Page 62 of Mourner for Hire

FIFTY

VADA

Annabelle twirls around the room and sits on the couch. “He’s right, Vada. You did a beautiful job.”

I smile at her but immediately look at Dominic. He tilts his head. “It’s my mom, isn’t it?”

“Who?” I ask while shaking my head.

“She’s here. It’s my mom.”

“Oh, this is perfect!” Annabelle says.

“No, it’s not,” I snap toward her even though the sentence works in response to Dominic.

He slowly shifts his gaze to where I’m looking. “You do see ghosts, don’t you?”

There’s very little humor in his tone, and I’m unsure how to be truthful without sounding delusional.

I lick my lips, buying time.

Dominic steps toward the couch and swipes his hand over it as if he’s trying to make her materialize in a way that he can see what I see.

What he doesn’t see is his mother swat at his hand and jerk backward. “I hate when people touch my face. Even my son.”

My lips twitch to smile.

Dominic notices .

“She said something, didn’t she?”

Of all the ways I thought anyone would respond to this weird hallucination that keeps happening, I didn’t think it’d be this: awe. Still, I say nothing.

He crosses his arms. “I knew you were a witch.”

“Witches don’t see ghosts.”

“Ah-ha! You admitted it.” He laughs. “What does she look like? Ghostly pale? White sheet? Broomstick?”

“Broomstick?” Annabelle shouts, aghast.

I hesitate again before finally saying, “She looks like your mom. And she talks all the time.” I say the last three words with emphasis.

“All the time?” Dominic shouts back at me.

I realize what he means. There have been one too many intimate moments between us for the idea of her constant presence to be anything but awkward, uncomfortable, and inappropriate.

I laugh, and Annabelle groans into her hands. “No, I’ve actually been teaching her boundaries.”

Annabelle tsks, and Dominic cocks an eyebrow. “From the grave?”

I shrug and smile at Annabelle as she rolls her eyes. “Your mom is pretty amazing, Dominic.”

“I know,” he answers, tears clouding his amber eyes.

“I’m surprised you’re being so understanding about this,” I comment.

He sniffs. “Vada, I’m obsessed with ghost podcasts. Of course I believe you.”

I laugh; he and Annabelle do, too.

“I just wish it were me, you know? That got to see her.”

I nod.

“I wish it were you, too,” Annabelle says to Dominic, and I offer her a sly smile. “I mean, you’re great, too, Vada, but I miss talking to my boy.”

“I bet he misses talking to you, too. ”

Dominic realizes I’m not talking to him and blows out an emotional breath. “I think I need to go for a walk.”

I nod in understanding, and he slips out the front door before I can even respond.

Annabelle and I stand, blank-faced, in the middle of the cottage’s living room.

“Did I just lose him?”

“What makes you ask that?”

“I just told him I see his dead mother, and he left faster than I said the words.” I cross my arms and lean against the kitchen counter.

“He believes you.”

“Right,” I agree, reluctantly. “But he might also believe that all this is too much…” I wave my hand around the cottage and toward the ghost in front of me. “He might also believe that I’m too much.”

Annabelle shakes her head. “You may be too much for some people. But not Dominic. I know my son. And he’s pretty damn lucky he fell in love with you.”

After Dominic left for his walk, Annabelle followed to make sure he was okay.

I reminded her he went on the walk for space and she reminded me that doesn’t work with her personality.

So I spent the day cleaning and fluffing pillows, perfecting the cottage as if it’s being staged for sale.

I confirm catering for the celebration tomorrow night and make another separate checklist for all things eclipse-related, and then glance at the whiteboard still propped in the kitchen.

There are only three items left.

2 more picture boxes

Throw the party during the eclipse

Get the fuck out of this town

I wipe away the first item and stare at the last item. The laugh that bubbles out of me leaves a swipe of melancholy in my gut .

I blow out a breath and head to the closet to grab the remaining boxes of photographs.

They’re both filled to the brim with memories and proof of life and will be fairly easy to organize. But when I move them out of the closet, I notice the wood floors are worn completely, with no stain or lacquer to protect them, leaving the bare and splintery planks exposed to the elements.

I run my fingers over it, and as I do, a slat shifts loosely. The cracks surrounding it are too small for me to get my fingers into, and the wood splinters when I try, stabbing my ring finger. I suck on the tip of my finger in hopes to stop the blood before it starts.

I don’t get time to examine the wound before I push on the end of the board and the other side sea-saws toward the ceiling. It feels like a movie scene—buried treasure or buried secrets await beneath the surface.

The wooden slat clatters as I toss it behind me. The hole is rather narrow, maybe eight inches wide by two feet long, and pitch black. I grab my cell phone and turn on the flashlight, hoping that when I peer down, there isn’t a rat or any kind of mama opossum ready to attack and protect her young.

As the cellphone light illuminates the hole, I see a rectangular pouch, no larger than a manila envelope but about three inches thick. It’s heavier than I expected. The corners are worn, and dust coats the surface. It smells like old ocean and mildew.

I pull it out, and a puff of dust billows out of the floor, making me sneeze and my eyes burn. I wipe my nose and blink twice, holding the pouch out in front of me. It’s embroidered with two initials:

I run my fingers over each letter. CD. Claire Daughtry.

My mama.

With shaking hands, I open it and find it’s filled with letters—eight of them all addressed to me.

I toss my head back and a half-laugh, half-sob escapes my chest. I’m overwhelmed with disbelief, but more than anything I want to claw through the contents and find something—anything—that grounds me to this place I’ve come to love.

The letter on the top of the stack has the number “1” written on top with a circle around it. I don’t think I breathe as I unfold the yellow, crusted paper, but I gasp as soon as I see my name written in my mom’s handwriting.

My sweet Vada

My tears blur the pages. I blink, begging them to stream down my face so I can read the letter.

My mom. The faintest yet most dear memories are fighting to the surface, and I stare at the pieces of paper, realizing she had more to tell me.

You see, that’s what they don’t tell you about letters, especially those left unread, and even more particularly the letters unread that were written by someone who’s no longer here. They’re treasured words from the other side.

My sweet Vada,

Today you are one, my girl.

I love you.

No, that’s not right. Love isn’t a big enough word for how I feel about you.

If I could take every star in the sky and every planet in the universe and wrap them up in a giant bow and give it to you, I would.

I would weave together constellations and capture fairy dust if I could.

I would bottle the sounds of the ocean and let you set sail into whatever life you want.

I live for you. For your safety. Your freedom. And I am doing everything I can to protect you from harm. From skinned knees to heartbreaks—I wish I could protect you from all of it.

I know I can’t though. You will grow up one day. You took your first steps last week and are currently toddling around at my feet, throwing wooden blocks across the carpet.

I know soon you won’t be toddling but running. You won’t just be babbling but speaking your mind and challenging the world.

Becoming your mother has been the hardest and greatest joy of my life.

I love you.

You are beautiful.

You are the best thing that has ever happened to me.

I love you. I love you.

Mom

A sob collapses out of me, and I hold the paper close to my heart.

There’s this hole that has throbbed in my chest my whole life.

I miss her even though I barely remember her.

It’s like living life with a missing puzzle piece—but not just any puzzle piece, an edge piece.

One that holds the entire puzzle together, and without it, little bits and pieces in the center shift and spill out.

As I sift through the letters, I realize each one is written on my birthday.

One when I’m two and I was too obsessed with yogurt to notice my dad left.

Another when I’m three and she dubbed me her favorite threenager— it’s just me and you against the world, kid, she wrote.

When I’m four and started t-ball. When I’m five and learned to ride a bike—our neighbor cheered me on while Mom ran next to me.

Six was when I learned to read and we spent our afternoons at the library, leaving with stacks of stories to read.

Seven was all about my seashell collection.

And eight, the final letter is unfinished.

I stare down at the words.

Dear Vada,

Today, you are eight. Every year, I love you more, but I also like you more too. I hope you feel how much. In butterfly kisses and in hand squeezes. In home-cooked meals and fresh laundry. I give you little bits of love in all I do in hopes that one day you’ll realize how big my love is for you.

When Dad left

That’s where it ends.

Then it hits me.

It was my birthday, and we were headed to the bookstore and the donut shop. I stormed into Mom’s room and practically shouted, “Ready?”

She startled and tucked something away. I must have thought it was a birthday card I never got to see, and she never got to finish writing because thirty-two minutes later, a semi would veer into our lane on Highway 101, causing Mom to swerve, the tires to screech, and the car to flip three times before landing upright while Shania Twain still played on the radio.

One movement. One mistake. One second. And a little girl’s life was changed forever.

I hold the letters to my chest as memories start to crack open.

My mom and Annabelle at the beach or grabbing cupcakes at Something Sweet on Beach Street.

Wagon rides and sand castles.

Carving pumpkins and sneaking candy corn with Dominic.

Annabelle holding me at the hospital while CPS called my dad to pick me up .

A kaleidoscope of memories plays one after another as each memory topples off the shelves of my mind, cracking their spines on the ground and spilling out on replay.

The old dollhouse. The familiar perfume. The red wagon. This place.

A cool breeze shifts behind me.

“I used to live here.”

“Yes,” Annabelle answers behind me.

“How did I not see it?”

I knew my mother’s death was the catalyst for me blocking all of my memories away.

I just didn’t realize how big every memory was—where I lived, who I loved.

All of it lost and protected in the recesses of my mind.

I didn’t realize I could be standing in the place I once knew like the back of my hand and not recognize it.

“Why didn’t I get to stay with you?” I ask, turning to see Annabelle.

“Your dad wanted you.”

“Did he?”’

Her flaccid smile falls. “I sent cards and packages. Tried to stay in touch with him as much as I could. But he would never pick up, and I don’t even know if you received any of my birthday cards.”

I shake my head. My dad so viscerally hated my mom, even in death. He isolated me from every part of her life from when she was alive, and I was just a child who had no choice. I spent my childhood searching for meaning, never really finding it, and not remembering it anyway.

Until now.

“You found it, didn’t you?” Annabelle asks.

“What? The letters?”

Her brow furrows. “No, honey. Your memory.”

Too stunned to speak and overwhelmed by the realization that my mind has slowly come alive during these last two months, I just stand there and stare.

Annabelle takes a seat next to me on the couch, though this time, she isn’t just the ghost that’s been haunting me relentlessly.

She’s birthday cakes and walks on the beach.

She’s family dinners and laughing with my mom in the kitchen.

She’s a movie night with buttery popcorn. She’s a memory come to life.

She reaches out and wipes the fallen tear on my cheek. Her touch feels like a cold breeze on my warm skin. “I didn’t really plan for it to go this way. But you were hard to track down after so many years went by. When I read the article in the paper two years ago, I knew I needed to hire you.”

“Why didn’t you just reach out?”

“And just be some random person from your past that knew you—that you had no recollection of?”

I shake my head in disbelief.

“I wanted it to mean something. I wanted you to have your memory come back. In the article, you mentioned that you have dissociative amnesia, so I researched, and it would seem no therapists could agree on the best ways to get your memories back, and Lord knows I can’t hypnotize anyone.

Not that you would have let me.” She pauses, clearly collecting her thoughts.

“I just wanted you to remember your mom, and I thought if I brought you back home, you’d discover the memories all on your own. ”

“And yet, you hung around,” I tease through tearful words.

“That was just a bonus.”

I laugh, wishing I could hug her. “Thank you.” Then, a thought strikes me. “Why didn’t you just let Dominic in on it?”

“He would have said I was crazy and to stop meddling in people’s lives.”

“Now he just thinks I’m crazy,” I counter, and she smirks.

“No, he’s just crazy about you. Besides, the best women have a little crazy in them,” she says. “You’re going to be okay, Vada. Thank you for letting me haunt you.” She stands and brushes her hands on her skirt. “Now I think I should go say goodbye to my son.”