Mom and Beth are standing on the front step when we pull up to the house.

Nothing makes me want to get out of the car less than that.

So I don’t. I’m cemented to my seat and my throat is aching so bad. It hurts so bad. I can’t move. They’ll have to send for the Jaws of Life to get me out.

I’ll grow old and die in this car.

Milo squeezes my shoulder.

“It’ll be okay.”

I shake my head. No it won’t.

“They’re not mad,” he promises. “Just worried.”

I shake my head again. I even cross my arms. A petulant baby pose, I know. But I’m not petulant. Not angry, not trying to be stubborn. I mean, I am angry, but it’s not why I can’t move.

I’m scared.

I am more scared than I can say.

I am scared to get out of this car.

It’s easy for Milo. He’s not scared. After he gets out of the car and after I get out of his car, he gets to go back to his home and not think about any of this and I want to ask him, do you know how lucky you are to get a break from my life? I would love a break from my life, but I have to stay in it, endlessly on play. The sun rises and sets, a day that never stops. So pause. I have to pause when I can. This is a pause. Stay in the car. Pause.

But they won’t let me stay in the car, where life is suspended all around me. One of them—Mom or Beth—makes her way down the walk, to my side of the car, and opens the door.

I don’t move. I don’t look.

“Eddie.”

My mom. But I stare straight ahead. I don’t want to look at her. I don’t want to look at her because she’s a misery vortex and I’m already sad enough. If she sucks me into her grief, that will be it. This whole household will go under.

Even Beth won’t be able to save us.

Mom reaches over and unbuckles my seat belt.

“Eddie,” she repeats. “Honey…”

Something about the way she says my name this time makes me turn my head to her and nothing prepares me for what I see.

Her blond hair is brushed and pulled back into a loose ponytail. She is pale and drawn and her lips are red and flaky, eyes watery. But that’s not the thing that’s different.

She’s dressed.

She’s not wearing his housecoat.

This is the first time since the funeral I’ve seen her out of his housecoat.

I think I’m supposed to be happy about this. I think it’s supposed to be a gesture, but for some reason, it levels me. I feel myself completely cave in, everything unwinding, all my parts breaking down. Culler lied to me. He lied. My father is dead. He killed himself and no one can tell me why. Why. And my mother isn’t wearing his housecoat and I want her to be wearing his housecoat. I want to say, don’t give up on this, because then I’m the only one left with it, but I can’t speak. I lean forward so she can’t see my face, and before I can stop myself, I start to cry. I cry so hard I can’t breathe. I can’t see. I feel like I’m coming apart.

Mom puts her left arm around my shoulder. Her right hand brushes my bangs from my face and she kisses the top of my head and she’s saying, “Oh, Eddie. Oh my girl, my girl, my girl…”