Mourning After

by Stephanie Damore

  With that thought in mind, I had an idea. A quick search online revealed dozens of home security systems. The number of options was endless—door sensors, motion detectors, security cameras, video doorbells—you name it. I found a security bundle pack that I thought would be perfect and ordered it with one click. With the way it was supposed to connect with your smart phone, I was confident that Gran would be able to manage it easy as pie. She might pitch a fit and insist on not needing any such thing, but deep down I knew she would appreciate it, as would Harold. I knew I would feel better knowing that if someone came into the home, she’d at least know. No more sitting ducks.

  Since I was being productive, I decided to reach out to Cynthia, the receptionist at my old agency, and see if she knew anything about my last paycheck. Bradley said he would be sure that I got it, but yeah, I didn't trust that one bit. Once a liar, always a liar. The scumbag. I dashed off an email to Cynthia and was still sitting at the table doing a good job of feeling sorry for myself when my cell phone rang. It wasn’t a number that I recognized, but the area code showed that it was local. My first instinct was to send the caller straight to voicemail, but then being an adult prevailed and I answered the call.

  "This is Maven." I always thought it was smart to answer your phone with your name instead of saying “Hey” in a rather unsure voice. I found it brought a level of confidence and maturity to your voice, and it showed that you were business. It was a tip I picked up while auditioning in New York. You never knew who was going to call you, so you’d better answer your phone as confidently as possible. If not, the casting agent might decide to just hang up, or worse, you send the caller to voicemail, and they don’t even bother to leave a message. Trust me, they have a list, and nothing is stopping them from extending an offer to the next person. It was a ridiculous fact, but true.

  "Hey girl, it's Tabitha. A few of us Fakers are going to meet up for bloody marys and talk shop at Sanchez’s. You want to come meet us?"

  It was at that moment that I realized the microwave was still humming along. I must have set the timer for thirty minutes as opposed to three. I jumped out of my chair and raced to open the unit and salvage my breakfast, or what was left of it. I must've really been lost in my thoughts if I hadn't noticed the smell of melting plastic. Guess that settled that.

  "I can do that. Where's Sanchez’s at exactly?" I had a little over an hour before meeting the gang. Enough time to clean up the microwave, get myself put together, and call up to Gran’s room and see how she was doing. Gran answered her phone sounding even better than she had when I had left her a short time ago.

  "You know how it is. The doctors come in and say that you're free to go home, but it still takes hours for the nurses to come in and release you." From the few times I had been in the hospital, I knew exactly what Gran meant. “You go and meet your friends. I'm going to see if Harold here wants to grab some lunch if I ever get out of here. I’m starving. Where’s that call button?”

  Gran must be feeling better if she was hungry. “Are you sure you don’t want me to bring something up now?”

  “Heavens no. If they see me eating, they’ll probably drag their feet even more. You go. I’ll handle this.”

  “Okay, if you’re sure.” Then I had an idea. “How about I cook us a nice meal tonight? Something you love.”

  "A home-cooked meal. You sure know the way to my heart. Mind if I call Hazel and see if she and Jake want to join us? It seems like we’re all in crisis mode right now."

  I faltered for a moment. "Um, sure. I guess we can do that. It's just, I'm not sure they’re going to want to come."

  "Oh, Harold told me all about Jake figuring things out. Don't you worry about that. He's a smart boy. He'll come around and realize you were just trying to help." Everyone appeared to be confident in Jake's changing perspective except me. "I'll go ahead and call to extend the invite. He's not going to be nasty to an old lady who was just clocked in the head.”

  I bit my lip in contemplation. "Okay, fine. Just give me a call or text me later and let me know what they say. I'll swing by the store and grab what I need before coming home.”

  I found myself driving into Asheville for the second day in a row. Thankfully, it was a quick trip into the city. One of things I started to realize was Asheville was surprisingly small for how popular the city was. Where New York City had over eight million people, I found out Asheville was sporting a population less than a hundred thousand. Not only that, but everything had a fun-loving vibe. The culture seemed vibrant, artsy, dare I say hipster? In a good way. Buildings were brightly painted, some with stripes, while others sported creative awnings and bold window treatments. It was seriously as if a group of artists had painted the city, and maybe they had.

  Either way, I liked the energy. It was starting to grow on me. As I drove into the vibrant downtown area, I started to think about what it would be like to live here. It could just be a regular Sunday afternoon, meeting friends for brunch, and then later going over to Gran’s and cooking supper. It hit me with how right that felt, and it yet it was strange how quickly it had all clicked into place.

  New York City hadn’t been all bad. For the first time in my life, I truly got to experience all four seasons—although the East Coast winters were a bit much—but I had missed my southern roots. Asheville felt like a compromise in that regard. The perfect balance. Definitely something to think about.

  I found on-the-street parking just down from Sanchez’s and managed to parallel park my zippy car. Thankfully, the street was level. Regardless, I engaged the emergency brake, just to be on the safe side. The car did have auto insurance (Bradley better not have lied about that), but that didn’t mean I was eager to make a claim.

  It turned out that Sanchez’s was a Spanish-style tapas restaurant. Its brunch menu featured delicious entrées such as breakfast empanadas and chicken and waffles. Plus the most beautiful bloody mary bar I had ever seen it all my life. It was the length of a traditional salad bar only it contained everything a spiked-tomato-juice lover could ask for, including the usual pickles, olives, and celery, and the not so usual pickled green beans, cheese chunks, shrimp, bacon, and fried onion rings. I saw why the Fakers chose to meet up here.

  I walked into Sanchez’s and scanned the tables for Tabitha. It was obvious the restaurant was a popular place. Comprising two levels, there was seating upstairs around the perimeter, the main dining floor, and a traditional diner-style bar along the front. A waitress was busy freshly squeezing oranges while another popped a champagne cork for mimosas. On the wall, brightly colored paintings hung next to vintage metal signs and flyers advertising next week's events. A waiter moved away from one of the back tables, and I spotted Tabitha. She had a thick white cotton headband across the crown of her head, keeping her corkscrew curls out of her eyes. She saw me about the same time and waved me over. Two other people were already with her. One I recognized from Roseanne’s funeral but never met, and the other one was completely new to me. The group sat at a pair of black tables that had been pushed together.

  "RENT is the greatest musical of all time. I don't even know how you can argue that,” said the guy I hadn’t met before. He was tall and Asian, with jet black, spikey hair.

  "Greatest musical of the late nineties maybe, and that’s being generous,” replied the other guy I recognized from the funeral. He had paler skin and blonder hair than my own. In fact, he almost glowed.

  “I don't think you guys are giving Phantom of the Opera enough credit. It's Broadway's longest-running show," Tabitha chimed in.

  "Longest running doesn't make it the greatest,” spikey hair said. “What about you? Greatest musical of all time." The question was directed at me.

  "That's easy, Les Mis. You guys are seriously even arguing this?"

  “Burn!” Tabitha high-fived me across the table as I took a seat next to Mr. Spikey Hair.

  “Guys, this is Maven. Maven, this is Charlie and Leo.” Charlie was the guy who glowed. Leo w
as Mr. Spikey Hair.

  "Speaking of which, did you see that State Theater has open auditions for Into the Woods?” Leo asked.

  "No, I love that show. Do you know when?” Tabitha was already on her phone, where I imagined she was looking up the audition details.

  "Not sure. Oliver just mentioned it last night at the Roger’s showing," Leo said.

  "Maven, you should totally go for Cinderella. You got the look with that long blonde hair and those blue eyes of yours."

  "I don't know about that. I don’t even know the part’s vocal range. Besides, right now I feel more like the ugly witch."

  "Shut your mouth," Charlie said. “I would kill for those long lashes.”

  While the group of us talked shop, I recognized Daniel standing at the entrance. He stood at the hostess stand, talking with a member of the staff. His head was bent low as if seeking the man’s confidence. Whatever the employee had said seemed to please Daniel since he gave the guy a warm smile and shook his hand before entering the restaurant’s main floor. With his business suit and American flag lapel pin, he was the picture of a politician. I watched him work the room almost like a manager does when they stop by to see if everything was to your liking. It was as if it was an unofficial campaign meet and greet. A breakfast roundtable with the candidate, if you will. Daniel seemed at ease with the crowds, milling around while people finished their breakfasts and sipped coffees and mimosas. He smiled, shook hands, and seemed genuinely interested in meeting the people.

  "Daniel, how are you?" I asked when he stopped by our table.

  Daniel thought for a split second. "Maven, your Mabel's granddaughter."

  "That I am. Campaign stop?"

  Daniel raised his eyebrows. "Something like that. I'm just trying to get out there and meet as many people as possible. Talk about the issues and see what’s important to them, and figure out how I can help."

  "That's admirable." I said. “Guys, this is Daniel Struble. He's running for U.S. Senate. His mother is a friend of my grandmother."

  "I’ve seen your signs. Nice work," Leo said.

  "Leo is a graphic designer," Tabitha said to me from across the table. I nodded. That made his comment make more sense.

  "Are there any issues that are important to you guys? Anything that you’d like me to address?"

  "Oh no, don't even get him started," Leo said, referring to Charlie.

  Charlie just smiled. "Where do you stand on the issues? Immigration, gun reform, women's rights. Are you a Republican, Democrat? How about conservative or liberal? Do you consider yourself progressive or moderate?"

  Daniel chuckled. I thought for a minute he was going to pull up a chair, but he didn't. Instead, he just took a minute to answer all Charlie's questions. "Let's see, I’m a Democrat, but a moderate one. I’ve spent the last twenty years working to lift people up, and now I want to do that on a national scale. I support women's rights, the path to U.S. citizenship for the dreamers, being an immigrant myself, and I don't think enough has been done to talk about gun control, or better yet, the mental health crisis our country is facing.”

  Daniel's responses would've placated the average voter, but Charlie continued to pepper him with questions. It was sort of amusing to watch the two back go back-and-forth, and I couldn't help but think that Charlie was a career politician in the making.

  "What do you do, Charlie?" Daniel asked him after answering another round of questions.

  "Political science major at Appalachian State,” Charlie replied.

  "Well, if you're interested in working on the campaign, give me a call."

  Daniel left our table and was making his way down the long front breakfast bar when chaos broke out. We were too far in the back to hear the words, but close enough to see the first punch fly. Daniel had been talking to a rather large middle-aged man who had been sitting on one of the barstools. A wide-brimmed baseball cap was pulled down on his head. Whatever Daniel said set the man off. He stood up swinging. Daniel twisted back and to the side. The man's fist barely missed Daniel’s chin and grazed his shoulder instead.

  "Oh my goodness!” Leo and I stood up at the same time. Gasps and shouts filled the restaurant. Silverware clanged, and I swear a baby started crying. People around us also stood to get a better look. Charlie and Tabitha swirled in their chairs to see over their shoulders, but they too were soon standing. Everyone was just watching, shocked, while the wait staff scrambled to break up the fight.

  For his part, Daniel seemed to just be making defensive moves. He tried to dance out of the way and block the blows, but one or two hit their mark. Daniel managed to stay on his feet, although I was pretty sure most men would be knocked to their knees by now. Thankfully, a burly baldheaded man got up from his table and approached the slugger. With his broad shoulders and sense of authority, I would bet he was either a cop or a military man. At that point, I'm sure Daniel didn’t care what his credentials were. He just needed help breaking up the fight. It looked like Sanchez’s didn’t employ a bouncer, and no one was stepping up to the task. I didn’t blame them. The attacker was relentless.

  The defender stepped between Daniel and the man and caught the next punch. With a swift motion, he had the slugger’s arm twisted around his back and brought him down to his knees. Oh yeah, he was definitely a person not to mess with. The defender kept the man subdued until the cops were on the scene minutes later. One of the workers brought Daniel a bag of ice, but we could see him wave it away. He did, however, take a tissue, which he pressed to his nose. With the aggressor subdued and handed over to the authorities, everything calmed down slightly. Both men were taken outside.

  I stood for another minute, wondering what I should do. Part of me felt like I should check on Daniel and see if he was okay. I could see him outside the front window, talking to the police. The officer seemed to be taking in every word he said while another officer handcuffed the aggressor and put him into the back of the patrol car. Daniel kept the tissue under his nose. I thought a bloody nose was only a minor injury compared to what could have been. It’s a sad state of affairs when you consider getting a bloody nose as being lucky.

  I looked at Tabitha. "Holy cats, did you guys see that? That dude like, totally wigged out."

  "People are nuts these days," Leo said.

  "You got that right,” I said.

  "I know, the guy just practically offered me a job. He seemed so nice,” Charlie added.

  "Yeah, he is. I know my Gran thinks so anyway." We all sat down and just kind of looked around at one another.

  "You know what? I think I need another drink." Leo stood just as quickly as he had sat down. "Anyone else?"

  Charlie got up to join him.

  "Go ahead, surprise me," Tabitha offered up.

  "No, that's okay, guys. I’ve still got some left here.”

  “Suit yourself. I might make mine a double,” Charlie replied.

  The guys trudged off to the bloody mary bar and left Tabitha and me to ourselves.

  “Thanks so much for the invite. It’s nice meeting familiars."

  “Yeah, absolutely. It’s a bit of an odd job, isn’t it?”

  “You mean working for Ruthie?”

  Tabitha nodded and took the hunk of cheese off the skewer in her drink.

  "Do you ever feel bad?" I asked.

  "About what?"

  "About lying to people. Doesn't it seem wrong that we pretend to be someone we’re not when they're dealing with some pretty heavy emotions?"

  "Well, the first problem is that you're thinking about it all wrong. We're trying to help people. Think about how much worse they'd feel if they showed up to their loved one’s funeral and nobody was there. The only thing sadder than a funeral is one that no one shows up to.”

  “Yeah, so I’ve heard.”

  “Not only that, but let me tell you something, I’ve been doing this for a long time. I can't tell you how many times I've helped someone talk through their grief. I listen to their stories, remind t
hem of the good times, give them closure. We can do all that because we’re not really grieving. Making people feel better is literally our job. We're doing something good here. Trust me, it's all about the intent.”

  I was silent while I thought Tabitha’s words through. My intentions had been good, hadn’t they? Yes, they had. I shouldn’t feel bad about playing the part, yet I still did.

  Tabitha picked up on it. “Did something happen?"

  "Yeah, you can say that. Don't tell Ruthie." I wasn't sure that I wanted another gig, but I definitely didn't want her to know that I got busted after my first one. "But Roseanne’s nephew found out that Hazel hired us for the funeral. You can just say that he's pretty ticked off at me and is making me feel like crap."

  "Mr. Hottie? Gorgeous suit, freshly shaven, muscles for miles?” Tabitha fanned her face.

  "That's the one. I ended up hanging out with him after the funeral and I shouldn’t have. Not without him knowing the truth.”

  “Oh boy.”

  “Exactly. I don’t know if he’s ever going to speak to me again.”

  “Men can be idiots.” Tabitha finished the cheese off and brushed her hands together as if that settled it.

  “Yes, they can. Who are we bashing now?” Leo said with a devilish grin.

  “It doesn’t matter, but you’re right, Tabitha. It’s all about intent.” My intentions had been good. I regret that I hadn’t fessed up to Jake sooner, but then again, Hazel hadn’t wanted me to. I had been trying to do the right thing and ended up getting bit in the butt in the process. You know what they say about no good deed going unpunished.

  “You know what the lesson is here,” Tabitha leaned in to me. Charlie had joined the table and Leo was talking with him. “Don’t be a Stacy.”