Page 35 of Mourner for Hire

TWENTY-NINE

DOMINIC

I let out a long, deranged laugh as I watch a frazzled Vada stomp out of the store and past me. The wind whips through her hair and sends the strap of her dress over her shoulder, revealing a heart-shaped birthmark on her shoulder once again.

Vada’s face disappears behind the hatchback of her black bug just as she was about to say a word that starts with f.

I turn to a gentle shove on my shoulder and find Marylou with a stern brow.

“Leave that harmless girl alone,” she says.

I have no idea if Marylou witnessed the entire checkout or if she’s just making assumptions, as she does. But I flash her my best smile. “Oh, come on. It was a harmless prank.”

“Put your dimples away, Dominic. You can’t run her out of town with sex toys and bad jokes. There’s nothing wrong with a vibrator anyway.”

“I did not need to hear that from you, but thank you.” I wince.

“Oh, you brought this conversation upon yourself, but if you need a few tips or would like to know the latest gadgets on the market, I’d be happy to host a Passion Party for you. ”

My eyes instinctively squeeze shut. “Oh, God, Marylou, that is so unnecessary to say to me.”

She crosses her arms with an I-told-you-so expression on her face. “Unnecessary as putting a box of condoms and a vibrator in Vada’s shopping cart when you knew the only person working the register today is Larry, and he loves to gab about whatever you buy… even the personal items.”

I stare at her blankly, then finally say, “I’m not apologizing.”

“Oh, sweet boy. I know you’re hurting, but you can’t take it out on her.”

My jaw is so tight, I almost crack a molar. I try to take a breath, but it stays trapped, the anger of grief pounding on my chest. “Yeah, well, I can try.”

“Leave her alone,” Marylou reiterates.

“Why? She doesn’t belong here?—”

“Because your mom wanted her to be here.”

I shake off her answer even if it logically makes sense. The issue is: grief recognizes logic, but it refuses to let logic manipulate feeling. Even still, I drive home to my apartment.

Chelsey is opening up the bar when I arrive. Lemons, limes, and oranges have been prepped, and she’s freshening up the chalkboard menu with chalkboard markers.

“Hey, boss,” she throws over her shoulder.

“Hey, Chels. I’m going upstairs to change. I’ll be fast.”

“No rush,” she says, still outlining the drink items. “Hey, do you still want to keep the Vada on here? I know it’s a crowd favorite, but…”

I hesitate. The memory of her lingers in everything I do.

“Leave it. We won’t be open much longer as is.”

She gives me a sad nod. “Your mail is in the office.”

I don’t say another word, and I don’t make eye contact as I move past the bar and through the kitchen to my small office. The desk is littered with expense reports and payroll, and the mail is in the black plastic slot next to the light switch.

I see the school’s emblem immediately and tuck it under my arm with shaky fingers.

I’m not ready to know about early acceptance to the resident program out at Good Samaritan in Corvallis, nor am I ready to make the plunge in that direction.

It was my mother’s dying wish. When I remember that, I also remember Vada and her obnoxious presence in this town and my life—she is my mother’s dying wish.

I may not understand, but if I’m going to accept this situation, I need to try.

At least, the fuzzy remnants of memories are making it easier.

It’s a shame she didn’t like the prank I played on her today.

She used to love those. At least, I thought she did.

But I don’t know her anymore, and I’d be a fool to blindly trust someone I only knew until I was eight.

But accepting her is what my mother wanted.

I head upstairs to my apartment and toss the mail on the end table. I try and fail not to think about Vada. I know I need to make peace, but it’s hard.

These things may have been my mother’s dying wishes, but she said something else, too. She reminded me to live a life I want to live.