She said those words so much when she was alive. My shoulders tense, bracing to learn what I’ve failed to do this time.
But the howling stops. The wind dies.
Tita Wendy shakes her head. “The call dropped.”
She puts on the glasses dangling on a faux pearl chain around her neck and peers down at the phone with disdain.
“Server error,” she reads out. “Unable to connect at this time. Try again later.”
Tita Wendy takes off her cat-eye glasses. “It seems there will be no shortcuts, even with this”—she waves at the phone—“uniquesituation. You’ll have to go through a process of trial and error to figure out what your mom’s unfinished business is.”
It’s not like this is what I expected when I pictured having a daughter.
“You two were close. You don’t—” My voice is so thin, like watered-down soup. “You don’t know what it is?”
Tita Wendy sighs. “I’m sorry, Ruby. I don’t think that’s a good idea, now, to guess.”
But the realization is sinking in slowly, like a fresh stain working its way deeper into carpet: I know what the problem is. She basically told me, the last time we talked on the phone.
Mom’s still here because of me and what a disappointment I am. She couldn’t rest easy, seeing how my life was turning out.
I don’t want to have to face it. I don’t know if I can change it now. I get up quickly, fumbling because the chair legs snag on the rug.
“Thank you for your help! Sorry to bother you. I’ll have to think about what it could be.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Tita Wendy says with a click of her tongue, standing and putting a hand on my back as I head for the door. “Keep me posted, all right? Tell me how I can help. Anything you need.” She widens her eyes at her son, who’s gone unusually quiet, and flaps a hand at him. “Greg, why don’t you walk Ruby home?”
“No!” I exclaim more forcefully than I intended.
Greg looks like he stepped on something sharp, but it passes quickly enough that I wonder if I imagined it.
“No, I—I need to think,” I say. “Be alone for a bit. Thanks, though, Greg. For—” I wave a hand vaguely around.
“Anytime, Ruby,” he says quietly.
My mind is spinning for the whole walk home. As soon as I get inside, I slump against the front door and frantically start googling again. And I land on one promising result:
Cruelty free exorcism. Banish ghosts the humane way! Quick fix for hauntings.
Great. Perfect.
As I fill out their contact form, I hum to calm myself down. It’s only after I hitsubmitthat my mind catches up and I recognize the song: one of the eighties power ballads Mom loved so much, the kind she’d sing off-key while she made dinner.
Chapter
12
I recognize the owner of the Cruelty Free Exorcism Collective from his profile photo. He’s behind the counter with a burlap-colored apron and a man bun, at the coffee shop where he told me to meet him: a bougie little place in Santa Monica with Pinterest-worthy interior design, every nondairy milk I’ve ever heard of, and a couple that I haven’t. There’s a framed picture on the wall—a beaming white couple posing with farmers in a field in Nicaragua—with text beside it explaining the relationship they’ve developed with the people who grow their beans.
He spots me and nods as he finishes serving a customer her oat milk latte. Then he comes out from behind the counter and gives me a firm handshake.
“Jonah,” he says. “Like with the whale.”
Oh great. A man with a tagline.
“Do you own this place?” I ask as I follow him up the stairs in the back. “And the exorcisms are…a thing you do on the side?”
“Everyone needs a side hustle these days,” Jonah says with a slight chuckle.
