Page 8 of Mourner for Hire

My mind is instantly trapped in the whimsy of small-town drama, and I smile at her, a thought flashing over my brain: I don’t want this woman to die.

She’s pure, downhome kindness—familiar yet surprising.

The kind of person who makes me feel like I’ve been draped in all my long-lost memories.

Like cinnamon sugar toast with butter on a foggy Sunday morning.

Or brand-new tennis shoes before the first day of school.

Butterfly kisses and princess Band-Aids.

False memories I’ve planted in my brain to cope since I have very few of my own.

She watches me take a bite and welcome the rich sweetness in my mouth. The flavors are delectable, exploding on my tongue with hints of cinnamon and nutmeg, the tartness of apple cider bursting in the background.

“Oh my gosh, this is so good!” I remark, practically taking half of the donut in one bite.

She grins while I eat, taking a much more delicate bite for herself.

I lick my lips. “Please don’t tell me the secret ingredient is mayonnaise.”

She tosses her head back and laughs. “I’m not against committing crimes, but that is classified as a felony.”

This makes me laugh, and I set the half-eaten donut down on its plate and then on the table, letting my mind drift back to the business at hand. “So tell me, Annabelle, I understand you have a few tasks for me to take care of at your funeral?”

“Oh, wow. When you say it like that, it sounds funny, doesn’t it? Planning my funeral before I’m even on hospice.” She laughs a bit awkwardly, and it’s not unusual to have this response once we start talking about the plan.

“I know traditionally, people discuss their funeral with their children or spouses, sometimes even a lawyer. So I know this may seem a little weird, but I want you to know I have heard it all, and I am willing to do whatever you ask… within reason, of course. And I will make it very clear if I am unable to uphold any task.”

She nods. “Okay. And how will you know when I die?”

“I will have you on my Google Alert.”

“And payment?”

“Payment is most easily executed through a will. That way, if something were to happen to me before you die, you’re safe and will not have the payment taken out. Or, we can do what I call the good-faith payment. You pay me upfront, and I put in my will to reimburse you if you need a refund.”

She nods as if this is what she already expected.

“I know it’s weird. But the system works.”

“The will is perfect! ”

She seems far too excited to discuss her death. I can’t tell if she’s excited to die or just thrilled to be in charge of the details.

Or she’s just weird. That’s also highly likely.

“Excellent. I can help draw up the clause, and you can forward it to your lawyer along with my contact information. Does that work?”

“Sure. I’m guessing you need to know who my executioner is, too?”

I startle, donut particles tickling my throat, making me cough.

“I’m sorry?” Because who is executing this woman?

Her laughter eases my worry that she’s on death row.

“That’s what I call the executor of my will.” She leans a little closer with a mischievous grin. “It’s more fun that way.”

“Ahh, yes. Usually, we get that out of the way so someone can be sure I do what is asked of me and then initiates the deposit.”

“God, this is all so transactional,” she breathes.

The way her spine stiffens, I can tell she is trying to remain professional when all she’d like to do is crack a joke.

I swallow the sticky, sweet taste in my mouth. “With all due respect, Annabelle, it is a business transaction. But I also want you to know I will handle the entire process with care.”

She nods. “Okay.”

“All right. So let’s go over your wishes. I assume you have the funeral arrangements somewhat organized, but where do I fit?”

She leans against the arm of the couch, a slow smile creeping over her fuchsia lips. “Don’t hate me…”

I tilt my head, confused.

“But I have a list.”

“Okay, well, depending on the items on the list, there may be an upcharge that I want you to be fully aware of?—”

She swats the air and pulls out a piece of folded up printer paper from behind her tasseled throw pillow. She unfolds it and slaps it on the coffee table.

A twist of fear twitches in my gut as I slowly lean forward to inspect the requests.

Attend funeral—you won’t need to introduce yourself. But if the need arises, just say you’re an old family friend.

I want you to stay at my beach cottage after the funeral while you renovate it.

Please don’t say no and hear me out. I have a beach cottage on the south end of Shellport.

It is small and falling apart, but I promise it will have heat and running water at all times.

Do as you wish with the décor style. While you renovate, you will discover a closet in the hallway of the cottage filled with shoeboxes of pictures.

Please organize these for my son. It’s tedious and I refuse to do it. I am hiring you. Thank you in advance.

I want you to hike the Milton’s Mailbox on a Monday morning at sunrise. At the top of the hike, there is a mailbox. Please bring a letter that includes something or someone that you miss. Humor me. I will be watching from Heaven’s gates, making sure you do this.

I’d like you to visit the farmers market on the first Saturday of the month and buy a shell necklace from Martha. She’s seventy, but I swear that woman will die before she quits the farmers market.

When the renovation is complete, I would like you to throw me a party at the beach house. Not a funeral. I want it to be a celebration where there is food and cake and love. Make sure everyone is dancing and remembering how much they love me. If anyone says anything bad about me, kick them out.

Look out for Dominic. He hurts quietly. And he is very hot and cold when he grieves.

And last, I hope you find it.

Find what?

My smile comes and fades as I read this list. She’s quirky and very unlike any of my other clients. I clear my throat and fold the paper. “These are quite the tasks, Annabelle. I’m a little concerned you may have misunderstood exactly what it is I do.”

“In your ad, you said you will make each funeral exactly how the deceased wants it. This is what I want.”

I chew on my lip, pondering how to let her down easy. I have no business saying yes to any of this. It’s bad enough to make a fool of myself at a funeral and then stay for a few hours—I can’t even imagine staying around and pretending to be a part of, well, anything for months after the funeral.

“I know what you’re thinking, and no, they will not run you out of town. That is, unless you put ketchup on steak, but you don’t seem like the type.” She laughs and flips her hair over her shoulder. “We’re nice in Shellport… mostly.”

“I mean, the renovation alone is?—”

“You will have an unlimited budget to spend, I promise. Plus, I know about Chantilly Lace.”

I swallow hard. “How do you know about that?”

“A few internet searches. I hardly even had to meddle,” she answers, voice teasing. Her eyes soften, and she leans forward—a motherly gesture. This is getting aggressively personal very fast .

I stiffen.

Ten minutes ago, I walked into this home a poised professional, and now, I feel like a failed businesswoman ready to crash out on my therapist’s couch. The idea is illuminating. I can already feel the creative spark igniting in my chest. A whole beach cottage. Unlimited budget.

“Annabelle—”

“And I’ll pay in addition to the unlimited credit card for the renovation,” she cuts in.

“I don’t even know how to put a price tag on this or even if it’s about the money for me?—”

“Twenty-five grand.”

My rambling thoughts stop so abruptly, I can hear the blood rushing through my ears.

“That’s a lot of money.”

She giggles. “I know. But I’ve already written it in the will and talked to my lawyer—wait till you see him. He’s quite the looker. Probably too old for you, though.”

I scratch my jaw and try to catch up to her rambling. “I haven’t even written up our contract for this?—”

“I know, and I did it, because I hoped you wouldn’t say no.”

The assumption surprises me, but I think nothing of it. I’m a mourner for hire. My income is as sporadic as my Google Alerts.

“This is a lot of trust in me.”

“So don’t let me down!” She points at me and winks.

“And what is it I’m supposed to find exactly?” I query, and she smiles.

“You’ll know when you find it, I promise.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Can you be at all specific?”

“No, that’s not how it works, I guess.”

“You guess?”

She shakes her head quickly. “Anyway, trust me. And no offense, who would pass up twenty-five thousand dollars at your age?”

I inhale through my nostrils and hold it for two seconds before letting it go slowly.

“Fine. I’ll do it.”

“Yes!” she exclaims, pumping her fists in the air and standing.

I can’t help but flash her an astonished smile. “You are very excited to pay a stranger twenty-five grand to do all these things after your funeral.”

She flops down. “Honey, we aren’t strangers. Not completely.” She smiles softly, taking my hand in hers. She reminds me of someone I can’t pinpoint in so many ways—a tender-hearted, rambling maniac with a heart of gold. “I knew your mom.”

I swallow hard and slip my hand out of hers—cold, prickles of hesitation climbing up my spine. “Really? I barely remember my mother.”

She nods and gives me a watery smile. “She was wonderful.”

A wave of panic hits me. My mind is already exhausted by the possibility of trying to remember.

I’ve been through it all before. I’ve been hypnotized.

I’ve meditated. I’ve been in psychotherapy for years, and nothing has surfaced.

I’ve developed peace with not knowing, and accepted that I’d rather avoid triggers of hope.

Panic rises, and I immediately want to draw back my agreement.

“I don’t think this is a good idea. I don’t know my clients. That’s how this works without it hurting anyone,” I say, rising from the couch.

She stands to meet my gaze. “Please.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry, but this just got personal, and I don’t do personal.

I don’t remember my mother—I barely have any recollection of my childhood, and now a woman claiming to have known her, and who I have never even heard of, wants me to crash her funeral and renovate her beach cottage.

This is absolute lunacy.” I turn to walk away, mentally berating myself for the outburst.

“Fifty grand.”

I freeze, rotating slowly so I face her. I’m an honest person, yes. And this goes against what I’d typically agree to, but fifty grand is fifty grand. I’m motivated by my morals, but money is a close second.

I meet her smiling gaze.

“You are so much like your mother.”

The blood rushes through my ears with the strength of the ocean’s current. “Yeah?”

She nods. “Yeah. Heart of gold. Tongue like a sword. And the honesty of a child.”

I don’t ask for details because I don’t really want them. I don’t want to know my mother through anyone’s eyes but my own. And sadly, that’s just not in the cards for me.

My next words tumble out with a bundle of regret swirling in my gut. “One thing I should offer considering… everything. Do you want me to do six-month or yearly check-ins? Just to make sure everything is still scheduled like we discussed. I can add a clause in our contract if you change your mind.”

I hold my breath, not sure if I’m giving the out for me or her.

“No need. I have melanoma that has already metastasized to my brain,” she says. “I’m dying in nine months.”