“Buenos días,” I correct Mom tiredly. “Buenos Aires is a city.”
“Did you say you were still in Salem?” she asks. “That looks like your grandma’s house.”
I guess we’re on a video call. Fun. I try to rearrange myself on my pillow, and frankly, it hurts. My stomach’s killing me, and I can only chalk some of my ear-ringing up to Mom’s voice. Are paranormal hangovers a thing? Or is this garden-variety exhaustion? Also, my arms are putty. Who knew handling wedding decorations could be so physically taxing?
Presumably, real wedding planners.
“If you’d read my texts, you’d know Grandma’s lawyer won’t let me leave,” I tell Mom.
She gasps loudly, in a way that would be feigned for other people.
“Has he kidnapped you, Samantha!?”
“Yes,” I say into my elbow. “I’m kidnapped. Inside Grandma’s house. With my iPhone and everything. But don’t worry, I’m using my phone to make TikTok videos about my captivity. I’ll be famous by noon.”
“Now I know you’re joking. The last thing you want is to be famous.”
It must be the fatigue, but for some reason I blurt out, “Wow, you got me. It’s almost like you’ve paid attention to who I am since you fell down your herbal medicine whackadoo rabbit hole.”
Mom is speechless. Whoops. I peel back my puttylike arm and sit upright in bed. I usually know better than to say anything too honest and unfiltered to her. Not because she’ll take offense or use my words against me, but because being honest leaves me vulnerable. The one thing Mom’s good at besides day drinking is shooting her arrows of apathy into my heart.
“Ha ha,” she singsongs. “You’re too funny. Anyway, when you get back home, can you send me a diffuser from that Japanese Moogi store?”
Yep. There she goes, ignoring me again. With effort, I say, “It’s Muji, not Moogi. And what do you need a Muji diffuser for?”
“They’re ultrasonic is why.Ultra. Sonic.”
“Can’t you just order it online and ship to your hotel? Or come back yourself, to—”
“Ay-ay-ay,mucho fuerte!” Mom interrupts with a giggle. I know that giggle, unfortunately.
I pinch my nose bridge. “Who are you talking to, Mom?”
“The pool boy!”
“Please stop flirting with people half your age. And massacring Spanish. Mom?”
A long beep informs me that my advice has fallen on deaf ears.
Well, that’s no surprise. I roll over. The mattress emits a flatulent creak, then leaves me to silence, which is weird after the last week of Bulan’s chatty, endless monologues. I wouldn’t say I miss him, but his voice sure beats out my life-bringer’s. He has a surprisingly nice tenor, actually. I wonder if he’s any good at karaoke.
Or if he could tell me why I’m stuck here, despite doing everything right.
After a shower, I dress in a carefully neutral plain white tee and jeans, grab a frozen, maybe-moldy cannoli from the freezer, and drive the rental back to the wedding venue. Crested by a wash of cool sunlight, the mansion looks different from yesterday. It’s derelict, but cozily so. The ceiling seems intact in every room, including above the ballroom stage. And with the exception of Bulan, who greets me from a puddle of ragged curtains he’s made into a bed, it seems all paranormal activity has left the building.
The lack of bloodstains on the ballroom floor is particularly encouraging.
“No bloodbaths in Essex County last night?” I ask Bulan as we shove décor and wilted floral arrangements into garbage bags.
“None we’re responsible for,” the head answers with a cheery grin. “A twenty-four-hour Shaw’s had its butcher department cleaned out, however. And I think the local rabbit population may have been culled.”
“Amazing. So…” Where do I even start? With the simple things, I guess. “Where’d Dave and Amanda leave my payment?”
Bulan wobbles uncertainly. “I might be mistaken, but I don’t believe they left it anywhere, Sabby.”
Worry strikes me like a blow to the back, but I try to hide it. I was so busy planning the wedding that it only now occurs to me I forgot to set up a payment plan with the couple.
What if this means I don’t get paid?
