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“Over here. Come over here,” the attendant called out to them. Edna didn’t move. Rhonda walked up to the glass.

“Are you ready? Let me know when you are done,” the attendant said as he pulled the sheet back and walked away in one move.

Now he looked dead. Rhonda could see the dried blood on the side of his head. She could see the stitches behind his ear and on his chest. Turning to Edna, who still hadn’t moved, Rhonda asked, “Did you tell them no autopsy?”

“They’re not supposed to do it until you identify the body.”

“It’s done. It’s already done.” Rhonda walked back to the attendant.

“Who gave you permission to cut his body up?” Rolling his eyes in her direction, then peering over his shoulder, the attendant shoved a clipboard in Rhonda’s direction.

“Sign here. Your name and your relationship.” Without saying a word she signed the papers and left.

Running up behind Rhonda, Edna asked, “What do you think they will find?”

“Nothing. If my father mixed a batch of herbs to kill himself, they will never detect it in his system.”

Even at the thought that Daddy had taken his own life, Rhonda could not shed a tear. Several weeks later, when she received the death certificate, the cause of death was listed as inconclusive.

The plans for the funeral were, at first, elaborate. Cars, flowers, and a boat to carry his ashes up the Chesapeake Bay. But Daddy hadn’t worked steadily in a long time. He had no money and no insurance. Because of his discharge status, he was not entitled to any veteran’s benefits. When the family realized that there was little, if any, money to bury him, the plans were scaled down drastically. Rhonda withdrew every penny she had in her bank account to help bury her father. She called friends to furnish the flowers and the food.

Rhonda didn’t attend the wake, preferring instead to stay in the apartment and prepare the food. When friends and relatives arrived, Rhonda had everything ready. Many of the relatives had not seen Rhonda since the card parties in Aunt Nadine’s basement and the summers in Atlantic City. Some seemed surprised that Rhonda had survived to grow up. They were delighted that she had children. When she told them that she was now an African minister, they said, “That’s nice. What does that mean?”

Rhonda did attend Daddy’s funeral. She sat in the front row, holding onto Damon, Gemmia, and Nisa, who were very upset. Grandpa had been good to them. Rhonda showed and felt very little emotion through the ceremony, even when Grandma broke down and cried out loud. When it was all over, she went home and waited to feel something to cry about. It never happened.

Three days after the funeral, Rhonda had what she thought was a dream. The doorbell rang late one night after she had gone to bed. She thought she was dreaming and ignored the bell. When it rang again, she got up, put on her robe, and walked to the window. She looked out, saw no one, and went back to bed. The doorbell rang again. This time she went downstairs to open the door only to again find no one there. Had her feet not been so cold, she would have believed that she was indeed dreaming. She went back upstairs into her apartment and shut the door. As she passed the kitchen, she noticed that the light was on. She saw Daddy sitting at the kitchen table, holding a pencil.

She wasn’t afraid or even shocked. “Daddy,” she called out to him. He turned to look at her. “What are you doing here? You know that you cannot be here, Daddy. You must leave here right now.” Daddy put his pencil down, stood up and disappeared right before her eyes. The next morning, when Rhonda awoke, the light was still on in the kitchen and the pencil was still on the table where Daddy had left it.

A week later, Edna called to find out how Rhonda and the kids were doing. She said that while she was packing Daddy’s things, she had found a few items that she thought Rhonda might like to have. It took Rhonda a week to get up the courage to retrieve the pile of papers that had been rubber-banded