Chapter 289: Burial
"If you really want to change," Frank said to Pinkman,
"once we're back in Chicago and things settle down, I'll help you. You do need to straighten yourself out a bit."
When it came to the kids' emotional messes, Frank had more or less given up.
Fiona, Lip, Ian—and now Pinkman too. He honestly felt powerless.
He wasn't going to interfere directly in their relationships anymore. All he could do was offer help when possible.
Truth be told, that was how it should be. Parents couldn't meddle in everything forever. The kids had their own lives and their own choices to make.
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Two days later, Frank and Pinkman returned to Chicago with Peggy's body.
They told the children the news.
"Grandma… passed away?!"
The kids all stared at him in disbelief. It was far too sudden.
"W–waaah…"
Debbie broke down and started crying immediately.
"Mom's body is in the morgue," Frank said quietly.
"Let's all go see her—one last time."
After that, Frank took the kids to the hospital to view Peggy's body.
"Dad," Sammi asked, "how are you planning to handle Grandma's remains?"
There were generally two options: cremation or burial.
In the United States, burial was still legal. There was no law requiring cremation.
Cremation, however, was much cheaper.
The body would be cremated into ashes, returned to the family, and they could do whatever they wanted—buy a burial plot, keep the urn at home, or scatter the ashes in the ocean or the mountains.
For example, when Fiona and the others had obtained a fresh body from the nursing home, passed it off as Aunt Ginger, and declared her dead, they'd chosen cremation afterward.
Burial, on the other hand, was extremely expensive.
First, there was the coffin. Different materials and craftsmanship meant wildly different prices.
And beyond that, there was the cost of a burial plot.
Unlike the ancient cultures of the East, where a burial requires geomancers to survey mountains and valleys—choosing auspicious sites, reading slopes, orientations, and water flow, even encountering places where water poured downhill mysteriously runs up—burials in the United States are far more straightforward.
In America, burial means interment in a planned cemetery. Everyone is laid to rest within designated plots.
That said, cemetery plots are far from cheap.
Even in a country as vast as the United States, where land is abundant, a few square meters of burial ground can cost as much as half a house.
Prices also vary widely depending on the cemetery. The better the cemetery, the higher the cost. Some of the best plots are sold out years in advance—many people buy their burial sites long before they die.
Sheila, for instance, owned two plots in her name. She could be buried at any time. When Frank was first diagnosed with cancer, she had even planned to give one of them to him so they could be laid to rest together someday.
If a loved one passes away unexpectedly and you try to find a burial plot at the last minute, you're almost guaranteed to get a poor location—some forgotten corner that barely sees sunlight.
But Frank had taken care of all of that.
Over the past few days, he'd handled every detail. The plot had been secured.
In this world, money solved ninety-nine percent of all problems.
Even if the good plots were already sold, there was always someone willing to transfer ownership—for the right price.
Yes—Frank chose burial for Peggy.
The coffin and the plot were already prepared.
Back when the family was broke, cremation might have been the only option.
But now they had money. Burial felt more appropriate. In the future, when the grandchildren missed Peggy, they'd have a place to visit—to clean the grave, to talk, to remember.
They held a simple funeral, and then Peggy was laid to rest.
When the children returned home, their spirits were low.
Peggy hadn't been close to them. She'd spent more than a decade in prison, and the kids barely remembered her. She'd only been out for a few months—there hadn't even been time to build much affection before she passed.
Still, Peggy was their Grandma.
She was a Gallagher. She was family.
Of all the children, Sammi was the most devastated.
For the last few months, it had been Sammi taking care of Peggy. And because of her own childhood experiences, Sammi desperately longed for family, for love.
Peggy had a sharp tongue and a terrible temper, often cursing without restraint—but Sammi had truly felt loved by her.
At the burial, Sammi cried the hardest.
That night, the Gallagher house was dark. All the lights were off except for the television, whose flickering glow barely illuminated the living room.
Frank sat on the couch, a bottle in hand, drinking as he stared at the screen. No one knew what he was thinking.
His expression was complicated. His mouth twitched now and then—half like a smile, half like the start of tears. He laughed softly once, then looked as if he might break down the next moment.
Peggy had been buried.
It was over. Completely.
Alone in the dead of night, the original Frank's emotions surged up inside him. Peggy's death had affected him far more deeply than he'd expected.
Just as his emotions threatened to spiral out of control, he heard footsteps coming down the stairs.
Frank took a breath and steadied himself as Fiona came downstairs.
"How are Sammi and Debbie?" Frank asked.
Peggy's death had hit those two the hardest.
"They've both fallen asleep," Fiona said, grabbing a bottle and sitting beside him.
"After a good night's rest, they should be better tomorrow."
"Do you want to cry?" Fiona added softly. "I can lend you my shoulder."
"A dad crying on his daughter's shoulder?" Frank scoffed lightly.
"And besides, my relationship with your mom wasn't as good as you think."
"I know," Fiona said. "Grandma talked about you and your brothers—especially you. I get it now. I understand why you turned out the way you did."
"I don't want to relive that," Frank said flatly.
Peggy's death had already stirred up a flood of memories—none of them good. He was trying hard not to think about them, and Fiona had brought them up anyway.
"Your parents were terrible," Fiona said, handing him another bottle when she saw his was empty.
"Funny thing is—mine were pretty awful too."
"Only were?" Frank chuckled, taking a drink. His mood eased noticeably.
"What about now?"
"Now," Fiona said, wrapping an arm around his shoulder,
"they're starting to look a little more like parents."
Frank leaned into it for a moment.
"How are things with Jimmy?" he asked.
"Didn't he take you to meet his parents?"
"Yeah," Fiona nodded. "I met his dad and his brother. Definitely a rich family."
"And then?" Frank prompted.
"Nothing," Fiona said honestly.
"To them, I was just another one of Jimmy's flings—one more name on a long list of girlfriends."
It had been a perfectly ordinary dinner. Small talk. Family stories. Embarrassing tales from Jimmy's childhood and his long romantic history.
Jimmy's secrets—his real name, his double life, the forced marriage with a Brazilian crime boss—none of that was known to his family. And Fiona hadn't said a word.
After the dinner, Fiona and Jimmy's family never interacted again.
They lived in completely different worlds.
Jimmy hadn't brought Fiona home to propose or talk about marriage.
It was simply a gesture—proof of sincerity. An attempt to regain a bit of her trust.
And, to be fair, it worked—at least a little.
When it came to women, Jimmy really did know what he was doing.