Page 41 of Mourner for Hire

THIRTY-THREE

DOMINIC

In truth, I wanted to understand—if only so I can understand why I still want her.

I want to be empathetic about her job and have this warm agreeable feeling when it comes to her and what she chooses to do for a living.

Unfortunately, her grandiose performance, followed by her tirade in the parking lot, coupled with the angry mob currently descending upon me, makes “understanding” impossible. In fact, the idea of finding common ground is downright laughable.

“How do you know her?” the short one asks me.

Two veins are popping out of my neck.

At first, I think of outing her, exposing her for the indecent con artist she is, but then the taller one—though he still caps out at my chin—says, “I don’t care if they’re our fucking sisters. We’ve been waiting five years for Mom to die so we could finally get what’s ours.”

I tsk, a small smile on my face as I watch true top-two percent privilege throw a fit in front of me. “What’s yours or your daddy’s?”

“Fuck you, guy!” the other one says.

“We just need answers. How did this happen? ”

I turn to the petite blonde in a full-length black gown who is speaking.

She grabs onto one of the son’s arms. “Right, babe?”

He ignores her and starts spewing off some expletives.

“Gentlemen, leave this man alone. He has nothing to do with your sisters,” says the man in the freshly tailored suit who officiated the whole ceremony.

I clear my throat and any intention of throwing Vada under these dumbasses’ penny loafers.

“I asked those beautiful ladies for directions to the main office. My mother has just passed, and they were kind enough to direct me without descending on me like vultures on roadkill. But considering the emotional state I’m in and all I have to plan, I can’t imagine caring about anything as minuscule as a family fortune when I just lost my last living parent. ” I bite out the last words.

Their faces deflate a little, and then the mask falls again, and they go back to their sociopathic tendencies.

I slip away from the crowd and march back to my truck.

When I get in and slam the door, it hits me. I’m behaving just like these spoiled sons, throwing a temper tantrum about something my mom wanted. It’s weird and in so many ways unethical, but it’s out of Vada’s control.

I slam the car in gear and head for the highway, hoping to make it home with enough resolve to understand the whole situation. I wish Mom were here. I wish she’d said something. I wish she’d explained it. I wish she’d left a letter or a fucking clue.

As I turn onto the freeway, I search my brain for memories of Vada.

The shoulder birthmark was a dead giveaway.

It’s funny what our brains choose to remember, and for some reason, for me, seeing her birthmark opened my mind to memories locked away.

Nothing completely vivid, but definite. Thanksgiving dinners at our house.

Hunting for seashells on the beach. Rough outlines of memories from a long, long time ago.

I pick up my phone to call Mom, and my fingertips go cold.

I can’t call her anymore. I can’t ask her questions or have her help me remember.

People often forget that. When time runs out, the questions don’t.

The need to call or text for just one thing, one question really quickly, doesn’t go away.

So much of my life was centered around Dad will know or Mom will know .

I can just ask them. Until one day, you just fucking can’t.

At this point, I have to trust Mom knew what she was doing, but I fear I don’t even if Vada’s job is starting to make sense.

Vada being an old family friend feels irrelevant.

Old family friends end up being criminals, drunks, and con artists all the time.

Just because we shared a few peanut butter sandwiches and carved pumpkins with our moms once upon a time doesn’t mean I owe her any loyalty.

Nor does the kiss we shared and my unbearable attraction to her make me trust her with anything that has to do with my mom.

I don’t want to think about it anymore. I don’t want to concern myself with her job, her motives, or what any of it has to do with my family. I just want to find a way to move on with my life.

Even if there’s a part of me, deep down, that can’t stand that this is my reality.

I want her to finish her job—the sooner, the better.

I want her to walk right out of my life and not look back.

Because if she does, I know I’m not strong enough to fight it.