Mama came up to Toronto, and the two of us sneakily spread Janice’s ashes around the edge of a park in the ritziest part of the city. To this day, I like to think that the spirit of Janice “Crash” Fortune is directly responsible for all the fender benders that happen around there. Especially the one Dave got into with his precious Porsche a few days after we broke up. That would almost make it all feel okay.

As the last few shovelfuls of soil are laid over Reenie’s casket, I get another round of queasy. I try to ease it by staring up at the clouds, as they grow ever more pendulous, grey, and start to spit. Or weep.

“Happy is the corpse that the rain falls on,” Allie sighs, as water droplets dapple the freshly turned earth. She casually drapes an arm around my shoulders. “Let’s go sit in the car. My mascara isn’t waterproof.”

Allie’s father yells after us as the rain picks up and we dart toward the car, “Allie honey, you’ll be home for supper, right?”

“Yes, Dad,” she sings back. Then mutters to me, “They forget how to turn on the damn oven. I don’t even know if it still works. The four of them lived off microwaved baloney and cold beans right out of the can after Mum moved to Halifax.”

“So you’re staying, I take it.”

“Nowhere else to go.”

“Good,” I say, before registering the sting of my own selfish honesty. “I mean, not good, but, you know what I mean.”

Allie nods and produces a tiny joint from the depths of the centre console, lighting it as she slides into a tired slouch in the driver’s seat. She’s handling all this better than most folks would expect. But I’m not one bit surprised.

“Picked up some of Gimp’s Grade A medicinal,” she squeaks, passing it to me. “Puts the ‘fun’ in funeral.”

“Funerals. I need to have one of those.”

“So, they’re sure the tumours are . . .” Allie’s voice trails off.

“Inoperable. Even if they’re not malignant, I’m fucked. Just a matter of how fast,” I say. “Plus, you know my family. No secret how this kind of thing pans out for us.”

“Right.” She slumps a little farther down. Allie knows better than to argue with my family’s tragedy-riddled history.

She will not try to talk me out of my morbidity. Not like the silver-lining-obsessed Pollyannas I knew in Toronto. The ones who insisted that their “positivity,” their faith in the benevolence of an all-powerful Universe, and the manifesting magic of blueberry juice would buoy them along through life. Finding myself alone, seizing, and helpless on a piss-stained subway platform was one thing. But the thought of having a steady stream of dewy-faced, #blessed socialites chirp at me, Well, everything happens for a reeeeason. The Universe is guiding you to a deeper level of heeeeealing! was more than I could bear.

“So what are you thinking?” Allie asks.