We planned a small memorial gathering in Lucy’s condo. It was only a few friends—people who’d become, in recent years, more like pen pals. “This must be the new stove,” one said. They recognized things from her letters. My father even came. He and my mother still got along surprisingly well. It seemed like their divorce had come as a relief to both of them. I sensed that he knew her better than anyone else. She wasn’t known by many people.

When she criticized him, her opinions never seemed raw, only well considered and matter-of-fact. He was a deal she’d already gotten out of, but I was stuck with him for the long haul. “Your father always expected to be someone extraordinary,” she said. “He wasn’t prepared for how he turned out.”

I told Ms. Z that I needed a few days away from work for my grandmother’s memorial service. I’d lied about her death, and now the lie had come true. I needed more days.

“You don’t have more days,” said Ms. Z. “You have a job.”

She had an important television appearance coming up: a daytime talk show where she’d be participating in a roundtable with a group of homeless teens. She needed me to do research: How many kids lived on the street in America right now? What had the president done to worsen their lot? Even Ms. Z, one of the most terrible people I’d ever met, knew our president was bad news. I told her I absolutely could not come to work. “Fire me if you have to” is what I said. She did.

I wanted Lucy’s condo to look presentable for her service. I wasn’t much good at cooking or cleaning, but I set out fresh flowers and smoothed the couch cushions. They’d stayed wrinkled from all my nights of restless sleep. Cleaning was a way of making things presentable for her, as if her ghost would come back as a finicky houseguest. I tried recipes from magazines, but they didn’t turn out like their pictures. My wilted spinach leaves looked greasy and depressed. “Warm salad?” my mom said. “Interesting.”

She rose during the meal and said a few words to our assembled guests. “It’s only the body that goes,” she said. “The spirit remains.”

Near the end of the night, I saw her crouched on the kitchen rug, holding an empty Corona bottle from the recycling. She handed it to me like a relic. I wasn’t sure what she wanted me to do with it. I set it neatly on the floor. “Matilda almost ruined this rug,” she said finally. “Back in L.A.”

“Yeah?”