Page 31 of Mourner for Hire

TWENTY-SIX

VADA

Got it. I can’t help out anyone in this sweet town unless Bozo the Clown deems me worthy.

See if I care, Dominic.

I thumbs-up the message and move on with my weekend because I don’t lose sleep over any man.

The following day, I schedule the dumpster’s arrival and call around to rent a floor sander for later this month.

With those on the calendar, I channel my frustrations into the cabinets, using a heavy-duty cleaner to strip off decades’ worth of dirt and grease.

I bag up the old throw pillows to toss and take pictures of the furniture to sell on Marketplace.

I put in an order for the hardware and backsplash for the kitchen and a vanity and tile for the bathroom.

I note to find a local slab warehouse to have countertops cut and make a list of all the lumber I’ll need for the open shelving in the kitchen, the bookshelves in the loft, and the trim and doors to replace.

By the end of the week, I’m buzzing with excitement over the prospect of the end result.

I’m well aware the amount of work is insane, but that’s what lists are for—to keep the creative chaos in line and then, line by line, the tasks get accomplished, leaving me with a beautifully renovated cottage.

I transfer each item to the whiteboard. Each item is written in orange, yellow, purple, green, and blue.

I write “ Throw the party during the eclipse” in black and “get the fuck out of here” in red.

I smile. I’ll be out of here in no time.

Even though it’s currently in a state of disaster, the list makes me optimistic about my ability to accomplish this. But before I embark on my next task, I have another funeral to attend.

As the ceremony progresses, I’m convinced I won’t be able to do what Carly Britton asked me to do.

I don’t even have to fake the tears here. They roll down my face faster than my handkerchief can wipe them away.

Carly Britton died after a ten-year battle with breast cancer. She hired me three years ago and I genuinely hoped I’d never have to attend this funeral. She has three kids, ages ten, twelve, and seventeen. She was first diagnosed when her youngest hadn’t even had his first birthday.

The doctors thought it was clogged milk ducts and a few rounds of mastitis, but she told me something deep in her gut told her it was something else.

After another bout of what her doctor thought was mastitis, she decided to bottle feed.

Even when her milk dried, the problems persisted.

She relentlessly advocated for herself until she got answers.

One uncomfortable mammogram later, she was diagnosed with breast cancer. Her baby was only nine months old.

But that’s not why I’m here, though the heaving sobs and shaking shoulders of three children being consoled by their father are enough for me to want to storm out of here and disassociate for twelve business days. Another part of me knows what they’re going through.

Nothing feels like home without your mom. And these beautiful, bright, amazing children are going to spend the rest of their lives without her and I know the feeling .

She told me her husband is a good man and a good father, and as sad as she was, she wasn’t worried he wasn’t capable.

But one thing she wanted was for her sisters to reconcile.

Apparently, her youngest and oldest sister are oil and water—one refuses to grow up and the other refuses to take care of her anymore.

She was the mediator, but she knew she couldn’t mediate when she was gone.

“I can’t do that,” I told her. “At least, I can’t guarantee?—”

“Please,” she begged. Then she gave me three friendship necklaces and my instructions.

So here I am…

“If anyone would like to say a few words about Carly, the mic is open,” the pastor says from the pulpit.

I wait for the stories to die down, but they don’t.

Carly was so loved. By PTO moms, neighbors, and even the mailman.

She was the kind of person who impressed love upon everyone she met, and I find myself nodding and sobbing through each story.

As the line at the mic dies down, I make my way toward it.

“Hello,” I say, my voice breathless and quaky.

“I am a friend of Carly’s. I met her in very unusual circumstances that are just for me and her to know.

” The crowd chuckles, and I meet the eyes of each of her sisters, sitting on opposite ends of the pew.

“A few years ago, I lost my sister.” The lie slices off my tongue, but the message is important.

At least, that’s what I tell myself. “Carly told me how sorry she was and that sisterhood is for the women who should be friends, but their wires get a little crossed.” People laugh.

“She believed God forces these strong, fierce women into a family because they’re the only ones that can truly handle each other.

And so I sat there with her, sisterless and just so sad.

And she promised she would be a sister to me, because she was blessed to learn how to be a sister by two of the best women in the world. ”

I look at her sisters, but they’re looking at each other, tears streaming down their faces.

“I know we were all blessed to know Carly and I hope we can all love like her too,” I say, as her younger sister gets up and sits next to her older.

I step away from the mic, and as I pass the sisters, I drop the friendship necklaces in their laps and leave.

Then I cry the entire way back to the cottage, wishing I could call her and say I did it.

A week passes, and I spend the following Sunday priming the cabinets for paint on the back deck.

I contemplated staining them, but some of the panels have been replaced with fake wood, and I know the stain won’t hold.

After two coats, I leave them in the sun to dry, strip off my dirty work clothes, and take a shower.

The descaling cleaner should arrive any day now to get the floors and tub in squeaky clean shape, but for now, the bleach scrub is sufficient.

I turn the water to scalding, letting it run over my skin to strip me of all the filth and dirt from the renovations of the day and watch it run down the drain.

When my skin is blotchy and hot, I turn off the water and step onto the cold penny tile.

My design mind has been taking in the smaller, untouched spaces since I arrived, and thankfully, this one, I won’t have to change much.

A good grout cleaning, tile descaling, and fresh paint over the wainscotting walls.

I’m thinking a smoky blue with gold fixtures.

The mirror is boring and rectangular so I’ll need to remove it.

I run my fingers along the edges, determining how it’s attached. I can tell by looking at it it’s not attached with metal prongs, and it doesn’t shift as if it’s hanging on nails. Then I realize it’s an old school medicine cabinet.

“Oh, this is staying,” I say, tucking my fingernails under the edges and pulling it open.

An old container of Noxema is resting on the shelf, along with some crusted Colgate, a dried-out toothbrush, Pocahontas Band-Aids, and a bottle of perfume .

I chuck all the items in the trash, smiling at the nostalgia of the nineties. But before I toss the perfume, I spray it in the air to give the scent of the nineties one final whiff.

But as soon as I smell it, my stomach flips and twists and turns, levitating to my chest.

A scent I can’t place but seem to instinctively know floods my senses and warms my heart. I place the perfume back on the shelf in the medicine cabinet and close it with a sore heart.

This place. This odd cottage. This strange town.

It’s painful to admit, but it’s healing too.

It’s as if little glimpses of recognition are reminding that my life existed before my mind let go of all the memories.

While I’ve made peace with never fully remembering my life before my mom died, this is at least giving me hope that there was love there.

I fall back on the sofa with a notebook and start drawing up plans for the loft bookshelves with an ice-cold Diet Coke in hand and leftovers in a Styrofoam container on my belly.

Between the leftover Chinese and the cramp in my hand, I’ve forgotten all about ghosts and Dominic.

Then my eye catches the closet in the hallway, and I immediately wonder what treasure trove exists inside the door.

I leave my notebook on the coffee table and rotate my wrist as I walk over to the closet and swing the door open with a squeak.

Annabelle kept all her photos she printed off at the one-hour photo department at the local pharmacy in shoe boxes.

It’s stacked with shoeboxes, some containing old birthday cards and random keepsakes, but mostly stuffed with photographs.

I retreat back to the couch with one and start sorting through the pictures.

Well after the sun goes down and somewhere around the seventeenth box, it’s clear Annabelle wears a size eight and has a wide array of taste in fashion. And also in hairstyles.

Not every photo has a date on it so I start realizing I can divide the pictures based on hairstyle.

The over-hairsprayed bangs and perm belong to ’92-’94. The Rachel appeared in ’95 and lasted until ’99 when the thick highlights and extreme side-part took over.

This woman stayed up with the trends. I’ll give her that.

I laugh to myself as I see a picture of her with black eyeliner framing her bright blue eyes.

“I tried, okay?”

“Jesus!” I jump, clutching the picture to my chest.

“Listen. I know I’m old for Avril Lavigne and Third Eye Blind, but man, they had some bops.”

“Why are you in here?”

“Oh, shit. Sorry,” she says, marching to the front door and ringing the doorbell.

I stand and make a dramatic gesture. “Do come in!”

She raises her shoulders and smiles. “Thank you!” She practically dances through the room. “Anyway, please don’t judge me for my hairstyles.”