Page 55 of Mourner for Hire

FORTY-FOUR

VADA

“I think we’re late,” Dominic says as we pull into the parking lot of the cemetery an hour south of Shellport.

“We’re not,” I answer, pulling into a space in the far corner of the lot while a trail of cars is lined up to leave.

“Vada, they’re leaving.”

I place the car in park and smile at him. “I know.”

Without waiting for a response, I get out of the driver’s seat and round the car to the back, popping open the trunk. Dominic is soon behind, no doubt scouring the contents of the trunk.

Two sleeping bags.

A lantern.

Hand warmers.

Bug spray.

A thermos filled with hot apple cider.

“What are we doing?” he asks, not hiding an ounce of trepidation.

“Having a sleepover,” I answer.

“No, we’re not.” His defiance is comical.

“It’s all a part of my agreement, Dominic. So yes, we are.” I shove the sleeping bags at his chest, grab my basket of items, and slam the trunk .

“The funeral is over,” he says.

“People ask for different things sometimes. Your mom did,” I remind him. I walk toward the cemetery, the blanket of dusk swallowing up the daylight with each passing moment.

“What did this lady ask for?”

“Man. Forty-three and an extreme introvert. His name was Greg Baxter,” I answer as we climb the hill and then find the brand-new headstone near an oak tree, the leaves burning bright orange and the soil freshly patted and raked.

I roll out a tarp from my basket to place under our sleeping bags to protect us from the dew.

“Okay…” Dominic draws it out. “I’m still not following.”

“All he wanted was for someone to stay the night with him the first night he’s in the cemetery because he’s an extreme introvert and has trouble making friends, and he didn’t want to be alone.” I grin up at Dominic as I take the sleeping bag from him and roll it out.

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

“We can’t stay the night in a cemetery.”

“It’s not illegal.”

“I think it is…” His jaw is getting a little shifty, and his eyes dart all around the cemetery.

A laugh falls out of me. “Oh, Dominic, are you scared?”

“No,” he says quickly, but the way it comes out makes him sound like a cranky teenager.

I laugh. “We’ll be fine.”

“How do you know? Have you done this before?”

“No, but I brought hot apple cider,” I answer as if that makes everything better.

His expression flattens. “Really? Apple cider is going to protect us from—” he gestures to the headstones around us, “—ghosts.”

“Ghosts aren’t real,” I bite back, but it feels like I sank teeth into my own skin. Annabelle cartwheels through my mind, and I stare at Dominic for a beat.

“What?” he asks. “You do see ghosts, don’t you?”

“No!” I shriek.

“I knew it. You’re a freaking witch?—”

“Ghosts are not witchy.” I wince.

“One of those spirit guide thingy majiggies.”

“Okay. First of all, people are not thingy majiggies. They are human beings. And I think you’re thinking of the term medium, and no, I’m not that. I’m just a regular person.”

He glares at me.

“Lay down, Dominic.”

He doesn’t.

“Lay down. Drink apple cider. Take a damn breath. You’re making Greg nervous.”

He starts to recline on the sleeping bag and then snaps his head in my direction. “Who the fuck is Greg?”

I forcefully splay my hand in the direction of the headstone. Gregory Baxter is written in Bookman Old in all caps.

Dominic’s eyes go wide. “I forgot his name, okay?”

A dramatic sigh puffs out of me, and I fall to my knees, thermos in hand.

He holds out the paper cups from the basket for me to fill, and I do.

“Tell me something, Vada.”

Instead of responding, I just look at him and then back to the apple cider.

“How much are you getting paid for this?”

I finish pouring and tilt my head at him. “How much did the bar make last week?”

He draws back with confusion.

“Oh, so because my job is unconventional, that means you think you have a right to know how much money I make with each transaction?”

He holds up his hands. “I was just curious. This is wild?— ”

“Wild. Crazy. Unconventional. Out of the norm. Weird, even. For some reason, since that’s my job, everyone thinks they get to know what’s in my pockets.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, and I wave him off.

“It’s fine. I’m proving a point. Everyone thinks they have a right to other people’s bank accounts if their salary is something they can’t look up on Google.

What happened to the old days when money and religion were off limits?

” I sigh. I didn’t realize how much this annoyed me until this moment, but I continue to process my feelings out loud.

“We measure the worth of so many people based on how much money they make or what financial legacy they’ll leave behind.

But what about the impact on people? It shouldn’t matter how much Greg or Benjamin or Marilee pays me for their final wishes.

What matters is what they would say if they were alive.

If they could walk into this cemetery and thank me and show their gratitude, then that is all I care about.

Maybe more people with regular jobs should follow suit. ”

I look away, my almost embarrassing outburst getting the best of me, but I can feel Dominic search my face.

“Is that why you got into this?”

I look at him, awaiting further explanation.

“Just to complete final wishes, or…”

His expression is genuine so I absorb it for a moment before answering.

“Maybe there’s this part of me that wants to leave a legacy, but I think it’s more than that.

I want to ensure the people who are gone don’t feel left behind.

We don’t get to choose how we die, and I’ve read that many people who have had near-death experiences say they have a moment of panic right before they die.

Whether it’s regret or fear… or simple loose ends they didn’t get to tie or apologies they didn’t get to say.

Death does that. It scares life back into you. ”

“Have you ever been close to death?”

The question surprises me, and by his reaction, I can tell it registers in my expression .

“Sorry, if that’s?—”

“No.” I shake my head. For once, I want to talk about it. “Yes. I almost died once.”

Maybe it’s the moonlight, but it would seem Dominic’s eyes fill with tears. He doesn’t press, but he holds my hand, and for some reason, his touch is not just my undoing, but the wrecking ball crashing through the dam holding back all of my fear, trauma, and secrets.

“My mother died when I was eight in a car accident. I was in the backseat. I remember having a headache for a few days, but that was it. I remember waiting at the hospital with some social worker until my dad drove down from Seattle to get me. I didn’t see him much before then—at least that is what I’ve been told.

I don’t remember most of my childhood. All I remember is it made no sense that my mother died and my father would never answer any questions about her.

I don’t even think I saw him cry over losing my mom or the absence of me for the first eight years of my life.

But he drank.” I tilt my head and watch the fog roll in over the cemetery.

“I used to think beers rhymed with tears because I was convinced that was my father’s version of crying. ” I chuckle a bit.

Dominic doesn’t, but he tightens his grip.

“Anyway, no one was at her funeral. That I do remember. I sat in a black plastic chair next to my dad and stared at my feet dangling over the maroon carpet. I think if my mom could have had a different funeral, she would have. I have always had all these questions about Mom—when you lose a parent that young, all your memories turn into feelings, if that makes sense. I can’t remember her, but there’s this strange, warm ache in my chest that makes me want to both laugh and cry when I think of her.

Maybe that’s love. I think that’s me missing her and feeling whole because of her at the same time. ”

“I think so, too,” he says, still holding my hand. He opens his mouth and seems to hesitate over his next words.

“What? ”

His brows draw together. “It’s just that, I could have sworn I went to your mother’s funeral.”

My spine stiffens, and I narrow my eyes at him. “There’s no way… That’s not…”

“I don’t know. It was so long ago, but it was like, the first funeral I ever went to so it kind of sticks out because everybody was crying. I remember thinking that I’d never seen so many grown-ups cry.”

The confusion pulls from my face, and I’m left with complete and total absence of feeling. He can’t be right. It’d be like stealing the one memory I have.

“I could be wrong, though,” he overcompensates, and I nod, trying to shake the feeling of uncertainty.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “Keep going.”

“Yeah, me, too.” I exhale and collect my voice, straining against tight vocal cords.

“So as you can imagine, I turned into the typical sob story. Rough, alcoholic dad. Dead mom. Lost girl. I went to college, and I partied and searched for something to fill this empty piece of me.” My gaze gets lost in the memory of the night everything changed for me.

“I remember thinking my glass was dirty. I took a sip of the cocktail, and there was dust at the bottom. Then it clicked. The guy at the frat party had drugged me.”

Dominic wraps his arm around my shoulders now, and he curses under his breath. “Did he?—”

“Morgan didn’t give him the chance.” I laugh, ignoring the swell of my tear ducts.

“She drove me straight to the emergency room, and I remember feeling like I was being pulled apart. Like my body was stretching beyond capacity. I remember being terrified and so angry. I remember thinking: I still have so much to do and say and accomplish for this to happen to me. I never once said if I wanted to be buried or cremated. I never once told anyone I hate roses and would hate if they were on my casket. I never said I wanted them to serve pizza and tell all my embarrassing stories. I never once wondered who would be at my funeral… ”

“Until that night,” he says.

“Until that night,” I confirm. “So I graduated from college with my degree in interior design and had every intention of making something of myself. But the thought never went away, and my business never took off, so I started this one. It turns out more people wonder about these things than you think—also, some people are petty and hilarious even in the afterlife, and that is just the added bonus.” I grin at Dominic, but he doesn’t smile back.

“You laugh at weird things.”

I shrug. “Humor is a coping mechanism.”

“Humor is also a mask.”

The response gives me pause, and I lean back on my elbows.

“It is.” There is no need to argue. He’s right. “But tonight is not about me and my corrupt coping mechanisms. Tonight is about Gregory Baxter and how he is going to be the talk of the cemetery.”

Dominic laughs. “Tell me about Greg.”

I sigh, a happy story that serves as a pre-emptive introduction to the story of Greg.

“He is unintentionally funny which is the best kind. He’s goofy without being obnoxious.

Kind without being pretentious. He doesn’t just speak when necessary but when it actually adds to the conversation.

He would have made a great father—I’m sad he never got the chance. ”

There’s a ghostly silence between us and a swift breeze tickling the pines. Dominic zeroes in on something. I look at him and then follow his gaze to the headstone next to Greg’s.

A boy named Cameron. Died at eleven.

“Oh,” I breathe.

In this moment, I wish I could see every ghost, speak to them, and ask if they found each other in the afterlife.

I wonder if, in some weird alternate paranormal reality, the ghosts are all dancing and welcoming Greg to his new stomping grounds.

I wonder if the boy buried next to him misses his parents and if he’s been searching for his grown-up in the afterlife .

But it’s all wonderings because absolutely zero paranormal activity is happening tonight.

I glance at the headstones surrounding Greg. An elderly couple named Oliver and June. Two middle-aged women. A man in his twenties. Four more people who died in their eighties. One thing about a cemetery is you will quickly realize death has no parameters.

“You were a good man, Greg. I’m glad I met you, and I’m sure everyone here is, too,” I say, holding up my apple cider in toast.

“Don’t be shy, Greg. You can’t die of embarrassment anymore so might as well go all out!” Dominic laughs. I gape at him, and he shrugs in response. “What? So you’re the only one that can joke about death?”

I fully appreciate the honesty, wanting to laugh but more than anything wanting to kiss the apple cider off his lips, so I reach out and pull him to me by the nape of his neck.

His lips draw close to mine, and the kiss feels as familiar as it ever has.

The warmth of his embrace makes my body mold against his.

I don’t know if this is love or lust. All I know is it’s just him.

And whatever he does to me, I don’t want it to fade.