I’d almost told her of my suspicions about her father a dozen times. Each time, I held back. Not the right topic for a funeral, not even one like my grandmother’s. And Violet had never told anyone about that night. On this day, of all days, I had to respect her wishes.

Louis from the stroke center rolled up with tears in his eyes. “She was…” he said in a soft Cuban accent. “Love at first sight.”

I’d talked Mom out of suing over the hot tub incident. Violet had always made her own decisions. It would have been unfair to blame anyone else for them.

Mrs. Yang came next. “I’m so sorry, Emsley. Violet left a hole in all our hearts.”

“Thank you.” I peeked at her bulging pocket. “Is Lai Fa here?”

“About that…” She cast a surreptitious look around. “Do you have a purse?”

I nodded toward the messenger bag at my feet.

“The nurses are starting to suspect us.” She looked around again. “The jig is up.”

She bent down as if to adjust a tennis ball on the foot of her walker, and slipped the chick into my bag, moving smoothly, as if she’d practiced.

“Come by the center sometime and sneak her in for a visit,” she whispered, then shuffled on before I could protest.

Nurses, orderlies, and physical therapists from the center offered their condolences. Violet had a way of making a friend of everyone she met. Even Trey and Diya flew up from LA.

“Truly sorry, Em.”

They hugged me too. I let them.

They didn’t come out to the cemetery with us after the service, but two hundred other people did—not to mention the carnival band. An up-and-coming rap artist rapped a prayer so sublime, you could hear angel wings flap to the rhythm.

A holy silence followed, several seconds passing before anybody moved, as if waking from a dream.

Dad offered Mom his arm. “Let me help.”

He guided her to the grave, where they each threw a handful of dirt.

Then it was my turn. My determination not to break down wobbled. I felt as if I were throwing my heart into that dark hole with the crumbling soil. “You can haunt me, if you want,” I whispered. “I won’t be scared.”

I returned to the chicken sleeping in my bag. Bram Dekker Sr. and his grandson went next. Bram Sr. said a silent prayer, then threw white rose petals, cast soft and wide like a blessing over water.

Strena threw art brushes she drew from her pocket. “The sky is your canvas, my friend. Make something magnificent.”