport, trying to cross over, and no one could see me or talk to me until you came along! Now, I know it seems crazy?—”

“It is crazy.”

“—but I really think it’s because I’m supposed to be your spirit guide.” She folds her hands in front of her as if that settles it. As if we just discussed a luncheon at church.

My jaw stays slack until I muster up the ability to exclaim, “Spirit guide? What do you think this is? Hocus Pocus?”

She shrugs. “Maybe. But anyway, you need to get back to Shellport and finish the list I gave you.”

“No,” I argue.

“Yes.” She crosses her arms.

“You aren’t even real!”

“I am, and I’ll prove it.”

I twist my lips. “How?”

“I’ll tell you something you don’t know.”

I shrug and gesture like go right ahead.

“Have you googled my son?”

“No,” I answer, but I had planned to do it later.

“Great. His Instagram handle is Dunner96. At six-forty-eight this morning, he posted a picture of us when he was six and I was thirty-three at Naper Beach. He is wearing bright red swim shorts, and I’m wearing a black swimsuit.

My hair is permed. And the caption reads: Saying my last goodbye to the one who raised me. ”

Her voice breaks on the last sentence, and tears spring to my eyes without my permission.

She nods. “Get your phone and check.”

Reluctantly, I grab my phone from my bag on the floor. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

Playing into delusions has never been my specialty. Not with my job, my dating life, or my sanity. I open the app and search his handle. Sure enough, the picture is there.

“I told you I wasn’t lying,” she says. “Do you think I want to be here? Talking to you? I’d much rather be talking to my son and?—”

“Oh, don’t you dare guilt-trip me about this.” I point an accusatory finger at her. “Maybe you just aren’t trying hard enough to communicate with him.”

She glares at me. “Go back to Shellport. Stay at the cottage.”

I ignore her and reach for the door.

It locks. I unlock it. It locks again. I whirl around, ready to scream.

“I’m calling the police.”

“And tell them what? You’re being haunted by a ghost and they won’t leave your apartment? That the spirit of Annabelle Dunne won’t ever be laid to rest until she knows her son is cared for by the woman of his dreams?”

I blink twice. “Why are you talking so fast? And also, what is this ‘woman of his dreams’ talk? Did you see him scream at me… at your funeral!”

Annabelle takes two steps into the room and flops back on the couch. “You have to go back to Shellport and stay in the cottage and renovate it and go through the closets and help him move on.”

“This is insane!” I shout.

“That’s love, baby.”

I let out a deranged and maniacal laugh—I don’t even sound like myself to my own ears. “We kissed once. We could hardly even use the word like.”

She stands quickly—she’s a rather agile ghost. “Ah-ha! I knew it! I saw the passion. He cared about you in some way. This will make all your duties even easier. Trust me.” She claps her giddy, manicured hands together and hops.

“Oh my God, get out. Please,” I beg.

She stays put .

“What else do you want from me? You hired me almost a year ago. I came. I shed tears and made sure he was fine. And guess what? He is fine. He hates me, loves you, and will miss you, but he’s fine.”

“Take him out,” she demands, and I laugh, throwing my hands on my head. “Come on, it’s basically in your job description.”

“No, I don’t stay involved with the families.”

“You promised?—”

“I didn’t know I knew your son. This is an ethical boundary.” I splay out my hands. “Also, it’s just really freaking weird.”

“You have a thing for my boy.”

I start pacing, hands on my head. “This feels gross. I’m not a funeral crasher. I’m a mourner for hire.”

“I’m not asking you to sleep with him.”

“You are asking me to spend time with him on what I am assuming is now his property while the ghost of his mother haunts me!”

“Hell, if you want to wait for marriage, that’s fine by me. Though, I am not particularly old-fashioned anymore,” she rattles on.

That’s what she does, I’ve found. There’s such a thing as rambling, and this woman is a straight rattler. This tink-tink-tink of words spewing out her ghostly mouth like an irritating chihuahua yapping at a doorbell.

“Marriage? My God, can you imagine you for a mother-in-law?”

“I’m dead. You’ll love it.”

I groan. “Please stop.”

She takes a seat again, finding a blank notepad and pen on the coffee table, and starts writing.

“Now, he loves to hike, but hates to camp. I know, it makes no sense. He also loves the beach, but is terrified of the lake—again, makes zero sense. His favorite color is red, and he doesn’t have a sweet tooth, but could live off of tortilla chips and salsa. ”

“Same,” I agree helplessly. I give up and flop on the chaise while she writes on my notepad.

“He also works six days a week at that damn bar and considers Mondays his Sundays. That’s when he rests and gets right with God and all that,” she continues.

I shake my head in disbelief. “He has a very specific routine. Coffee at Something Sweet at seven a.m. before he takes the Jeep over to the arrowhead trails to hike the hills next to the beach.”

She keeps rattling off this man’s likes and routines like I’m plotting his murder.

“He makes an egg and bacon sandwich on an everything bagel almost every morning. It was his favorite since he was twelve. He also is super weird about his coffee. He drinks it?—”

“Black with a shot of espresso and two Splendas,” I finish for her.

“Hmm,” she says softly.

I don’t look at her, but I sense her smile through my closed eyes.

“Sounds like you did like him.”

“This feels deceptive.”

“It’s strategic.” She waves a hand in the air. “I’m just giving you the gist of him.”

The gist of him.

I thought I already had that. I was happy with the memory I had of him. The perfect kiss. The drunk crying. The sleepover. The everything bagel.

“Fine,” I agree reluctantly.

“Fine?” She sounds hopeful.

I sit up in the chair and turn to face her. “I’ll do it.”

“All of it?”

“Yes.” I breathe out a sigh of defeat. “On one condition…”

She raises her eyebrows, waiting for me to tell her my own terms of the agreement.

“You leave me alone after I finish the list.”

“Scout’s honor.” She salutes.

“And tonight,” I add.

“Tonight what?”

“Go away. I need to sleep.”

She laughs. “Okay, but we’re leaving at nine a.m. sharp to head back to Shellport.”

I throw my hands up and shake my head. “Whoa. Who said you’re coming with me? Can’t you just wiggle your nose and appear wherever you want?”

“No, that’s not how it works. It’s kind of like drifting, but there needs to be some sort of wind to get me moving.”

“Well, then can’t you get back there some other way?”

She laughs again. “Oh, honey, I haven’t driven in years.”