Oh shuddup, Crow, I can almost hear Mama say. It won’t kill you to accept a little kindness.

If I squint at the world just right, my squirrelly vision could almost be beautiful today, and I can’t help but feel an unexpected pang of gratitude for Parry and Ziggy and Fuzzy Wuzzy for giving me this gift of colour and light and movement in the midst of an otherwise frozen, dark moment. Like even the brain tumours are trying to show me some kindness.

Mama would be mortified that somebody put an obituary in the paper calling her “a blessing to her community.” Mortified that the ladies’ auxiliary pulled together an im­promptu reception at the fire hall. Mortified that so many crying, sniffling people spontaneously found their way down to The Wharf today to pay their respects. But nobody got an eyeful of ash. So at least that went the way Mama wanted.

The investigation into the accident was quick. The treacherous turn by the bridge at the foot of Ceilidh Mountain is known for swaths of black ice. Mama lost control of the car. It went through the old guardrail, hit the big rocks on the bank before going into the water, then sank into the deep part of the Bras d’Or. The autopsy was quick, too. Mama was probably already unconscious from the crash when the car went under. It was the kind of accident people have been predicting for decades. One of these days, somebody’s gonna get killed on that turn, and won’t that be a shame. So there’s no need to ask too many questions, and no need for Shirl Short or Dar MacIsaac or Bonnie Big Mouth or Peggy Fortune to make up answers.

Meanwhile, I’ve got a whore of a pile of funeral ham, because in Cape Breton the only way to offer condolences is with food, and there are only three kinds of foods that show you mean it: casseroles, squares, and funeral hams. When the funeral hams go on sale down at the grocery store for ninety-nine cents a pound, you stock up so you’ll always have something to bring the family when somebody dies. Flossie Baker brought over the biggest slab of ham I’ve ever laid eyes on, cheerfully decorated with patterns of pineapple rings and maraschino cherries, all pinned to the meat with cloves. In fact, there’s not a lick of room left in the fridge thanks to the gargantuan ham, two cheesy hash brown casseroles, and a tub of goulash. And the pan of deep-fried chicken wings and some kind of noodles. Clearly, there are some rebels down the Middle Rear Road these days.

“Here,” Peggy says, shoving a pan of brown and pink swirly squares at me as I prod the ham, trying to make some room. “From Audrey. She’ll meet us down the fire hall.”

“You take ’em. I don’t eat squares.” My flat voice is barely audible over the fridge’s hum.