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cool turn-of-the-century architecture. Not particularly scary to me—more awe-inspiring than anything, fascinated with old buildings as I am. My parents accompanied me, and I nervously cracked death jokes the entire way there, lightening the mood. We all laughed, the reality of the whole thing not having quite set in.
    My mother had been furious when I revealed that I had contacted my half sisters. I tried to assure her that they were very nice and just your average grieving family, but she had locked herself inside her room and refused to speak to me for several hours, which was actually quite minimal for her—she was famous for going weeks or even months on end doling out the silent treatment, positive that the deprivation of her presence was killing all of us. This started when I was nine and my sister eight. It always made Molly sob. She would camp outside my mother’s door and pound on it with her tiny fists, begging her mommy to love heragain. Molly did not get beaten as I did, so the worst punishment that she could ever fathom was the complete withholding of our mother’s sparse affection.
    As for me, these times were the calmest in my existence. There was nothing quite as relaxing as a minivacation from Mom. The horror would only begin again when the sticky double doors to the master bedroom would open and she would reemerge, calmly speaking to us again as though nothing had happened. I never understood how Molly and even Joe regarded her siestas as a negative habit. Sure, it couldn’t be healthy for my mom to hole herself up in bed, her hatred toward all of us emanating through the cracks of the locked doors like oozing pus. But surely, it was better for our mental health to be free of her for a bit, right? So what exactly was the problem?
    In any event, my mother’s sojourn was abruptly curtailed by her curiosity. She couldn’t keep herself mad enough at me to miss out on the excitement of the Saturday matinee production of Brianna’s Fun with the Coroner, so off we went, as a family.
    Joyce Cato was a tiny and calm woman with a soothing voice. I assumed that the soothing voice was a necessity if you were going to work in the Decedent Notification Department. She provided us with a copy of the coroner’s report and kindly explained our options as far as funeral arrangements and cremation. She gave me the public administrator’s contact information, and an envelope containing the only item that had been on the body at the time of death—his cell phone.
    â€œHis keys were in his pocket, but they have to be sent over to the PA first; they need to decide if probate is necessary. I don’t know if you want…the gun, but it’s legallyyours if you do. You have to pick that up separately—we don’t give firearms to family members here.”
    Horrified, I hastily assured her that I had no interest in the shotgun.
    â€œNo, I didn’t think you would, but we have to ask,” she explained.
    I winced. I knew how my final request would sound. “I know this is going to seem weird, or gross, but—I’d like to see the mortuary photo, please. If you don’t think he’s too…mangled…or anything. If it’s something I could probably handle, I’d like to see it.”
    â€œIt’s not weird or gross—believe me. Many relatives ask to see the death photo. We get all kinds of requests in here—I’ve heard it all.” She pulled out a piece of paper. “I don’t know what you can or can’t handle, of course. Every person’s threshold is different.” She studied the photo. “I can tell you that it’s not as bad as many that I’ve seen. His face is all still there, there’s no jaw missing or anything.”
    Kindly, Joe reached out and took the photo from her. “I’ll look first,” he said. My mother looked away. She didn’t want to see it.
    Joe looked for about