Page 32 of Mourner for Hire

“I’m not,” I answer truthfully. She raises her eyebrows questioningly. “Really. I admire you. You were trendy.”

She smiles and sits on the armchair next to me. “I let myself morph with the times, and I have zero regrets.”

I laugh a little, but my smile must have dropped because she follows her statement with…

“Why do you look sad?”

“Because you said you knew my mom, and I can’t find any pictures of her.”

“Do you want to find pictures of her?” Annabelle’s face contorts in confusion.

I realize this may seem like it’s coming out of the blue. When I met her, I wanted nothing to do with uncovering my past. But now, with every tiny glimpse, my hope is slowly overriding my stubbornness.

“I’m just curious,” I admit.

She looks at the closet. There are at least one hundred more picture boxes in there for me to sort through .

“She’s somewhere…” The hitch in her voice makes it sound like a complete sentence, but I know it’s not. “…in there.”

“What does that mean, Annabelle?”

She looks thoughtfully at the closet. “I hope you find it.”

“Please, don’t be cryptic.”

“I’m allowed to be cryptic. I’m a ghost.”

I don’t laugh. It’s not funny—it’s beyond frustrating.

“I’m being honest,” she clarifies. “I’m dead, wandering around this town I called home, and apparently, I can’t leave this purgatory until…” she swallows, a tearless well in her eye. “You find it.”

I stare at her. “Find what?” I shout, the words scraping out of my throat.

The pause screams louder than the ocean waves crashing against the shore outside the window. I squeeze my eyes shut, tired of hallucinating, and stomp into the bedroom, wishing I had a door to slam instead of these stupid beads.

My alarm screams at me at four a.m., reminding me that the idea of a sunrise hike always sounds better at night and not when the world is still meant to be sleeping.

I roll out of bed and slip on the outfit I laid out last night.

I weave my hair into a loose braid and throw on a black baseball cap.

I collect my notebook and pen in my backpack I packed last night.

The sky is inky, and the road past the driveway seems extra dark.

I used tohate this hour. I once remarked to my best friend, Morgan, that the only thing that happens between three and five in the morning are kidnappings and murders.

Her mom told me that’s not true—that’s when all the bakers wake up and start prepping the dough and baking fresh pastries covered in powdered sugar and cinnamon glaze.

That stuck with me. I started seeing the earliest hours of the morning as a special and sacred moment of the day and not a threat of danger .

Even still, I make sure I have a knife within easy access on my pack as I set out on the trail.

The footpath is crushed gravel at the beginning then slowly shifts to dirt, wet with the dew of the morning, surrounded by evergreen trees and poison ivy.

Roots tangle the smooth surface of the path so I’m careful to watch my step as the grade grows steeper.

The ocean roars in the distance, beyond the blanket of the trees.

The birds are chirping louder as the gray sky turns, whispers of dawn rising.

“The weather’s nice, huh?”

I startle for a split-second at the sound of Annabelle’s voice.

“What are you doing here?”

“I don’t know. I just kind of appear, and I knew it was Monday you were here so I wanted to make sure you don’t die or get eaten by a bear or attacked by a deer.”

“Deer don’t attack.”

She lets out a loud laugh. “Oh, sweet, city girl. Yes, they do.”

I eye her suspiciously. The sounds of animal-like screaming in the distance echo all around me and make me pause.

“What the fuck is that?”

“Coyotes.”

My gaze snaps to her. “They sound angry.”

“No, they’re just hungry. Coyotes are dramatic like that. But by the way they’re hooting and hollering tells us they’ve already found something fleshy to eat.”

“Disgusting.”

“Yeah, just keep going. Coyotes don’t usually attack people.”

“Fantastic. Do they attack ghosts?”

She laughs again, but says no more in regards to the form her body has taken.

“Do you know who you’re going to write the letter to?” she asks.

To be honest, I’ve wondered who I’d write the letter to since she specified I leave one in the mailbox at the hike’s summit, as specified in my list of duties.

“Hm-hmm.” I press my lips together .

“Do I get to know?”

I cock my head in her direction.

“Is this one of those boundary moments?”

I smile at her. “Look at you, learning new things in the afterlife!”

She tosses her head back and laughs, continuing our trek up to the peak.

As we move up the trail, she points out every plant and flower and tells me the name of eachand whether or not it’s poisonous. She’s also keen on telling me how much she loves it here. In these woods. In this town. On this coast.

I offer muted responses but mostly listen to her endless ramblings.

By the time I reach the summit, the trees have thinned, and my back is damp with sweat. I peel my backpack off of me as we reach the top.

“Well, you didn’t die. I guess I’ll leave you to it,” Annabelle says. “See you at the house.”

“Not today.”

“Right.” She winks and gives me two thumbs up before disappearing in the woods.

I spin back around and take in the view.

The top of the hill is a flat boulder that drops off on the western side to reveal the bright blue ocean roaring under a misty sky.

The Oregon coast is jagged, moving and shifting with every push and pull of the ocean.

Giant rock formations create coves and dimension as far as the eye can see.

The beauty of the terrain blows my mind no matter how many times I see it. The sun hasn’t risen yet, but my first thought upon looking out at the vast ocean is how beautiful this hike would be at sunset.

Just as the thought crosses my mind, the sun makes an appearance, cutting through the pine trees and illuminating the ocean and every section of beach and rocks below.

I was wrong .

The direction of this cliff perfectly hits every edge and plane, making the world below come alive.

I hold onto the moment, remembering the letter I’m supposed to write. I find a seat on a rock and start writing.

Dear Mom,

When I was in therapy last year, my therapist told me to list out foods, sights, sounds, sayings, and people from my childhood and begin the list by saying I am.

I haven’t been able to do it.

Every memory is fuzzy, incomplete, or entirely nonexistent. What foods did we eat? Where did we go? What music did we listen to? I don’t know. It was all stolen on the day of the accident.

So he told me to do it with things I know now. I’m holding onto the identity of who I am because as much as I desperately want to know you and remember you, I can’t.

I remember I love you.

I remember I was safe with you.

I remember that I miss you.

So let me tell you who I am after you left. I am TV dinners and funeral cookies. I am a gravestone without a meaning. I am condolences and the sound of Amazing Grace played on a church organ. I am tears on a black veil. I am a lover of people. I seem to be hated by one.

I am a woman searching for her memory while learning to be okay without it.

I am your daughter and I love you.

Vad a

I gently fold the letter and stuff it in an envelope then shove it in the rusted mailbox, covered in scribbles of hearts and initials.

My heart flutters at the promises these couples make with a stupid permanent marker.

I revel in the fact that I know how they must have felt, entwining their initials in a lopsided heart, thinking it meant forever.

I run my fingers over the names and initials.

J + J

L + E

I + A

There are also names spelled out. Jimmy and Ellen. June and Jessica. Anthony and Sarah.

My fingers freeze on Dunner and Kayla.

“Hmm,” I remark out loud.

“Something interesting?”

I jump and pull my finger back.

“Hey,” I squeak out. I’d rather continue to play peacekeeper no matter how much he loathes me. “I was just looking at all the names.”

“Everyone in this town has a history,” he says simply, unflinching.

He just stands there, towering over me with a pulsing jaw and a mind racing behind his eyes. His amber eyes soften just enough for me to remember, just for a fleeting moment, the man I met. The man with hard edges and a soft heart.

He looks away, breaking my hopeful trance in one blink.

“Did I scare you?”

“A little bit,” I confess. “I thought you might be one of those coyotes I heard on the way up. They sounded like a dying woman.”

He almost smiles and breathes in a way that seems like he might laugh. “That’s just how they sound when they mate and kill.”

I draw my chin back. “That’s… kind of gross. ”

He shrugs. “Mating season is wild, but that was probably them just telling their buddies there was an easy kill near the trail.”

The intention lands, but the joke does not. “Oooh, shaking in my boots.”

His face remains placid, and my heart continues to pound like it’s trying to beat out of my ribcage.

He stares out at the ocean, a fraudulent smile on his face. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

I smile out at the view, realizing he hasn’t made an entirely crass remark at my expense. It makes me hope that maybe he is finally going to play nice.

“Don’t get sunburned… you might turn to stone or something.”

My head snaps back in his direction and I snort out a laugh. “Oh, so now you think I’m a vampire?”

“No, you are just… here.” He scratches his neck like he’s allergic to me. “And impossible.”

A brief expression of remorse drifts over his face. Dominic’s moods change faster than the wind on the coast.

But I know he’s just trying to needle under my skin until I break. Instead of giving him the satisfaction, I laugh.