The casket is made out of a dark, reddish wood, polished to where I can see myself in it. Inside is lined with blue satin, matching the dress she's wearing. She loved that dress. Maggie's gray hair is all done up like she always wore it. Though something about her face, her closed eyes, thin mouth, sharp features...it looks all wrong. Not like her at all.

I think Penny is waiting for something from me. Some massive melt-down, tears, hysterics. I don't know. Honestly, I'm kind of waiting for it, too, being the world's biggest crybaby, after all. After the applesauce incident, I spent three hours sobbing and unable to stop. Yet there are no tears now, when there should be.

Penny strokes my arm. "It's time to say goodbye, Vince."

I frown at Maggie.

She looks like clay.

That's what it is. Like someone made a clay replica of Maggie's head. I could reach down and smudge away a wrinkle, leave my fingerprint in her skin. "I can't say goodbye."

"I know it's hard, sweetheart, but—"

"Of course it's hard. She's dead. How do you say goodbye to someone who's already dead?" I pull my arm out of her grasp. "Saying goodbye to dead people doesn't mean a thing. They can't hear you."

By the stricken look on her face, you would think I'd slapped her. Nevermind that I didn't even raise my voice. It's still flat and easy, because I can't find it in me to get worked up about this. She's dead, and it sucks. It really fucking sucks but what am I supposed to do?

I could handle being sad.

Whatever this is, this in-between phase of feeling and not, I hate it.

I leave before Penny—or Harold, or anyone else—can give me anymore words of wisdom about letting go and how Maggie is in a better place. I go home and claw off my stupid formal clothes and mess up my hair, and I think about how I have to pack everything in the house to either take it with me or sell it. I'm going to have to look through everything Maggie in this place before I'm kicked out in less than two months.

What then? I can get an apartment of my own, sure. A job. Something. What's the point? I find it hard to think of a point to any of this. I think if there were one person who cared, just one, I could find a reason to give a damn.

I pick up the phone and call Corey.

Through the house phone instead of my cell, because she won't recognize the number and maybe she'll answer instead of sending me to voicemail. It rings once, twice, and her voice comes alive on the line, cheerful and warm.

"Hello!"

If there's anyone I want to break down to, it's her. I think I could, would, if I could see her face to face. "Hey, it's me."

A pause. "Hey, Vinny. What's going on?"