Mourning Express

by K. M. Waller

  Mateo was Gabe’s cousin, and Gabe had sublet me his half of the apartment for the summer while he traveled to work on different movie sets. From time to time, he stopped back in and I took the couch, but overall, I had a really good deal that I didn’t want to screw up. Guilt mixed with the banana in my stomach as Mateo dipped his head and stalked down the hallway to his bedroom. The door slammed behind him.

  I glanced around our shared two-bedroom apartment. Because I’d sold off all my designer décor when I moved back, there was nothing to offset the bachelor pad vibe the guys had made it into. Other than my air fresheners. Lots of air fresheners. In L.A., I’d paid twice the amount for half the space, and I’d had a few really awful roomies. I hated flipping the script and being the deadbeat who couldn’t pay the rent and stole her roommate’s food.

  But those were worries for another time. Right now, I needed to make sure Grammy ate her lunch and kept up her strength.

  Countryside ALF was a mere five-minute drive from the apartment. I pressed the buzzer beside the back door and waved at the security camera. One of the staff released the lock. Most of the residents of the ALF dealt with some form of memory loss and wore bracelets that set off an alarm if they left the marked perimeter.

  I passed a couple of nurses in the hall that led to Grammy’s room. We exchanged hellos and smiles. One of the more lucid residents, Lucinda Rae, rolled toward me, her wheelchair pushed by a staff member.

  “Giving a performance today, Rosie?” asked Lucinda Rae.

  I stopped to give her hand a squeeze. “Yes, ma’am. Want to come to Grammy’s room and watch?”

  “I would, dear, but I’m getting my hair set in curlers. Break a leg.”

  Nurse Pearl stood outside Grammy’s single-occupant room with a cart and a tray of food sitting on top. The lavender scrubs she wore accented her smooth, black skin. I’d never have guessed her age to be a day over fifty if it wasn’t for the thick gray hair that contrasted with the black, all pulled neatly into a French braid. Her heavy bosom shifted with a sigh. “I’m so glad you’re here, Ms. Rosie. I’m going in with lunch now.”

  The bags under Pearl’s eyes appeared a little darker than usual.

  “You doing okay, Pearl?” I asked.

  “I’m fine. Thank you for asking. I’m taking on some in-home clients and with full rotations here, well, I guess I need to start saving up for one of these deluxe rooms.” She chuckled, and I liked that she could smile through her worries.

  She wasn’t kidding about the deluxe rooms and the need to have money in the bank in order to live there. The resort-style assisted living facility featured single-occupant rooms that could pass as ritzy beach-side condos, an Olympic-sized pool and state of the art rehabilitation equipment. The price definitely reflected the amenities. Not to mention, the staff at Countryside exceeded all expectations of what a great staff should be.

  But best of all, the ALF was one of the only care centers that allowed the residents to keep companion therapy dogs in their rooms. She needed to be with Burt Lancaster Jr., a dog she’d had since before Mom passed away. Grammy was best off here, and I had to make enough to secure her room fee. I couldn’t let her down.

  I knocked gently and without waiting for a response, pushed the door open. Burt Lancaster, Jr. greeted me with a wagging tail and sniffing of my shoes. I patted the tan and black Lowchen a few times on the head and scratched behind his ears. I’d have to come up with the money soon to send him to a proper groomer. Last month, I’d taken a pair of scissors to him and it’d taken another entire week for him to forgive me.

  Originally named Bertie, Grammy saw fit to call him Burt Lancaster Jr. from the moment she first laid eyes on him. No one really knew why.

  Satisfied he’d been properly greeted and that I hadn’t come to steal Grammy’s valuables, he snuggled into his fluffy dog bed and huffed a doggy sigh.

  Grammy had good days and bad days.

  On the good days, she called me by my mom’s name, but at least she knew me to be family. On the bad days, she wouldn’t speak to anyone and refused to eat unless I put on a “show.”

  Today, she sat in her recliner with her leathery hands folded in her lap. Her thin lips pressed tight and her jaw set rigid confirmed Pearl’s worries that Grammy was in a dark mood.

  Some days I could get away with a few lines from her favorite movies, but I could tell she needed the monologue.

  I kissed her on the cheek, my lips pressing into her soft skin. “Good morning, Grammy.”

  Her eyes flickered in my direction as I pulled my hair into a quick messy bun.

  Pearl moved in behind me and closed the curtains shutting out the bright morning sunlight. She then dimmed the lights and left the room.

  Mom had been a soap opera actress for parts of the 80s and 90s with Grammy as the typical “stage mom” until Mom had been old enough to legally sign her own contracts. Growing up, I’d watched video cassette tapes of Mom’s days in the campy dramas. While she’d never been hugely successful, her shining moment had been her monologue to her so-called long-lost half-brother who’d she fallen in love with unknowingly. She’d been nominated for a Daytime Emmy Award for Outstanding Supporting Actress that year, but she’d lost to an actress from One Life to Live.

  I took a sequined scarf from Grammy’s closet and draped it over my head, covering my hair. Grammy turned her head toward me and the taut expression softened. My eyes clouded with tears before I shut them down. We both missed Mom so much.

  Moving to my start position, I sashayed to the middle of the room and rested the back of my hand against my forehead. “Love you? Of course, I love you. But I can’t love you in the way that you want me to, Adam. You see, I have a secret. A secret you share with me unknowingly.” I turned my head to stare intently into the distance. “If I tell you, all is lost. If I don’t tell you... well, the consequences are unthinkable.”

  I dropped to my knees. “Oh, Adam, Adam, Adam. We can’t go on this way. I must tell you. I must!” I pounded a fist on the tiled floor. I looked up at my imaginary co-star. “I’ll just say it. We share the same father.”

  Deep in character, I pretended that the imaginary Adam gasped and clutched his chest. “That’s right, Adam. I’m your half-sister!” The imaginary Adam would’ve then shaken his head violently in denial like I hoped any normal man would. “No, it is true. Your father had an affair with a barmaid in Tulsa and he left her behind. Left me behind.”

  I stood and raised my fist in the air with a Scarlet O’Hara holding a potato likeness. “I’m here to claim what’s rightfully mine and I won’t allow my feelings for you to stand in the way. I can only hope that someday you’ll forgive me.”

  I bowed my head and waited.

  Grammy clapped enthusiastically. She grabbed a tissue from her side table and dabbed beneath her eyes. “Brava, my darling.” Then she stood and walked by me to the door. “I’m starving. Let’s see what’s on the menu today. Come along, Burt.”

  She clicked her tongue and Burt popped out of his bed and followed at her heels.

  And just like that, Grammy had been pulled out of her mood. I returned the scarf to the closet for next time, which would inevitably come.

  Pearl waited outside the door for her and directed her toward the cafeteria. She beckoned me over. “It looks like your Grammy wants to eat in the cafeteria today. I have this extra meal on the cart that’s going to go to waste.” She lifted the top of a plastic serving container to expose a sandwich wrapped in white paper and potato salad in a paper bowl. “Maybe you could take it off my hands.”

  I grinned even as my stomach growled. “You are a treasure, Pearl.”

  I scooped up the sandwich and put it in my bag for later. The potato salad would get me through until dinner. Walking along with Pearl as she pushed the cart down the hallway, I returned my attention to the bags under her eyes.

  “In L.A., they have us dab hemorrhoid cream under our eyes to reduce the swelling.” I quickly added, “Not th
at I think there’s anything wrong with how you look this morning.”

  She chuckled. “There’s definitely plenty of hemorrhoid cream around here. I’ll give it a try.”

  We walked in silence for a few more moments while I crammed every bit of potato-y goodness into my mouth. A year ago, I’d have scoffed at the calories in the mayonnaise alone. The one good thing to come out of my exile from Hollywood was the ability to eat like a normal person. I refrained from licking the bottom of the bowl. I’d wait until Pearl and I parted ways for that.

  She stopped to take the knitting needles out of the hands of a resident who’d fallen asleep. We walked past the main staff offices and her dark eyebrows bunched up over her eyes. “How are things going with the job search?”

  “Okay, I guess.” If absolute failure could be considered okay.

  She glanced up and down the hallway and lowered her voice. “Not that I’m one to eavesdrop, mind you, but I overheard Ms. Laura talking to her secretary yesterday and they mentioned your Grammy’s account being in arrears.”

  “I’m trying.” Every single time I got an opportunity, a simple misunderstanding would get me fired. Or maybe the problem was my inability to understand how to keep my mouth shut.

  She reached inside the pocket of her scrubs and retrieved a business card. “I may have something for you. I have a friend who runs a professional mourning service. I was just about to call her this morning about one of my in-home patients that passed between Saturday night and Sunday morning.”

  I took the card from her. The name of the business was written in a red block font—Exit Stage Left. No website or email, just the owner’s name and a telephone number. “A what?”

  “Professional mourning service,” she repeated. “Ms. Ruthie hires out people to attend funerals and pretend to be friends or family.”

  I cringed, having a massive dislike of the word funeral since Mom died a year and a half ago. “That’s odd.”

  “She uses former actresses.” Pearl patted my shoulder. “Like you.”

  My acting career was on hiatus and certainly not finished as the word former implied. I pushed the card back toward her hand. “I don’t think this would be right for me.”

  The unmistakable voice of Grammy filtered down the hallway. I caught a few words here and there as she bragged about her soap opera star daughter. Mom wouldn’t have turned her nose up at any job opportunity.

  I pulled the card back and thanked Pearl. I’d do anything to keep Grammy safe and happy at Countryside. Desperate times and all that.

  3

  With Grammy settled at Countryside and an entire day of avoiding Mateo ahead of me, I headed to the North Asheville Public Library on Merrimon Avenue. Along with the unusual architecture that reminded me of a woodsy, mountain-life inspired cabin, it met both requirements for spending a day away from the apartment—air conditioning and free WiFi.

  I made my way to the back of the library and wound through the non-fiction bookshelves to flop down into an oversized stuffed chair.

  A guy with noise-canceling headphones occupied the chair opposite me and read what I recognized to be the newest twisty thriller with a title that had “girl” in the name. He didn’t pay any attention to me, which I appreciated, so I focused on my most pressing task. Mainly, securing steady employment.

  Unfortunately, it was no longer about just steady employment. I needed a fast paycheck.

  I twisted the card Pearl had given me between my fingers like a magician did with a coin before making it disappear. Only I wasn’t a magician and I couldn’t make the card or my problems vanish. I used my smart phone and clicked through a quick internet search of Exit Stage Left and the owner’s name. Nothing came up about professional mourning or a Ruthie Colburn. Weird. Rare to find a person who didn’t have a social media trail leading to their front door and displaying all their guilty pleasures for the world to judge.

  Could it be a secret society of mourners? I’d read David Barrett’s Secret Societies: From the Ancient and Arcane to the Modern and Clandestine when I’d auditioned for a role in a movie several years back, but I hadn’t retained much of the information after I’d been told I wasn’t muscular enough for even an uncredited supporting actress role. The part I did retain from his book said that these societies were very particular about admitting new members.

  I closed my eyes and sighed. How many funerals would it take to get enough money to catch up Grammy’s rent and mine? It wouldn’t be a good job for the long term. The last funeral I’d attended had nearly ripped my heart to shreds, and even though these would probably be strangers, I couldn’t imagine it would be any easier to watch others grieve.

  I shifted and a crinkling sound made me realize I hadn’t opened the letter from the attorney’s office. I pulled the envelope from my back pocket, unfolded it, and slid my thumb under the sealed lip, freeing what was sure to be more bad news. I read the curt paragraphs twice and bit my bottom lip so hard the metallic taste of blood reached the tip of my tongue.

  The check I’d written to the plaintiff in the most recent lawsuit against me had bounced. The threat the law firm made in short sentences rang out as clear as a Sunday morning church bell. If I didn’t get another one in the mail within a week, they’d take me back to court and I’d be held in contempt.

  I wasn’t sure who I’d upset in a past life, but it sure felt like karma had something against me.

  Wait, if the check bounced did that mean I’d used the money for the lawsuit on my car payment this month? And I’d been so happy to be caught up on at least one big bill. Having a car meant having a place to sleep if worse came to worse and I ended up on the streets.

  Darn it. I’d checked my bank account two days ago. There wasn’t an unaccounted pile of cash sitting in there. I’d somehow made yet another mistake. That money was long gone.

  “Hey.” The guy across from me pulled his headphones down around his neck. He squinted, but the edges of his mouth curled into a smile. “You’re Diva Rosalind Devoe.”

  I folded the envelope with shaky hands. The anxiety I’d developed at being recognized in public quickened my pulse. What had once brought me pleasure and validation now terrified me. “Sorry, you must have me confused with someone else.”

  “Nah, I know it’s you.” He set his book down on a side table and picked up a tabloid. The top corner of the magazine showed an unflattering picture of my face Photoshopped alongside my impeccably dressed ex-boyfriend. “I just read this article about you. Is it true you got dumped by Armando Hernandez and then set fire to a restaurant?”

  My chest tightened at the mention of Armando’s name. “I wouldn’t know anything about that because I’m not her.”

  I glanced around the library. A few of the patrons perusing the bookshelves turned to stare at us. If I ran out, I’d give this guy a reason to tweet or Facebook about me, but if I sat back and acted casual then maybe, just maybe, he’d let it go.

  He lifted the magazine. “Will you sign this?”

  “That’s library property,” I glanced down at my phone and pretended to search for something online. “And it wouldn’t do you any good to have me sign it because I’m not Diva Rosalind. My last name is Collins.”

  “Can I at least get a selfie with you?”

  “No!” My raised voice carried through the quiet.

  A woman I recognized as the librarian who staffed the Information Desk approached us. Her scrunched eyebrows and the spectacles hanging from a neck strap gave her a menacing air of authority. “Ma’am, I need you to please keep your voice down.”

  I stood up, ready to plead my case against the man who harassed me.

  He snapped a pic of me with the chastising librarian and chuckled. “Hashtag Diva Rosalind at it again.”

  A repeat of what had happened a month earlier at my short-lived stocking job at the Dollar General flashed through my head. The customer had been insanely rude and pushy asking for a picture, but because I’d taken up for myself by lett
ing her know in a loud voice how her behavior made me feel, I lost my job, and a new hashtag had been formed in my honor. #DivaRosalindAtItAgain

  I shoved the letter and the business card into my purse. “I’m leaving anyway.” With my chin lifted a notch higher than it needed to be, I calmly made my way to the library exit.

  Once I crawled into the driver’s seat of my blue Honda Civic and cranked the air conditioning to high, I pulled out the business card and my cell phone. Secret society or not, I needed a paycheck. I tapped in Ruthie Colburn’s number and held my breath as I waited for her to answer the phone.

  ∞∞∞

  The raspy, deeply southern voice on the other end of the line had asked me to meet her at Pritchard Park in one hours’ time. The business-like conversation had lasted less than a minute, giving me little indication as to what to think of Ruthie Colburn. The reality was nothing close to the Julia Sugarbaker from Designing Women image I’d pictured in my mind.

  A few children darted through the park and climbed the rocks, but other than the excited tots, their parents, and a few vagrants asking for spare change, Pritchard remained quiet for a Tuesday afternoon. My heart sank as I approached the woman sitting on the bench nearest the community chess and checkers area. Her clothes appeared well-worn and the rhinestone glasses pushed tight against her face were missing a few fake stones. The professional mourning business couldn’t possibly hold the payday I needed if Ruthie Colburn’s appearance was any indication of prosperity.

  I mentally chastised myself for the gold-digging thoughts. Hadn’t I been on the opposite end of undeserved judgment more than once in the past year? I clutched my headshot and acting resume to my chest. Always prepared, I had a few stashed in my car for just such an audition.

  “Mrs. Colburn?” I asked just to make sure I had the right person.

  I’d had enough time to go back to the apartment and wash the rest of the green out of my hair. Not wanting to use the blow dryer and draw Mateo’s attention, I’d left it wet and pulled it back into a sharp bun. It matched Ruthie’s and I hoped the similarity would win me some bonus points. I’d put on a soft pair of well-worn jeans and sleeveless black top, but I could tell from her head-to-toe gaze that I’d chosen wrong.