I wipe at my eyes and stand up. “What do you mean? What about her funeral?”

If there’s one thing I know, it’s that Moony would want a full Catholic send-off, with a mass and everything.

My mother clears her throat. “I’ve made arrangements. She’s being cremated, and they’ll call us when her ashes are ready. We’ll pick her up then and find somewhere nice to spread them, okay?”

“So we’re not going to have a memorial or anything?” I am aware my voice is shrill. But I feel a mounting panic at the wrongness of this and even more at the idea of leaving my home.

My mother gives Eric an apologetic glance. “Can we talk about this on the drive?” she asks, cutting her eyes at Eric to indicate how uncomfortable we’re making him.

I purse my lips and start for the door, eyes cast down.

“Thank you again,” she tells him as we exit. “I’ll let you know what happens.”

Eric nods sympathetically, and I realize that in my mother’s version of events, Moony and I are the difficult ones. But that’s Mary for you; she’s never wrong in her own mind.

Outside, I freeze. I won’t take another step until she tells me why we’re not giving Moony a funeral. I tell her as much.

She sighs. “There’s no money, Catia. Not until the house sells. What would you have me do, keep her on ice until then? I’ve spit bigger than this town. It’s not exactly a thriving market. Who knows how long it could take to sell this place?

“The realtor is arranging to have the furniture hauled to the Salvation Army. I called her on the way down. We’ll leave her a key under the back step; I already made a copy. When we make the trip to get the ashes, I’ll meet with her to see where we are at that point, but the house should be listed within the next ten business days.”

“What about the account?”

She sniffs in air and lets it out in a huff. “What account?”

“I don’t know. An IRA or something. It had money for my college.”

My mother’s eyes are flat. Her lips twitch on one side. “Maybe it did once.”

“What are you saying?”

“I went through her desk, Catia. I have her paperwork. There is very little money left in that account, and that will be taxed once I finally get through the paperwork to inherit it. We can’t exactly wait.”

She turns for the car, flipping her hair over a shoulder.

“What about my college?” I call.

My mother’s shoulders slump. She turns back to me. “Whatever is left over will hardly be enough for school supplies, let alone college tuition.”