Page 59 of Mourner for Hire
FORTY-SEVEN
DOMINIC
I smirk at my phone as a picture of me as a little boy, and a little girl with a heart-shaped birthmark on her shoulder, appears on my screen.
Me
Our moms really were friends.
Vada
Did you think your mom was lying? Or just hope?
I laugh aloud.
Me
No, I hoped I was filled with false memories.
Vada
That’d be rather convenient.
Me
Nothing about you is convenient. You are the definition of inconvenience.
Vada
Shots fired.
Another picture of us comes through. This time carving pumpkins.
Me
Are you suggesting we carve pumpkins?
Vada
Absolutely not. Knives with you sounds like an irresponsible choice.
This makes me actually laugh—the kind of soul-hugging, belly laugh that makes me forget all of my troubles.
Vada
Everything is starting to make sense.
Me
Do you remember me yet?
Vada is typing. The three dots stop, then she starts again. Within moments, the text arrives.
Vada
No, but based on photographic evidence, it would seem you’ve always been a little shit. You put sand in my sandwich. You stomped on my sand castles. You were the worst.
I can’t explain it, but the memory surfaces. A girl—Vada—crying about sand in her PB & J. Mom scolding me. Mom’s friend—Vada’s mom—telling Mom to relax, we’re at the beach, it happens. Then she narrowed her gaze on me and shook her head once. I knew in an instant to never do it again.
Me
You loved me.
There’s a pause in her response, until finally, it comes through and she says:
Vada
I do.
I smile a little and stop.
Me
I’m coming over.
A pause and then…
Vada
No
Me
Please…
Vada
I want you to see it finished in the daylight.
Me
So it’s done?
Vada
I’m not above begging. Not when it comes to Vada. But she’s even more stubborn than me.
I wait five, ten… twenty minutes, and she still doesn’t answer, I take it as a sign to distract myself with other matters of importance. I reluctantly grab the envelopes from the table. I open the one from the Good Samaritan Hospital.
Dear Dominic Dunne,
On behalf of the selection committee, it is with great pleasure that I inform you of your early acceptance into the Residency Program, specializing in Family Medicine…
I don’t keep reading. I don’t need to.
I did it. It’s happening. This time I get to finish what I set out to do.
“I got in, Mom,” I whisper into the silence of the apartment. I fold the letter and replace it back into the envelope.
Excited isn’t the right word. Neither is nervous.
Ready lands a little better. Because I guess that’s what I am. Ready to move on. Ready to live my own life—this time on my own terms.
When I realize Vada still hasn’t texted me back, I text her.
Me
You okay?
There still isn’t an answer, and I tell myself it’s because she’s distracted. But then, an hour later, when she hasn’t texted me, I try calling.
It rings and rings, then goes to voicemail.
A text rolls through soon after.
Vada
You can’t come here. I’m coming to you.