“You’re dead,” I told the note. “You don’t get to give instructions anymore.”
Cecelia kicked hard under my ribs.
“Watch it if somebody makes you doubt me, Sally.”
I looked down.
“Your father is annoying me from beyond the grave. He deserved that kick.”
I put the flash drive away.
***
Two days later, Violet came over.
I found her in Cecelia’s nursery refolding a pink blanket.
“He deserved that kick.”
“Violet.”
“Did they take everything?”
I stopped in the doorway.
“What?”
“From Mark.”
“They’ll only use what can be donated.”
“Did they take everything?”
She gripped the blanket.
“And you’re fine with that?”
“He wanted it.”
“I asked about you.”
“I’m not fine.”
“You’re acting fine.”
“What would you prefer?”
“I asked about you.”
She looked at me.
“His heart. His skin. His eyes. All of those things are going to strangers.”
“They don’t transplant someone’s whole eyes.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Corneal tissue can be donated.”
She laughed bitterly.
“All of those things are going to strangers.”
“Does the nicer phrase make it easier?”
“No.”
Her mouth trembled.
“How am I supposed to be okay knowing something that belonged to my son is walking around with strangers?”
“Because Mark was okay with it.”
