Then she picks up her purse and checks its contents—lipstick, powder, a card for the Murphys, which she had me sign earlier.

It says, With sorrow for your loss.

We have become the observers of tragedy.

Mom checks her watch. She palms her car keys. Then she looks at me.

“Are you ready?” she asks.

I nod.

She brushes off the shoulders of my black cable-knit sweater.

“All right,” she says, her voice as flat as if we were making a trip to the dentist. “Let’s go.”

Patrick’s funeral is held in the Cathedral of the Risen Christ, a different church than where we held Ty’s funeral. Practically the entire school turns up, even the teachers and the principal and the office staff. Mom and I sit in the back of the sanctuary, and try to ignore the way people are looking at us, two ways, actually: (a) They know that this funeral is going to be particularly hard for us, and they feel sorry for that, but they need to focus on the Murphys now, please understand. Which we do. And (b) we shouldn’t be here. Our kid infected this kid with the suicide disease. We should feel ashamed of this. Which we also kind of do.

Maybe they’re right. Maybe we shouldn’t have come, but Mom wants to be here, if only to lend silent support, if only to prove to the Murphys that survival is possible.

So we sit in the back.

There’s no viewing this time. Closed casket. Because it was death by train.

Patrick’s casket is white and shiny and edged with silver, like the hood of an expensive car. On top is a heap of red roses that I can smell from here. One rose by itself smells nice, but twenty-four of them fill the room with such a cloying sweetness that it overwhelms everything else. It makes my stomach turn.

Still, there are worse things to smell than roses.

At the foot of the casket Patrick’s dad stands next to a giant framed photograph of a younger, happier version of Patrick. His dad greets the people who line up to pay their respects, like some kind of twisted wedding reception in reverse. With the men he shakes hands, but it’s not so much a shaking motion as them grabbing his hand and holding it for a few seconds, then letting go. The women give him awkward, tearful hugs.

I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I know that it’s variants of “I’m sorry,” and “Patrick was a good person/kid/student/human being/member of the swim team,” and “Call us if you need anything,” and Patrick’s father is saying, “Thank you,” and “I know,” and “I will.”

Even though he probably won’t.

Patrick’s mother died when he was a kid. Car accident. So they’ve been through this before. He has a younger sister, but she’s not standing with her dad. I locate her, already seated in the front pew. Her head is down, and I wonder if she’s reading the program or praying or staring at her toes.

I stared at my toes, when it was me sitting at the front of the church.

The organist starts to play. People file into the pews and stand, singing.

Mom hands me the program. On the front is a smaller black-and-white picture of Patrick, smiling his awkward smile, and a Bible verse, Romans 8:38–39: For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Ty had the same scripture. It must be the go-to Bible passage for suicides.

The song fades away. Patrick’s dad joins the sister in the front row. The priest in his black robes climbs the steps to the podium.

“Good afternoon,” the priest says. “We are gathered here today to celebrate the life and mourn the passing of Patrick Michael Murphy.”

I don’t remember much of Ty’s funeral. What struck me about the funeral was that it ultimately felt like some kind of trial. Ty had committed a crime—premeditated murder, if you want to be technical—and we were all assembled there, his family and friends, his teachers and fellow students, as witnesses to testify to his good character.

Everyone who got up to speak said an approximation of the same thing:

Ty was kind—we never heard him say a cruel word to anyone.

He worked hard in his classes, even if he wasn’t the best student.

He had some killer basketball moves, even if he wasn’t very tall.

He was a good dancer.

He was sensitive. He felt things deeply. “Maybe too deeply,” the pastor said, as if that explained everything.

Ty was good. Implication: He didn’t deserve to be punished for his crime. He wasn’t in his right mind. He wasn’t thinking clearly. He didn’t mean it.

Please, God, please, have mercy on his soul.

To which God responded: Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Then everyone was allowed to feel better about it.

When Mom got up to speak, she said she was grateful for the sixteen years she got to spend with Ty, wonderful years, she said. She thanked people: his piano teacher, his Boy Scout leader, his basketball coach, his favorite French teacher, etc., for making those years so wonderful. Her voice quavered, but she didn’t cry.

I was thinking that they had forgotten to mention that Ty was funny. I was remembering two years ago, around Christmastime. I teased him; I said Santa was going to bring him a stocking full of coal. I told him I hadn’t decided yet if I was even going to get him a present.