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remembered she mentioned going to Sunday school as a kid, but she never specified a denomination. Funny that she’d mention something like Sunday school but not that she had an older brother.
    While my foster mother introduced herself to the minister, Mo huddled close to me. “You okay?” she asked.
    â€œI’ll be okay. How about you?”
    Mo had said she lost her best friend when she lost her sister. Attending Mom’s funeral had to dredge up painful memories for her. I didn’t even know where CeeCee was buried in the cemetery. Mo and I had never visited the grave.
    â€œWe’ll get through this together,” she said.
    I craned my neck to look down the road toward town. The service was about to start and still no sign of my uncle. He probably didn’t make it up from Texas as quickly as he’d hoped. Or maybe he’d decided to skip the funeral altogether and would meet me at the social services office.
    â€œYou looking for someone?” Mo asked.
    â€œNah. Doesn’t matter anyway.”
    â€œFollow me.” Mo grabbed my hand and led me toward the stocky, disheveled guy standing on the other side of the grave site. His unruly red hair stood up in the back. His beard concealed his cheeks and most of his thick neck. He seemed un-fazed by the cold.
    â€œHi, I’m Mo and this is Arlie.”
    I couldn’t understand why my best friend insisted I meet the cemetery worker who would later cover my mom with a ton of black dirt.
    â€œPleased to meet you both. Especially you, Arlie.” The man kept his hands tucked in the pockets of his faded peacoat. “I’m Frank.”
    â€œThought so,” Mo mumbled.
    My mouth and brain wouldn’t engage so I just stared at him.
    â€œYour uncle,” he clarified.
    â€œYes … yes … I understand. I just didn’t expect … I mean, you don’t look like my mom.”
    A sad grin emerged from behind his ragged beard. He looked only at my eyes, as if trying hard not to stare at my scar. “You look a lot like her. Or at least the way she looked when we were in high school. Luckily she took after our mom instead of our dad.”
    My grandparents . “Are they still alive?”
    â€œNo, I’m afraid not,” Frank said. “But we can talk about that later. We have a lot of catching up to do.”
    Once my case manager finally arrived, the minister motioned for us to join him closer to the grave site. I dipped my shoulder away from Tammy, who was trying to put an arm around me. Instead, I looped my arm through Mo’s and listened to the preacher say kind words about a woman he’d never met.
    When Reverend Knox was finished, he asked Frank and me if we’d like to say a few words. Frank shook his head no, so I spoke up.
    â€œI’d like to sing something instead, if that’d be okay.”
    Mo rubbed my back and then stepped away as if my lungs and grief needed plenty of space.
    Before I could start, a familiar car pulled up near the hearse. Mo’s mom. I didn’t know she was coming. Mrs. Mooney was always late for everything, but I didn’t care. She’d been really nice to me over the years, despite what Mo’s dad thought of me. She hurriedly took her place near Mo and blew me a kiss. Perhaps she was here for Mo as much as for me.
    The song I’d chosen was “Angel,” which I’d sung to Mom dozens of times over the years. When the voices made it hard for her to sleep, I’d stroke her hair and sing Sarah McLachlan’s sad lyrics that seemed even more appropriate for her funeral.
    In the arms of the angel, fly away from here ,
    From this dark, cold hotel room and the endlessness that you fear .
    When I’d finished singing, Tammy and Carol dabbed at their eyes, as if following some funeral playbook.
    Mo wrapped an arm around my waist and laid her head on my shoulder, and her mom hugged us both. I didn’t cry. I used to think