NEXT ON today’s agenda is the Writing of the Obituary. Amidst a house full of family, constantly ringing phone and chiming doorbell, I sit down at my computer. I want to write “I hope you appreciate that my husband gave his life protecting your precious city” but this wouldn’t be socially acceptable. Thus I write a normal obituary for a man who was far from ordinary.

For the photo, I choose the self-portrait of Sam and I took in Vancouver three months ago. “You don’t think,” I ask Katrina, “that by using a picture of the two of us, people will think we both died, do you?”

“No. And besides, it’s important that you show Sam the person instead of Sam the police officer because the papers are already filled with those pictures.”

I haven’t seen a newspaper yet and I have no urge to.

“So that photo,” she finishes, “is a powerful reminder that Sam was also your husband.”

Oh, I won’t let them forget.

I go upstairs, take my excruciating shower then get dressed. Today, I wear black.

AFTER LUNCH, Tom picks me, my dad and Katrina up to drive us to the funeral home. Arrangements must be made. En route, Tom explains he’s the family liaison officer and therefore responsible for keeping me in the loop for all police-related matters.

“Well, I’m glad they chose you,” I say, “and not some stranger.”

We’re stopped at a red light, and he turns to look at me. “I requested to do this.”

The light turns green. He resumes driving.

“Did they catch the bad guy?” I ask. “The one Sam was searching for?”

Tom shakes his head. “They’re pretty sure it was a false alarm.”

And I’m pretty sure that’s gonna be a huge problem.

Other than the crackle of the police radio, the car is silent; the tension inside palpable. I stare out the window.

“Hmmm…” I say. “Isn’t that interesting?”

For lining both sides of the street are hundreds of people holding signs that read: Abortion Kills Children.

Are you gonna raise the unwanted kids? I think to myself, echoing my mother’s perspective on the matter. No? Then take your stupid signs and go home.

“We’ve got a ten-day-old child with severe head injuries…”

All four of us stare at the police radio, from which the female dispatcher speaks.

“Did you say ten day or ten month?” we hear a male officer ask.

“Ten day,” replies dispatch. “The father threw him to the floor and he landed on his head.”

Again with the head injuries. I turn to Tom and open my mouth a few times, goldfish-style.

“I’m sorry,” he says, reaching over and turning off the radio.

I give him my don’t-you-worry-about-it wave. “That’s OK.”

But it’s not. Nothing whatsoever is OK. Sam is gone, and I’m left behind to find my own way in this screwed-up world. He’d cared deeply about what was wrong in society. Does his death mean the end of his commitment to trying to make it better? Is it me who has to deal with the crap now? Why does Sam get to float around some fluffy-clouded, pearly-gated heaven while I’m stuck in hellville? How am I gonna find peace on a planet where mothers abort their fetuses, fathers throw their sons on their heads, and decent guys don’t make it home from work? I wish Tom could reach over and turn off my mind like he did the radio.

At the funeral home, Nick and Angela are waiting for us. The funeral director takes us to his office, sits behind a massive oak desk and pulls out a pad of paper. “The first order of business is the obituary. Did you get a chance to start that, Adri?”

I pull out a piece of paper covered in red scribbles. “Yeah.”

He suggests I read to him what I’ve written, then he’ll write it down and his assistant will type it up. To me, this seems inefficient—but obituaries are his business, not mine. I read him the first line and watch in irritation as he slowly writes it out.

“Listen,” I say, “How about you let me type it. Is there a computer I can use?”

I spend the next two hours retyping, and therefore rewriting, Sam’s obituary in a back office. I type a line, sprint back to the herd for advice then race down the hallway again. I can see Sam shaking his head at me for running through a funeral home. After I finish, I plop in the chair in front of the funeral director. “Now what?” I ask.

“Well, we were just discussing the decisions you’ll have to make.”

“Such as?”

“Choosing a casket, flowers, where the reception will be held, the funeral service pamphlet, the burial plot…”

“Oh my God!” I say. Did I just fall off the turnip truck? It sounds like a wedding we’re planning—only they bury the groom when it’s over.

Misinterpreting my response, the funeral director sighs. “There are some tough decisions ahead, but you will get through it.” Then he slides a folder across the desk toward me. “And here’s some information on grieving as well as some more, er…practical suggestions.”

“Such as…”

“Oh, places to record who gave you what food, baking, cards, flowers…”

I fold my arms across my chest. I was brought up to thank people for their kindness but two days after Sam’s death the whole idea pisses me off. Am I to thank people for caring that my husband’s head was smashed open like a goddamn pumpkin?

Katrina grabs the folder. “I’ll take that,” she says to the Director. “I’m sure it’ll come in handy.”

To line the bottom of a bird cage, maybe.

“If you’re finished here,” Tom says from the doorway, “then we better keep moving because we’ve got that meeting at Sam’s church tonight.”

My hackles go up. If choosing flowers for Sam’s casket and reading up on grief etiquette don’t kill me, dealing with the Greek Orthodox Church will.

We all file into the hall and I assume we’re heading home. Not quite.

Angela turns to me. “Would you like to see Sam?”

I slump against the nearest wall. “Sam? Where’s he?”

Apparently neither the church nor the grief folder will have the honour of finishing me off. Seeing Sam’s dead body for the first time will likely do the trick.

Angela looks at me as if I have just fallen off the turnip truck. “In the basement.”

Why have I not yet considered the whereabouts of Sam’s body?

“Mom’s anointing him with oil right now,” says Angela.

“What?” I cry.

“It’s a Greek Orthodox thing.”

Bile rises in my throat.

“A purification ritual,” she adds. “It’s really important to my parents.”

I swallow to keep down the vomit and the fury. But would Sam have wanted his mother rubbing oil on his naked body? I think not.

“You might want to see Sam before the prayer service,” Angela says, “because that’ll probably be pretty crazy.”

I have no clue what she’s referring to and I’m not about to ask. If I open my mouth right now, I will regret what comes out.