Even if I could produce tears on command, there isn’t much to cry about today. Dad and I hadn’t had much of a relationship since I was eleven and he’d decided that the fatherhood experiment wasn’t working out for him. He’d been busy finding himself, which entailed him taking boys’ trips to places he couldn’t afford, shacking up with women half his age, and generally making Mom miserable. I was glad he’d kept his distance, because any interaction between them ended up sending Mom spiraling. We once joked she cried enough for two people, but it wasn’t just a joke. She wished I would cry more and I wished she would cry less. I’d turned into my dad at some point, I guess. How depressing.

“Drink this. You look thirsty.” Mom shoves a mug into my hand.

“I’m good.” The thought of putting anything in my mouth makes my stomach roil. Not only is the body of my father lying in a box in the next room, but all the prep work for the deceased is done in this very building. I’d rather eat my own toes than digest this funeral food.

“You haven’t eaten or drunk anything all day. I understand if your stomach is upset, but at least put some liquids in you.”

I pretend to sip because getting into an argument over a cup of hot water at a funeral doesn’t seem like the best course of action. It’s easier to give in.

“Your eyeliner is smudged.”

That’s from earlier when I thought if I poked myself in the eye, it might produce tears. It didn’t, even though it hurt. Mom licks her finger and drags it underneath my eye as if I were a little girl again and had dirt smeared on my face. Her action leaves an uncomfortable wet spot above my cheek that I itch to wipe off, but because I don’t want her to feel rejected, I let my face air-dry. She’s already on edge.

“Your dad is probably livid at this.” She waves a hand toward the table someone set up with a poster board filled with photos. “It’s so low-rent. And the lack of people . . .” She clicks her tongue against the top of her mouth. “He’d be devastated. I can’t believe Geoff Kaplan didn’t come. Those two had a business together, for crying out loud.”

A failed one, if I recall, but Mom is absolutely correct. Dad would not be happy with this event. If this were Geoff’s funeral, Dad would be in the corner with a golfing buddy declaring that this joint was both dull and tacky. The reception table has a grocery store cake, an assortment of cheese slices on a tray with the UPC label still visible on the black plastic, white disposable cups, liters of off-brand soda for the punch, and two tall stainless steel hot liquid dispensers filled with coffee and tea.

Dad would take this all in with his social smile—the salesman grin that seemed permanently etched into his face like the Joker’s scars—but inwardly he’d be fuming. The attendance at the wake is sparse and no one sounds like they miss him. Even the second Mrs. Wilson is occupied with trying to keep her toddler from drooling all over the punch bowl instead of sitting still in her black dress weeping delicately into a handkerchief.