“Are you ready for this?” Henry asked. He nodded toward the main viewing room, and I followed his eyes to where Violet sat next to Pete in the last row. Henry had taken on the task of filling Violet in on her role in today’s game plan. She half smiled at both of us to acknowledge our presence, and then tilted her head in the direction of the front of the room to where Mischa stood at the center of a small crowd.

I patted my oversize, overstuffed tote bag. If my mom was the kind of person who ever thought about fashion, she might have questioned why I was bringing what was essentially an enormous gym bag to a memorial service. But thankfully, she didn’t notice that kind of stuff, and it was a weird memorial service anyway, since a lot of people were wearing their pastel Easter church outfits. I’d brought one mason jar of red brick dust, another jar, which was empty, a Ziploc bag of cornmeal, two empty coffee cans, and a vial of cow’s blood. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Two closed caskets were arranged at the far back of the viewing room amid enormous floral arrangements, and Mischa was positioned just a few feet in front of them. She’d brushed her hair since Friday, and looked like she’d showered, too, although her eyes were sunken and her nose was red. I wished with all my heart that circumstances were different, that I could embrace the enormity of Mischa’s loss and dedicate myself to comforting her that day. I’d known both of her parents my whole life, and I felt guilty that I wasn’t at their shiva simply to mourn them. With both Olivia and Candace gone, I should have been someone on whom Mischa could rely for emotional support. Instead, I couldn’t even bring myself to look in her eyes.

She was holding hands with Matt, who wore an ill-fitting suit and had his hair gelled down. On Mischa’s other side stood a short but handsome middle-aged man that I instantly realized must have been her infamous uncle Roger, occupant of the Portnoys’ summer home up near Lake Superior. Rows of upholstered chairs were arranged on both sides of a center aisle, down which a girl I didn’t recognize—presumably one of Mischa’s classmates at St. Patrick’s—walked to tearfully greet her.

In bits and pieces of the conversation surrounding us, I heard snippets of gossip that suggested Amanda was recovering, with the voice of Tracy Hartford’s mother cutting through the din as clearly as a church bell. “Her doctors called it a miracle. She woke up out of the clear blue. They’re hopeful she may regain the use of her arms.”

News that Amanda was not only still alive, but thriving, made my heart beat faster. An improvement in her condition meant that the sacrifice I’d made (even if it was unintentional) had served its purpose. It also probably meant that the spirits were already counting on my death occurring in exchange for Amanda’s.