“You didn’t have to do that,” I say a little louder.

But Mary doesn’t seem to hear me. She is glancing over her shoulder behind us, where the column of steadily rising gray smoke has replaced the old steeple in the skyline of our hometown.

XXVI.

I’VE NEVER HELD SOMEONE’S ASHES BEFORE. THEY GAVE them to us in a temporary box of white cardboard, all neatly folded and tucked together like an origami project, the weight of it a surprise. I resist the urge to open the box or pick at its corners. I tell myself this is Moony, but my mind refuses to believe it. I think they could be anybody’s ashes. How would we know? My mom insists there’s a metal tag inside with a number, and the number means it’s Moony. But I don’t know any number. I don’t know any ashes. I know a woman of flesh and blood who baked for me and combed my hair and told me bedtime stories. And she doesn’t fit inside this generic box.

We fight over what to do with them.

“I’m just saying, scattering is the most practical option. Do you know what those plots cost, Cat? We can’t afford a place like that for her. She should have made her own arrangements if she wanted that.”

I glare at my mother, Moony sitting squarely in my lap. “She had very specific beliefs, and you know that. She would not want to be dumped in the Mississippi like some hippie. I won’t let you do that to her.”

Regardless of whatever lies she told, whatever image she projected, whatever secrets she kept, as she rests against my thighs, Moony is still Moony. And I still love her. She still gave me so much. Maybe not a college fund, but the love and stability I needed for the last ten years. That counts for something. And I want for her what she wanted for herself—a stainless life, a religious end. Even if it’s impossible.

Mary rolls her eyes. “Even dead, she’s still the victim to you.”

“Didn’t you get money from the sale of the house? Surely you can spare a little to lay your mother to rest.” I resist the urge to bite my own tongue, part of me knowing I should be more focused on talking her into using it for my college than anything else. But I can find another way. Moony needs this. I need this. Some kind of closure.

My mother sighs. “Cat, why is everything a struggle with you? Huh? Is there a single decision we can make without fighting about it first?”