Page 20 of Mourner for Hire

SIXTEEN

VADA

I rip my veil off when I get in my car and slowly pull out of the parking lot so as not to be dramatic and draw any more attention to myself.

And at this point, that is not something I should do.

I already drew all the attention I needed.

I planted the seed of doubt and infidelity in Ms. Sandra Bright’s mind.

According to Mr. Bright, Sandra had many suitors outside of their twenty-five-year marriage.

Many.

He brought receipts and evidence of her infidelity during our initial meeting. I was both impressed and devastated.

He must have seen my expression because he answered the unasked question with, “She’s the love of my life.

I just don’t know if I’m the love of hers, and maybe, despite how much I love her and how little regard she’s had for the sanctity of it all, I want her to think she wasn’t the only one having a little fun.

I figure let’s leave her with a question.

She can have everything else. I just want her to be tortured with wonder like she has tortured me. ”

I love Benjamin Bright. His heart. His sentiment.

I drive back to Shellport with a broken heart, sobbing for a good man gone too soon .

The emotional toll always wrecks me and leaves me wondering why I do what I do. Maybe I love the taste of my own tears. Maybe it’s because I haven’t cried enough for the loss of my own mother and it’s easier to place the burden of crying on someone else’s loss.

Maybe, maybe, maybe…

I arrive back at the cottage, wanting it to be my apartment, and collapse on the lumpy bed with a final sob. I jump when I hear a knock at the door and then trudge over.

Annabelle.

“Your life is depressing,” she says and walks in without permission.

“I thought you were going to give me space.”

“I thought you were going to figure out why I’m still here… Haunting you.” She enunciates the last two words with a very ghostly impression, and I scoff.

“You are not my responsibility.”

“I know, but listen. You need therapy doing what you do. I watched you cry the whole drive here. And you don’t even know Benjamin, and he did not know your mother.”

I gasp. “Excuse me?”

“Well, you know…” She bobs her head with her statement.

“You have got to get rid of this fucking nerve you have.” She is exasperating in the worst way.

“Right. I’m sorry.” Her usual chipper expression deflates then she adds, “I loved your mom so much.”

I freeze, holding her desperate stare. I can’t get past this feeling. I attend at least three funerals a month. Is it hard to keep track of the deaths? Yes. Does it break my heart and make me cry? Yes. Do I cry about the loss of my mom and how I felt losing her when I was eight each time? Maybe.

But now, I’m faced with a woman who knew her once upon a time, trying to convince me of who my mom was and not what I have made her out to be .

She glances around at the destruction of her cottage. I haven’t gotten much done over the last few days—mostly prepping for paint and stripping the kitchen cabinets of years of grease and home-cooked meals.

“It always looks worse before it looks better,” I say in defense of my process.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to. I could sense you judging the mess I’ve made.” I eye her accusatorily.

She sighs. “You know what I think? I think you should lay down for a little bit and then in an hour or two, get up, maybe run those jasmine stone roller things over your eyes so they aren’t so puffy, and then go to the town festival.

I promise it’s fun, and you will find some joy in such a terribly sad day. ”

“I need to sand the kitchen cabinets, though,” I say, muffled through the pillow I’ve buried my face in.

“Ah, the cabinets will be here when you get back.”

I think a moment and say, “Okay.”

She grins.

“But please, let me take a nap.”

After a two-hour nap, I shuffle into the kitchen to grab a Diet Coke. As soon as I crack one open, I eye the pine ladder leading to the loft. I poked my head up there once or twice, but now, I’m getting a sudden urge to deep clean and purge up there.

I grab a garbage bag and climb the ladder, then take in the space.

A single bed covered in a pink comforter. A dollhouse rests in the corner, and a small white bookshelf is filled with board games. I run my fingers over a dusty nineties’ version of Clue.

“These are staying,” I say, pulling out Monopoly to make sure it’s the version with the real metal game pieces, but as I do, a purple journal with a flimsy lock falls to the wood floor.

Abandoning the board games, I pick up the journal and run a hand over the worn purple cover. Hesitating for a half-second, I decide to open it. The lock breaks in one swift pull, revealing yellow, crusted pages as if water was spilled on them decades ago.

The first page says, “Dear Diary,” in early elementary handwriting on the top left, and the rest is completely blank.

“Hmm,” I muse aloud, shoving the diary in the garbage bag.

There are a few random pieces of garbage and broken toys on the shelves I decide to toss, as well.

When I reach the far side of the space, I spot a yellow and green Chinese finger trap.

I take it in my hands, pushing it down so I can insert my index fingers on either end, and pull, trapping my fingers in the woven bamboo. I pull twice and then…

“We’re stuck forever!” I’m shouting, seated on a park bench.

“Forever and ever!” the small voice next to me says.

I turn to look, only seeing a blue and white striped shirt before my mom hollers down the street. “Come on, Vada. It’s time to go! Get your finger out of that thing!”

Then I’m free and skipping down the brick sidewalk toward her.

It’s like my brain pulled an old VHS tape of a memory out from the repressed places of my mind and hit play without rewinding to the beginning.

“Mom,” I breathe it out, shaking my head, heart pounding with possibility. I repress the feeling with a clenched jaw.

I don’t know if it’s a real memory or simply my brain compensating due to the repressed hope of wanting to remember her.

Because, in all honesty, no matter how many times I placate my feelings and declare everything fine , there is a relentless part of me filled with relentless hope that I will remember my childhood.

When I sit with that feeling, I realize a massive piece of my identity is lost in the forgetting, making me feel like a ship without an anchor, adrift in an ocean I don’t even remember setting sail on .

I walk back toward the ladder, the floor creaking beneath my slippers, and make my way back down to the kitchen and my Diet Coke.

I know chugging half of a caffeinated beverage will do little to quell my racing heart, but I drink it anyway, convincing myself that whatever just happened was due to the weirdness of the entire situation.

Turning on a heel to go shower, my slippers squeak over the bubbled linoleum.

It’s a cream and beige Moroccan pattern and was most likely installed in the nineties.

It pops and bubbles in certain places and is covered in calcified dirt—the kind that accumulates after years and years of beach traffic.

There’s a small tear in the corner by the breakfast nook.

I dig my fingernails under it and pull until it rips completely, revealing— I knew it— beautiful hardwood floors.

I keep pulling and tearing, revealing square foot after square foot of real estate, awakening the vision I have for this space.

My heart starts beating faster, and I renovate this space in my mind.

Rich wood floors, warm white walls, sage-colored cabinets, bookshelves stuffed to the brim, and hanging potted plants.

It will keep the arches and the charm, but in an updated bohemian way.

Thirty minutes later, the kitchen and dining area are exposed, revealing hardwood floors in very rough shape. They’re worn and spattered with glue residue, but they hold promise. I keep working, finding the edge of the carpet and pulling back, revealing the extension of the hardwoods.

My excitement builds as I start piling up furniture and tearing up carpet in a frenzy. It’s dusty and chaotic. My tear marks are uneven, and I wish I had a box cutter to cut the seams to make it easier to roll, but I keep going.

By the time it’s up, I’m sweaty, dirty, and hunting in the shed on the back of the cottage for a hammer to pull up the warped carpet strips.

Still in my T-shirt and slippers, I start piling the carpet, tack strips, and forty-year-old linoleum in a pile out front. I make a note on the whiteboard to call and order a dumpster.

I tore the place apart in a matter of hours, but I can feel the tide of something pretty arriving.

This place is going to be gorgeous.

To celebrate, I decide to shower and throw on a sundress and head down to the festival. I deserve a drink.