“He looked like an old wax dummy. It gave me the creeps.”

“That gives me the creeps, too,” I said. “When my husband died, I insisted the casket stay closed.” I didn’t bother to add that, given the nature of his accident, there really wasn’t much choice in the matter.

Carlos looked at me in surprise.

“Your husband’s dead? Gosh, you’re not that old. I mean, you’re old, but not that old.”

“Not old like a grandmother, you mean?”

He nodded.

“My husband was in an accident,” I said. “He would still be alive if it hadn’t happened.”

“Wow.”

“This is the first wake I’ve been to since then.”

“Is that why you got sick when you came in?”

“Yeah,” I said, “that’s why I got sick.”

We sat there in companionable silence for a while, until finally Sidra came out and joined us.

“There you are, sweetie,” she said softly, sitting on the other side of Carlos. “You holding up okay?”

“I am, but she wasn’t,” he said, pointing at me. “She was sick. I got her some water and made her put her head between her legs.”

Sidra glanced at me with concern.

“I think you’ve got a little doctor here,” I said, smiling. “He was very professional.”

“That’s the kind of boy he is,” she said, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him in for a hug. “Always taking care of everyone.”

“Sidra,” Derek said suddenly, appearing in the doorway. I could see Sidra’s shoulders stiffening as she released Carlos from his hug.

“What?” she answered, not meeting Derek’s eyes.

“The Hansens are here. I think you should come out and say hello.”

“Of course,” Sidra said softly. She gave Carlos a pat on the knee and then stood and went with Derek.

“I’m sorry your parents are having problems,” I said suddenly to Carlos, once they were gone. I wasn’t sure if it was a subject he would be willing to discuss, but I knew most kids were pretty aware of the things going on around them.

“It’ll all work out,” he said breezily. “I have a few ideas.”

“Ideas?”

He glanced at me, then turned away.

“Never mind.”

I could see from the set of his jaw that he wasn’t going to say any more. I wondered what possible impact a child his age could have on his own parents’ failing marriage. But then I thought of the blood on the windowsills—painted the night he was off on his soccer trip—and I knew there were other forces here, other elements to this mix besides just two adults who couldn’t get along.

“Your mother is so beautiful,” I said, steering us toward more neutral territory. “Is she Spanish?”

“From Honduras.”

“Wow,” I said. “How did she end up in Pennsylvania?”

“My dad.”

“Ah.”