From the USA TODAY bestselling author of Best Day Ever comes a gripping novel of psychological suspense for fans of B. A. Paris and Shari Lapena.

The perfect home. The perfect family. The perfect lie.

Jane Harris lives in a sparkling home in an oceanfront gated community in Orange County. It’s a place that seems too beautiful to be touched by sadness. But exactly one year ago, Jane’s eldest daughter, Mary, died in a tragic accident, and Jane has been grief-stricken ever since. Lost in a haze of antidepressants, she’s barely even left the house...until now.

As Jane reemerges into the world, it’s clear she’s missed a lot in the last year. Her husband has been working long days—and nights—at the office. Her daughter Betsy seems distant, even secretive. And then Jane receives a note warning her that Mary’s death wasn’t an accident. What really happened on the day Mary died? And who is lying to whom in this family?

The bonds between mothers and daughters, husbands and wives should never be broken. But you never know how far someone will go to keep a family together...

KAIRA ROUDA is a bestselling, multiple-award-winning author of contemporary fiction. Her work has won numerous awards, including the Indie Excellence Award and Reader’s Choice Award.

She lives in Southern California with her family and you can connect with her on Facebook at Kaira Rouda Books, and on Twitter, Pinterest and Instagram: @kairarouda.

For more, visit Kaira’s website, www.kairarouda.com.

Also by Kaira Rouda

Best Day Ever

Favorite Daughter

Kaira Rouda

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © Kaira Rouda 2019

Kaira Rouda asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © June 2019 ISBN: 9781474064699

DEAR READER LETTER

Years ago, just after my family and I moved to the West Coast, I was lucky to become friends with an amazing woman, Malibu City Council member and clinical psychologist Laura Rosenthal. As you may have guessed, Laura is the inspiration for the doctor character in THE FAVORITE DAUGHTER. One evening Laura joined us for dinner on a night my husband and I were discussing the baffling character traits of someone we knew. We just couldn’t figure this person out.

“Well, that sounds like a classic narcissist,” Laura said.

At that, the light bulb turned on and it has been shining brightly in both my imagination, and in real life, ever since.

Maybe you’re more aware of this than I was, but narcissists are everywhere in our society. Some estimate narcissists comprise 10 percent of the population and experts believe access to social media is creating more: Selfies are a narcissist’s best friend.

Although it may seem terrifying to some that I enjoy getting inside the heads of these types of people in my most recent novels, to me, it’s cathartic. Since first learning about narcissists from Laura all those years ago, I’ve somehow become blessed with a superpower: I can spot a narcissist. I’m not sure it’s a gift or a curse, but it’s true.

I also enjoy writing stories with unreliable narrators, and Jane Harris, like Paul Strom in BEST DAY EVER, is at her core a very unreliable person, among other things. These characters are obsessed with perception. Everything they show to the world is carefully calculated to portray perfection, even in their marriages, even when their lives may be falling apart. Narcissists suffer from a self-esteem problem coupled with low empathy. Failure is unacceptable, especially with their family, where they expect unflinching loyalty and subservience. Grandiose self-worth, vanity and entitlement are the foundation of the disorder. When any of this is challenged, rage is the result.

A special, terrifying subset of narcissist are those called “malignant narcissists.” Erich Fromm first coined the term in 1964 to describe the “quintessence of evil.” Some of the most difficult narcissists to spot are malignant narcissists who are mothers. She often gets away with her abuse because she is unseen to all but those she controls, her children, and no one wants to imagine a mother could be the monster in her own home.

No one wants to imagine that, except as a starting point for a novel, perhaps.

I asked my friend Laura if therapy works with narcissists. Her answer: It’s a pretty tough one to fix because they cannot see themselves for who they are and cannot take responsibility. When things go wrong they blame other people, so therapy is tough. They aren’t motivated to change. They like themselves just the way they are.

I hope you enjoyed Jane’s story. She wants you to believe she is the perfect mother, a loving wife, a connected and compassionate member of her community. Did she convince you? And who is her favorite daughter?

Thanks for reading,

Kaira

To my perfectly imperfect family.

And especially to my favorites: Trace, Avery, Shea and Dylan.

I love you all so much!

Nature, the gentlest mother,Impatient of no child,The feeblest or the waywardest—Her admonition mild

Emily Dickinson, 1893

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

DEAR READER LETTER

Dedication

Quote

SUNDAY

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

MONDAY

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

TUESDAY

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

WEDNESDAY

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

THURSDAY

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

READER’S GROUP DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

Extract

About the Publisher

SUNDAY

FOUR DAYS UNTIL GRADUATION

1
6:30 p.m.

I glance at my creation and smile: behold the dining room table. It is critical to create the proper atmosphere when entertaining, the illusion of perfection. As one of the most important hostesses in The Cove, I can assure you I pull together elegant dinners without a second thought. I know all the key ingredients: arrangements from the best florist in town, tonight white hydrangeas nestled in between succulents, and linens from the exclusive small boutique where everyone must shop to purchase ridiculously expensive tablecloths and napkins, in this case, brushed silk, off-white.

I’ve outdone myself with this table. This will go down in the record books as a crowning achievement in my life.

I’m kidding, of course. I don’t care a smidgen about entertaining. And typically, if I’m going to spend time adorning something, it’s going to be myself. Truth be told, the crystal and china pieces on the table were wedding gifts from long-forgotten friends, rarely used. I dug them out from the back of the cupboard. Perhaps I am trying a bit too hard, but tonight is special. It’s my coming-out party, so to speak.

After a year of grieving, it’s time to step back into my family, or what remains of it, and that’s precisely my plan. I’m reclaiming the throne, like a queen who has been in exile but returns with pomp and circumstance. I shake my head as I look around my castle. I used to be so proud of this home, something so expensive and so uppity that my mother would never be comfortable stepping foot inside. Good old Mom. She taught me everything she knew about how to put yourself first in life. She was ruthless, delighting in bringing others down, including her own daughter. But look around: I’m winning, Mom. I touch the diamond-encrusted heart pendant hanging between my surgically enhanced, perfect breasts. All gifts from my husband in happier times.

My husband, David, will be so surprised when he arrives home tonight, and he deserves it. He’s been full of surprises this year. In fact, I discovered another little secret when a piece of mail arrived at our house last week. Typically, he has his mail sent to his office, says it’s easier to pay bills that way. This particular notice from the bank must have just slipped through the cracks. I’m playing along. For now.

The letter congratulated David on the purchase of a new home. I must admit, the thought of a fresh start made my heart flutter. I know it will be even bigger, more expensive than this home. I mean, this home was fine when the kids were growing up, but now we need something grander. More fitting of our station in life. We deserve it after all we’ve been through.

Maybe he’ll tell me all about it tonight? That would be wonderful. I’m planning our reconnection dinner and he will announce his surprise. I glance at my platinum watch, enjoying the sparkles of the diamond-encrusted face, until my heart thumps at the time. It’s getting late and I have so much more to do. I can’t believe I’ve lost a year in my haze of grief. Sure, some of the haze can be blamed on all of the antidepressants the doctors made me take. They were both a relief and a distraction. While I was stuck in bed, at home, my family members have made the most of their time, both so busy, in fact, I’ve had trouble keeping up.

But not any longer. I’m back, drug-free, and better than ever. I grab the final crystal wineglass from the kitchen counter and walk to the table, glancing out the window as the bright orange sun drops into the deep blue Pacific Ocean. In an instant, the glass topples from my hand and seems to tumble in slow motion as it falls and shatters on the stone floor, sending sound waves echoing through our lifeless house like an earthquake. Shards of glass sprinkle the tops of my bare feet and dot the floor around me while a large chunk of the stem rests under the dining room table, glistening like the blade of a knife.

I fold my arms across my chest for comfort and can’t help but admire my ribs poking into my hands, a reminder of how much weight I’ve lost the last year. Grief is good for the figure. You and I already know thin women get attention, respect in our society. On the few excursions I’ve made out of the house lately, when I’ve taken care to dress and apply makeup, I’ve noticed an uptick in appreciative glances from men. That’s nothing new. My whole life I’ve enjoyed the admiration of the opposite sex.

For months, I’ve been secretly working out in the garage when David is at work and Betsy at school. Just me and the handsome P90X instructors. My mom would be impressed by my fitness commitment. She never missed a chance to remind me being skinny was the key to our future. And then she’d take my dinner away. She’s long gone, died when I was fourteen in a tragic car accident, but she still haunts me. That’s the power of the bond between mothers and daughters. It can never be broken, even in death.

But glass can. I stare at my almost-perfect table setting—I even nestled votive candles in crystal holders around the centerpiece and in front of each place setting. Just call me Martha Stewart.

I wonder what I should wear tonight? Here, in the land of expensive designer purses and shoes, most women blend in, their monochromatic coolness anchored by jeans, topped by their perfectly smooth, porcelain faces. I remember my first dinner party at The Cove: me from the South, them from Southern California. I’d worn a yellow silk cocktail dress, my biggest pearls and wrapped a white cashmere pashmina around my shoulders. I was as out of place as a Twinkie at a Weight Watchers meeting. But you know what? All the husbands approved, tired of the sameness they endured in their wives. Back then, David was proud to have me on his arm, proud I stood out like a beautiful flower in a meadow of boring grass. It’s ironic, really: I gave up my dreams to move here, to become the perfect Orange County housewife. I could have been so much more.

This ocean view is why we bought this home all those years ago, scraping together every last dime and tapping into David’s trust fund to move into The Cove, the best community in Southern California. We were young parents, and so madly in love. The ocean was romantic, beautiful then. Not deadly and dark and cold.

I feel the rush of heat as my hands clench into fists. Anger and loss, did you ever notice how those emotions mix together? It’s a toxic combination. I swallow. I need to focus on the table, the first step of my coming-out party. All that’s missing from this perfect setting is the fourth wineglass. I have another one, of course. It’s almost symbolic. It was Mary’s spot at the table, Mary’s wineglass that fell to the floor.

Mary who dropped into the sea. I shake my head to quiet the voice.

My therapist, Dr. Rosenthal, assured me at our last session that it would be a step forward to eat together as a family in the dining room. She wants us to reconnect, and I most always do whatever she says. At our next session I’ll happily tell the doctor all about tonight. I am committed to reenergizing my life, reconnecting with my family. I tell her what I want her to know, what she wants to hear. Sure, she’s the one with the PhD, but I’m the one with life experience. I’m the heart of this family. That’s a mom’s place.

Perhaps I won’t mention the broken glass during our session, although it is emblematic of all that has happened this year since Mary left us. Nothing is right. My husband has thrown his energy into work, he tells me. He’s gone all the time these days. Betsy is focused on graduating high school in four short days. I swallow. I push away the silly fear, the nagging sound of my mom’s voice telling me Betsy will leave me. It’s nonsense. Betsy loves me, would never leave me. I mean, it’s not like she’s brilliant like Mary was, or smart like Mary was. No, Betsy is average. She’ll be dependent on me forever, and that’s just fine. And David, well, he’s buying us a new home. Everyone is getting in line.

The hair at the back of my neck tingles on alert. Someone is watching me. I look out the window and see the five-year-old cherub next door, his round face pushing through a partially open window, his eyes bright and curious. He’s up too high. He must have climbed onto a chair. Where is the nanny? Twenty children under the age of eleven die each year because of falls from windows, and another five thousand are critically injured.

Tragic accidents happen all the time. That’s why I watched my daughters every moment of their lives, never letting them out of my sight, one way or another, ever. They were like extensions of my arms, a hand for each of them. My little mini-mes.

I glance at the boy next door and then to the ground two stories below. There is nothing to break his fall if he topples out, just a thin strip of cement between his house and ours. I shudder at the thought. We pay astronomical prices to live on top of each other at the coast. Proximity and privilege means it’s hard to keep secrets here. Turns out it’s also hard to keep friends, and family.

The child is waving at me. I try to help him, pointing and mouthing the word down like I’m commanding a dog. I know all of the tragic things that can happen to him. Children who land on a hard surface, such as concrete, are twice as likely to suffer head injuries.

I can’t witness this tragedy. Glass or no glass, I tiptoe away from the table, waiting for the sharp sensation of a shard slicing through my foot. I’m almost out of the minefield of glass when I realize I have company.

“What are you doing?” Enter stage right: my handsome husband, David, thick brown hair, blue eyes, dimpled—a model WASP—is in the kitchen and assessing the scene. He could have been an actor, he’s perfectly typecast as the successful businessman, 1950s to today.

“I made a mess of things,” I say before covering my face with my hands. I can’t resist leaving a small space between my fingers to peek at him. His smile fades as he drops his briefcase on the kitchen counter. Poor dear.

“Is that broken glass on the dining room floor?”

“Dropped a glass. An accident.” I mumble my response from behind my hands.

“Are you hurt?” He takes a few steps, shoes crunching on glass, and he’s beside me.

“I think I’m fine, but can you call the people next door?” I drop my hands from my face and point out the window.

“The Johnsons?”

“Yes, their child is about to die.”

I watch David push his thick dark hair off his forehead, a nervous habit he’s acquired in the past year. “What? Stop talking like that. It’s creepy.”

I sort of scare him these days. I’m not sure why exactly. Perhaps it is my seemingly unshakable grief? Is he afraid it will envelop him, too?

He steps closer and looks out the window. I do, too. The child has disappeared, hopefully safe in his nanny’s arms. Or he’s died from the fall. My mind jumps to terrible conclusions these days, but unfortunately, my mind is often correct. Feminine intuition, you really can’t beat it. Mine is superbly tuned.

“There’s no one there, Jane.”

“I can see that. He was there just a minute ago.” I hate it when he doesn’t believe me and it’s been happening more and more these days. I don’t like it. That’s one of the reasons I stopped taking the pills. I mean, your husband should love you and worship the ground you walk on. He doesn’t just now, I know, but he will again. I’m back. He’ll see. I take a deep breath. I need to make my husband treasure me again. I will provide him with that opportunity starting tonight. He has been avoiding me. Like I carry a disease. I’m not contagious. Of course, there are other things holding his interest these days. He thinks I don’t know about that. Silly man. I force a smile to my lips, blink my eyes.

“Are you hurt?” Now he attempts kindness. What’s the old saying: a day late and a dollar short?

“Don’t think so.” I shrug as he takes my hand. As we touch I wish it was electric like in the long-ago days, but it’s not. Of course, all relationships change over time, and we’ve been married for more than two decades. Back in the early days, that first year together, he would have scooped me into his arms and carried me to a chair. Now that we’re a longtime married couple, he escorts me old-lady style to the kitchen and pulls out a bar stool. I slide onto the cold, hard wooden seat.

David checks my feet for glass while I stare at the top of his head. He’s blessed with thick dark brown hair, without a streak of gray. Mary had the same glorious mane of hair. In fact, Mary looks a lot like David, despite the fact she was adopted. Isn’t that funny? Two daughters, one who looks just like my husband, the other, Betsy, our biological daughter, who looks like a watered-down version of me. Perfect, isn’t it?

“You’re not cut. I’ll sweep up the glass. Why don’t you go put socks on? Your feet are freezing.”

I slide off the bar stool. “Thanks for coming to my rescue, handsome.” I bat my eyes at him and slowly lick my bottom lip. I should win a domestic Golden Globe. Oh, come on. You know as well as I do that men love to be flattered. David’s no exception. Tell a man he’s handsome, smart, strong or, the doozy, the best you’ve ever had in bed, and, well, they’ll love you at least in that moment. I just need to win him back, make him love me again. And I know I can do it. He loved me once, and deep down, he still does. For now, I’ll just kill him with kindness. It’s the Southern belle in me. You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.

See. David flashes a smile, a crack in the armor, pats my shoulder. I used to have him so well trained. Husbands. You let up just a little and they regress. And then he’s back to business. “Are you sure you’re all right? You’re not overdoing it, are you?”

“I love this, this entertaining, you know that.” I never did, actually, and I’m not fine. I’m angry, but I smile. I glance at David, my eyes taking in his cool demeanor, his practiced professional air. We speak in a stilted language now, tiptoeing around each other like we’re both surrounded by broken glass. This year has been hard on our marriage in so many different ways. I’m committed to fixing things, to getting us back on track. I know this happens in every relationship. We’re just in a down cycle. I’m sure you’ve been there, too. I’m afraid we’re running out of time. Betsy will graduate soon. She needs to see us, her parents, in love. All kids want is happy parents. While she’s at community college going to class, she should imagine us here, at home, waiting to share dinner together each evening, a model of marital bliss.

I hope we can present a united front for her this week. It’s always best to hang on to the one you know, at least until you find something better, that’s what my mom told me. And we were so good together, David and I. Meant to be.

“You set the table for four. That’s just creepy. Are you trying to upset us?” he asks, his voice thick with emotion. Is it anger, too? I don’t know.

“No, I’m trying to have a family dinner. Dr. Rosenthal told me to. I’m sorry, I must have made a mistake. Subconscious. I miss her so much.” I look out the window. It’s safe now because it’s dark outside and the ocean is invisible. All I see is my reflection. Tight, formfitting white T-shirt, sparkling heart. I do look good.

“How do you make that kind of mistake? Really, Jane?” David’s shaking his head. I need to woo him, not disappoint him, and I should try to refrain from spooking him.

Focus, Jane.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, darling.” I dig my fingernails into the palm of my right hand and smile at my husband. David’s watching me admire my reflection. What does he think when he sees me? He can’t deny that I’m beautiful, but I know he doesn’t see me with the same loving thoughts of the past, that much I know is true. We all change, especially in the face of unimaginable tragedy like we’ve been through. It’s understandable. That’s why I’m giving him one last chance. Starting tonight.

I turn to face him and take a step closer. He crosses his arms in front of his chest, tilts his head. His jaw is clenched, eyes dark. He thinks he’s a tough guy. I take another step toward him and he backs away. Ha!

I smile and ask, “Let’s start over. This is a special night. Darling, do you know when Betsy will be home? She knows how important tonight is to me.” Truth be told, I’m not sure I told her about our dinner. But she’s a senior in high school, she still lives in my home. She should be home for family dinner. This is part of my plan to do everything I can to make this graduation week extra special, for both David and Betsy. I hope Betsy knows that even though Mary is gone, we are still a family. None of this is easy, it never has been. I mean, it’s hardest for me trying to be so selfless, the perfect wife and the perfect mother. I spoiled the girls, of course. Sometimes when you give them everything, they take you for granted. My mom warned me about that, too.

David bites his lip, another new habit. It’s not really a good look for him—it shows doubt, weakness, condescension. I hate that.

David says, “Betsy has art class tonight. It’s every Sunday night, has been for a year.” He says the words sharply, and with a big exhalation, as if he’s had to say them every week to me. As if I’m an idiot. He hasn’t. I’m not.

“Right, I forgot.” It’s hard to keep her schedule straight, especially when time shifts and moves with those pills. Don’t worry. I’m not taking them anymore, like I told you, it’s just that lately Betsy is acting more like her father. She’s hardly ever home, and has one excuse after another. Besides, David should remember that Dr. Rosenthal explained to him that grief, like many other strong emotions, makes it hard to think straight. I’ve read a lot about the grieving process. I am a textbook case of complicated grief. I know, I’ve researched it.

Betsy only has ordinary grief, of course. Betsy’s grief has made her tense, angry. She’s focused on school, making sure she graduates. She’s hired her own tutor, and actually seems to care about grades for the first time in her life. She hasn’t even spent much time with her boyfriend, Josh, which is fine with me. He’s a bit of a loser, not the kind of boy we’d choose for our little girl, but he’s the type Betsy attracts. Poor thing.

Before I can leave the kitchen to retrieve my socks, David says, “Did you actually make dinner? There’s nothing cooked. I don’t think you even told me you were doing this.” His hand sweeps over to the table, to include the broken glass, and captures the stovetop devoid of dishes and meal prep, the counters pristinely clean.

“Oh, darling, of course I told you about tonight. I didn’t want to overdo it, so I ordered in, from Salerno’s, your favorite. Delivery arrives in half an hour. Pasta Bolognese just for you. Hope you’re hungry.” I smile. I’ve thought of everything. I’m back. “If it’s just the two of us for dinner it will be so romantic. I hear Italian food is made for lovers.” Before I turn away I watch David’s face flush, his cheeks a rosy pink. He recognizes the phrase, and the restaurant, of course.

I walk away before he can respond. Perhaps I will slip into a sexy dress for our date, because just maybe, tonight, he’ll decide to do the right thing. I know he loves me. We were such a good team. He remembers those days, too. I know he does. We just need a fresh start.

I head toward our bedroom, walking past the front door and glancing out into our courtyard lit with white twinkle lights, the fronds of our twin palm trees rustling in the gentle breeze. I stop and scan the outdoor space. I like to try to be ready for anything now, to be one step ahead and to avoid being startled or surprised. I learned that from my childhood. My mom was full of awful surprises. For a moment I see her standing in the courtyard, a ghost from my distant past. I shake my head. Stop it. These thoughts aren’t productive. That’s Mary’s voice, or perhaps it is Dr. Rosenthal’s? They sound similar these days. You’re safe. Your mom is gone.

I hurry to my bedroom, reminding myself it is possible to be scared to death. Not the outcome I’m looking for in life. A scare floods your body with adrenaline, makes your heart pump faster. If you have an underlying heart problem, fright can induce sudden cardiac death. I’ve become a bit fixated with tragic death, so I apologize in advance. Remember, knowledge is power. I have a lot of tragic knowledge to share.

Mary’s tragic death shook us all, of course. My beautiful daughter Mary, how I miss her. I’ll never be able to curl her shiny dark hair, laugh with her about the lavish wedding we’d plan together one day, revel in her constant achievements, guide her choices as she prepared for her future. There is no future now, not for her. But I can focus on David and Betsy. I’ve been watching over them, but not engaging with them. That changes tonight. At dinner.

I’m reenergized. Truth be told, I’m a bit more awake these days than I should be, and that makes me a little on edge, a little temperamental. You understand, of course, after all I’ve been through. But still, I need to watch it, practice the breathing exercises Dr. Rosenthal taught me. I take a deep cleansing breath, and exhale some of the tension of the day. I imagine my frustrations flowing from me like a fast-running river, just like Dr. Rosenthal tells me to do. I don’t tell her about the dam. I’m sure my flowing river thoughts will return soon, right? I mean, breath work is the key to health, that’s what these yoga people keep saying and what Dr. Rosenthal repeats on her relaxation podcasts. They really don’t work, but I’m not going to be the one to tell her that.

I trudge into my bathroom and through to the walk-in closet. I look at the section of cocktail dresses, but with the chill in the air I decide to grab warm socks and a cozy gray cashmere sweater. It’s brisk here at the beach once the sun sets, even in the middle of summer. Evenings in May, like tonight, always hold an extra special chill.

I glance at the cluster of picture frames on the counter next to my sink. Mary on the day we adopted her, swaddled in a soft pink blanket. Mary at age ten throwing her arms around our new labradoodle puppy, Cash. I pick up the last frame. In the photo taken a year and a half ago, Mary’s grinning, so excited to be pledging the sorority of her dreams. She wears a white cocktail dress and holds a huge bouquet of red roses her dad hand-delivered to her—without me since I had to stay home with Betsy—during one of his now-frequent business trips to Los Angeles.

Mary’s happiness her freshman year in college was almost too big to contain in a photo, too grand for a picture frame. Boundless potential and limitless opportunity once she left home, left me, for a new life and flowers from her dad. She was so excited to be miles away from me, my rules, my one line in the sand. I shake my head, glance at my reflection in the mirror.

Betsy is different. Although she shows all the outward signs of teenage rebellion, she’s really a good, obedient daughter. My new favorite, I suppose. Mary promised me she’d be back after freshman year, of course, but she never really was. It was so hard for me when we moved her into her dorm room and then had to drive away. It was like cutting off my right hand. It was hard for David, too. He was vulnerable, missing his eldest, even though Betsy and I were still here. Are still here.

“I loved you, Mary.”

“Who are you talking to?” David materializes behind me. He thinks he sneaked up on me but I heard him coming. I see the judgment in his dark blue eyes as he shakes his head.

“Nobody.” We lock eyes. He looks at the photo in my hands and I know he thinks I’m talking to myself. Another “creepy” habit of mine, as he says. I place the photo back where it belongs.

He’s changing in the closet. I hear a swish as he tugs off his tie and know he’s hanging it neatly next to the rest of his collection. Next he’ll open the drawer to find a casual shirt. He reappears in jeans and a white T-shirt, dark brown Gucci loafers. He’s brushing his teeth. We make eye contact in the mirror. Sometimes he knows I’m watching him. Most of the time he doesn’t. I wonder if he has decided to stay with me for dinner? Perhaps I should have changed into a dress? I still can. I smile. “I’m looking forward to our romantic dinner.”

“Did you sleep well last night?” He spits in the sink, ignoring my statement.

I check my face in the mirror and decide I don’t look too sleep deprived. I doubt he notices the circles under my eyes. I’m an expert with concealer. Tomorrow, I’ll look even better. It’s only day one of operation reconnection.

I lie. “Yes. Like a baby.”

He tilts his head, slaps his expensive cologne on his neck. How manly, like he’s the Old Spice guy or something. “Are you sure you can handle the Celebration of Life ceremony tomorrow?”

No. What a stupid name. I’m sure this is all his assistant’s idea. I answer, “Of course. I have to be there. I’m the mom. Star of the show.” I meet David’s eyes. I am the lead actor in this house, in this family, I’m reminding him. Every mom is. And I will be there tomorrow for the ceremony. It’s my duty, it’s the beginning of my reemergence, an important aspect of my strategy even though I didn’t want this memorial service, and didn’t arrange it. Despite all of that, of course I’ll be there. She was my daughter.

I know he’d like nothing better than to soak up all of the attention, both from the attendees and the event planner. The perfect father. He loves the spotlight, hosting parties, chatting with friends. But he’s not going alone. I’ve been preparing myself for this week. I’m looking forward to reviving my role: his adoring, beautiful wife. I reach over and run my hand along the limestone countertop between our two sinks, the stone cool to the touch. I tap my nails, a slow drumbeat.

“I’m coming to the ceremony,” I say and walk to the bedroom, and pause next to our king-size bed. Large enough we don’t bump into each other at night. I touch my favorite pillow.

“I can take care of it, host it alone, if you’re not up to it.” He is behind me. I feel his eyes on the back of my neck.

“I’ll be fine.” I turn to face him. “Dinner should be here any minute. Tonight will be lovely, and tomorrow night, at the ceremony, I’ll be right by your side, David, as you will mine.”

I’m back. I smile at his frown. He doesn’t like my answer.

His shoulders drop. “I can’t stay for dinner. But you eat the pasta. You need to gain some weight. People in The Cove are talking.”

“Oh, are they? About my weight? I don’t think that’s the hottest topic in the neighborhood.” I glance at the bed. After he leaves, maybe I’ll take a nap? I may be able to fall asleep even though it’s barely past seven. It’s been so long since I’ve slept. I’ve been so busy.

“Maybe it isn’t the hottest topic, but it’s a concern.” David walks toward the bedroom door.

“Stop!” I blurt, my tone sharper than I’d intended. I cover my mouth with my hand, forcing myself not to say more. He can’t just walk away from me. It has been surprisingly comforting to have David home this evening. I even allowed myself to imagine him joining me for dinner. I was feeling a little sentimental, a little needy. How stupid. This isn’t about love. We already have that, as you can see. This is about control. We will dine together soon, and for as many evenings as I’d like, once I get back in charge. The way I had been, from the moment we met.

Our relationship began slowly like an orchestrated dance number. I was in the lead. David had been dropping into the Santa Monica club where I worked for more than two weeks and we’d been making eye contact and flirting, despite his regular blonde date attached to his arm. Sure, she had a gorgeous body and the air of money that made the space around her sparkle like gold. But I knew I was different than all those sorority girls. Special beauty, as my mom would say when she was sober.

I’d worked hard since I’d moved to LA after high school. I’d lost my accent but I hadn’t lost my Southern charm. I could tell David was looking for someone like me, someone different, someone more exotic than the cookie-cutter sorority girls, someone with big dreams, a charmed future: a diamond in the land of cubic zirconia. I slipped him my phone number, in the most old-fashioned way, written on a napkin placed under his beer, our fingers brushing as electricity surged between us.

Now, as David stands at the door to our bedroom, he laughs and shakes his head. “You shouldn’t yell, Jane. It’s not becoming.”

I walk to his side, my hands clenched. It’s part of our dance these days, this feigned politeness, this lingering something. Is it nostalgia or just an endurance test to the finish line on Thursday? I still believe in us. I put my hand on his chest, imagine I’m touching his heart. “Sorry. Please stay.”

Instead of embracing me, he takes my hand from his chest and squeezes, an awkward gesture that presses my two-carat engagement ring into the knuckle of my middle finger. “I’m going to work out and grab dinner after at the club. Don’t wait up.”

Once he’s gone I sigh, trying to push my frustration aside. In the bathroom I pick up his bottle of cologne. When I unscrew the lid I take a deep inhalation of his favorite scent, the smell of my husband. In our closet I see his silk ties hanging up in a neat little row. He’s so tidy. Likes his things under control, orderly. For David, and I suppose most husbands and fathers who are the “sole providers” for their families, their personal spaces at home provide the comfort they don’t find at the office. The sense of order, the semblance of routine.

Home is so much more than a place, it’s your anchor, your retreat. I know it is especially important to him now that Mary is gone, his favorite daughter. He finds peace in his color-coded closet. David is a cyclone of activity out in the world ever since the accident. He’s kept up a frenetic schedule this past year, but he always comes home to me, eventually.

I shake my head, knowing I don’t have the energy to straighten up the chaos on my side of the closet. I’ve learned to embrace my mess. And besides, I have other things to focus on. My husband deserves my thoughtfulness, my presence at the ceremony tomorrow, and I can’t wait to surprise him with everything else I have planned.

Each time he walks out our front door he becomes someone different. At home, with me, he’s the grieving father of a dead daughter. Out in the world, he’s an übersuccessful businessman with his sculptured chin held high, invincible. Out in the world he doesn’t worry about his sad wife. I’m sure of that. Most of the time, it’s easier for him if he doesn’t think of me at all. But I’m always thinking about him.

For example, who wears cologne and Gucci loafers to the gym? No one. I swallow and try to control my shaking hands by shoving them into the pockets of my jeans. I hurry from the bathroom and climb in bed. I stare at the dark black glass of our huge flat-screen TV. David insisted on having a television in the bedroom, something I opposed. I know myself. I can get sucked into a show, a story, and always ended up staying up too late when the girls were little. I like to lose myself while I watch television, one of the things my mom and I had in common. She had the television on all day and night, making me watch her favorite shows with her when she was in a good mood. She taught me how to critique actresses, and to learn from them.

And I’ve learned a lot over the years. That’s why it was time to pull myself out of my seemingly unshakable depression. After this week, I’m going to begin my career again. I’ve already lined up a photographer to shoot some head shots. David will be so pleased. He fell in love with me when I was acting in LA. He’ll be so surprised when the old me makes a comeback. I’m focusing on the future now.

Instead of dinner tonight, tomorrow’s ceremony will be the beginning of my second act. Us women, especially moms, we’re resilient. At times life just throws us punches. But I’ve always been a fighter. Sometimes we have to take a stand for those we love, protect them from bad choices, love them even when they don’t think they need it. I know some women who are stuck in their relationships, in their lives, who don’t have choices.

I know how lucky I am and I know how to fight to get what I deserve.

So, life, let’s get ready to rumble.

2
11:30 p.m.

I stand at the edge of a cliff when suddenly the earth gives way and I’m falling, my hands reach for something to hold on to, something to stop my fall, but it’s only air. I’m tumbling, screaming.

I wake with a start and sit up quickly, my heart racing. My regular nightmare, I can’t make it stop, bursting into my subconscious. I jolt awake before I hit the water, before I drown like Mary did.

My heart races as I take deep breaths and try to calm down. I’m safe in bed. It’s dark outside. David is home, how nice, snoring beside me after his workout and dinner. Climbing out of bed, I’m desperate for a drink. Of water, or wine, or both. But first, I creep into the bathroom, illuminating my way with the soft light from my phone. And there is David’s phone, where he always leaves it, plugged in and resting on the counter next to his sink. My heart thumps as I quickly enter the code and smile with relief when I realize he hasn’t changed it. It’s our two birthdays, 1420. I open Find My Friends on my phone, a feature I didn’t realize we all have until I did a little research. How wonderful. I send David’s phone an invite, and accept on his behalf. Now I’ll know exactly where he is all the time. I glance out toward the bed, listening for the quiet rumble of his snore. There it is.

I grab his phone again and open the text messages even though I’ve already read them in real time with my handy parental control app, otherwise known as spyware. These products are versatile. I mean, they sell them so we concerned parents can track our kids, a perfectly legitimate use, am I right? And can you ever be too vigilant, too protective? Of course not. Don’t judge—everybody uses these things, not just me.

I simply added one more person to my bundle, my loving husband. Oh, look, there is a new text. From her: smiley, kissy face, red heart. She’s so predictable with her childish overuse of emoticons, and her stupid declarations of love. As if Italian food is romantic. It’s not. It’s fattening. She’s ridiculous. David, I’m sure, has realized it, too.

It’s not all his fault that he fell into her arms. Men are needy. And I know, I’ve been rather distant, ignoring him, first adjusting to Mary going away to college and then her tragic death. I’ve been lost in my complicated grief. So he looked for attention elsewhere. That’s finished now. I’m back in the game, large and in charge, as they say. Sure, she’ll be sad for a little bit, but she’ll move on. She’s so young, so good at the game. There are plenty of wealthy, older men for her to latch on to. Tomorrow at the memorial service she’ll witness David and me in love, unified. The service will be our recommitment ceremony of sorts. It also will be the end of smiley, emoticon over-user. Time’s up.

I replace his phone on the counter, just where he left it, and hurry through the bedroom, down the hall and into the kitchen. I adjust the lights to the dimmest setting and feel my way along the smooth countertop until I reach the sink. I fill a glass with water and chug it, noticing lights are on downstairs in Betsy’s room below me. Our home tumbles down the side of the hill. The front door is at street level, but the girls’ rooms are downstairs, downhill. Not a basement—we don’t call it that here—just a lower level.

This is the best hour to chat. I often surprised the girls during middle school and high school, at night, catching one or the other as she raided the refrigerator after studying. It’s best, I find, to get them alone and hungry, to give them food and share my wisdom. But Betsy doesn’t join me for kitchen chats anymore, not since Mary left for college. But that’s okay. I go to her.

I like to keep track of Betsy, too, but I’ll admit, I’ve been a little lax when it comes to my younger daughter. Sure, I check the app regularly, but she isn’t as active on her phone as David or Mary. Likely, it’s because Betsy doesn’t have many friends. But still, I need to reconnect with her. I pull up Betsy’s account, just to check. Yep, nothing there. She needs me, poor Betsy. Such a lonely girl. But I’m here for her, always. Even with all that I have going on, I did call the school counselor last week to find out if Betsy was on track to graduate, and Angelica surprised me.

“Betsy is doing remarkably well her senior year considering all that has happened,” Angelica had said. Then she proceeded to effuse over Betsy’s choice of community college, followed by a transfer to a more prestigious college. Betsy likely won’t make it out of community college, but I didn’t tell Angelica that. I’d thanked her and hung up.

Angelica was right about one thing: for Betsy, community college will be fine. It will keep her close to home, where she belongs. Without Mary to place my biggest hopes and dreams on, I’m left with Betsy. At least she doesn’t need to bother with sibling rivalry anymore. Things have shifted between us this year, just normal teenage rebellion, I’m sure. I’ll get us back on track. I mean, we were all teenagers once. And I love Betsy. So much.

I pull open the refrigerator and spot the Salerno’s to-go order of four, white-boxed pasta dishes. David must have retrieved them from the front door, where I’d asked the driver to leave the food. How nice of him to bring them inside. I consider throwing the food away, but instead I grab my bottle of chardonnay, pouring a generous amount into a coffee mug. It’s not like I have an issue, but I don’t want to set a bad example for my daughter. You understand. I take a big gulp of wine, and open my junk drawer, every great kitchen has one, and pull out the letter from the bank that arrived in our mailbox last week. I unfold it and stare at the now-familiar words.

Dear Mr. Harris. Congratulations! You have been approved for the mortgage on 1972 Port Chelsea Place, Newport Beach. All of us at First Federal thank you for choosing us...

My heart pounds as I fold the letter into a square, and tuck it away at the back of the drawer. I love that David is surprising me, that he wants a fresh start. I just hope he announces it soon. It’s so hard for me to keep this a secret—it must be killing him. This letter is proof he still loves me, loves our family despite the tough year we’ve had since Mary died. I realize my grief was hard for David to handle. It was a necessary, normal part of what happens when a mom loses a daughter. I know, I’ve researched it, choreographed it. Truth be told, I may have enjoyed the pill haze a little too much. I mean, there isn’t a national pill-popping crisis for no reason. These things are addictive.

It’s ironic, isn’t it? A letter from a big bank snapped me out of it. This is likely the only good thing a big bank has ever done for anybody, ever. I’m looking at you, Wells Fargo.

I take a drink of my wine and feel just a little sorry I’ve ruined the surprise he has for me. But, like I said, I’m a professional actress. I was just one role away from getting my SAG card back in the day. When he tells me, which should be any moment now, I’ll throw my arms around him and cry tears of joy. I’m already familiar with the new neighborhood. Although it isn’t a gated community, it’s a fabulous choice. The Port Streets are lovely, quiet and safe, with sidewalks, green spaces galore and a smattering of people out walking their dogs before bed. How exciting it will be to walk through the door of our new home. Even though I’m beyond tempted, I’ve been so good and haven’t driven past it yet, or looked it up online. I know you’re impressed.

Maybe David will take me to our new home tomorrow, and then we can step through the front door together. Or, better yet, he’ll swoop me into his arms and carry me across the threshold. Okay, no, he won’t. The wine is making me a little giddy, combining with the itty-bitty Xanax I took to help with my nap, no doubt. No matter how he tells me the good news, I can’t wait.

I rinse the coffee mug in the sink. I’ll go downstairs and tell Betsy it’s bedtime in a friendly, warm voice. I will reignite our mother-daughter bond. In my mind, Dr. Rosenthal nods and says, Good idea, you need to take care of your only daughter, be there for Betsy, her curly salt-and-pepper hair bobbing up and down. She twirls her black-rimmed glasses in her right hand, before placing them in their case for the night.

The doctor is not here. I know that. But she would be pleased I am being the mother she wants me to be.

I make my way to the stairs and grasp the handrail tightly, reminding myself that the number one cause of accidental deaths at home is falling. Six thousand people trip and die annually in the US. At the bottom of the stairs I stop to remember the “girls only” phase as if it was yesterday. Mary in fifth grade and Betsy in fourth grade decided their floor would be girls only and taped a sign to the steps to that effect. I was welcome, David wasn’t. The way it should be, but it didn’t last long.

I dart past Mary’s closed bedroom door, stop in front of Betsy’s and turn the knob. It’s locked, as always. David threatened to have a locksmith make a master key years ago, but we never did. Never will now. I knock on the door.

“What?” Betsy sounds mad. I think she might have a temper. She always was the difficult one.

“It’s Mom.”

The door opens and Betsy stands in front of me in an oversize USC sweatshirt—Mary’s, I presume—with a smirk on her face. “What did I do to deserve this midnight visit? If you’re trying to gossip about something—or someone—you can forget it. I’m going to sleep.”

Betsy thinks I am a gossip, but I’m not. I share important information, things she needs to know. She should be glad she can rely on me. She’s running out of time to learn. “You have a very vivid imagination. I’m not a gossip.”

“No, you just share negative things about people, keep us guessing. I’m sure that’s not harmful at all.” Betsy makes a chuckling sound and steps away from the door.

I wonder if I’m allowed in.

“Don’t be rude. I came down to tuck you in. It’s bedtime. But never mind. You know I’ve only ever loved you and tried to make you happy.” I pout. I pretend to feel hurt, but I’m used to this treatment since Mary left for college. It’s an unfortunate development.

“Fine. Come in.” She feels bad. Good. Betsy walks to her bed and flops on her stomach. I follow her inside. The walls of her room are covered with her original art, oil paintings of various sizes, mostly abstract subjects, and phrases such as Manifest Abundance and Nourish Your Higher Self.

A light blue dream catcher dangles from the ceiling above her headboard. This is the bedroom of a busy, creative mind. I agreed a long time ago to let her do whatever she wanted to decorate her room. No one really sees it except the two of us. It’s for the best but I don’t tell her that, of course. I’m all support, all nurture.

I glance at the name Mary tattooed on her right wrist surrounded by tiny pink hearts, and bite my tongue. As far as a tribute to your sister, I could think of many better ideas. But we disagree on that, too.

She catches my smirk and pulls her hands inside the sleeves of her sweatshirt. “Dad said you were passed out for the night.”

Charming of David to say such a thing. “Did you two have dinner together?” I hear the questions tumble out of my mouth, the hint of jealousy and judgment in my words.

Betsy rolls onto her back and sits up. If she were a cat, her claws would be out, ready to defend herself. My daughter is intuitive, I’ll give her that. She says, “No, we didn’t. I guess he was with his friends and I was out with mine. I mean, after art class.”

“Of course he was. How was art class?” I’m grateful she doesn’t add too bad you don’t have any friends, Mom, as she’s said before. She’s watching me as usual. She’s learned from the best.

“Oh, great.” She smiles. Suddenly I know she’s hiding something. But what could it be?

I need to ask her about the email I received from school. “Volunteer Day is Tuesday. Do you want me there?”

Betsy considers me. “Did you go to Mary’s Volunteer Day?”

“Yes. I did.”

“Okay, sure, why not? I’m in charge of painting the backdrop.”

“I can’t paint, but I’ll try.” I can paint as well as Betsy can. I focus on what appears to be a new piece of art hanging on the wall next to where I stand. It looks like a thick, bright red heart. It’s dripping a rainbow of colors that pool into a black sea at the bottom of the canvas. I don’t enjoy abstract art. I like realism, clarity. Not this interpretive style Betsy has concocted. I should tell her it is good but it’s not. Secretly I don’t think she has much talent. But a good mom would never say that to her daughter, and I’m a great mom.

“You don’t like my new piece?” Betsy challenges me. She tries to stir me up. Don’t you just hate it when your teen tries to push your buttons? That’s why God made us smarter than them.

“It’s nice.” I meet her eyes. I smile, sweetly.

She laughs. “Whatever.”

“You know what, you’re right. It’s not my favorite. I just think you could do better. This looks like blood or something. It’s just dark.”

“Wow. An artist paints what she feels, what she knows. It’s subliminal, emotions. You just don’t understand.” She shakes her head. She hasn’t moved from the bed. I don’t think she’s frightened by me, not like I was with my mom. I’ve never hurt her physically. That’s when it’s scary. This little temper of mine, well, it’s nothing compared to my mom. She doesn’t even know how ugly this could be between us. You’ve seen the horror show of moms and teen daughters who despise each other? I have, too. I lived it.

Betsy has no idea just how fortunate she has been.

In fact, it’s almost as if she pities me. She shouldn’t. It’s weak. It’s an emotion that won’t serve her well in this life, certainly not around me. And soon, she’s going to need to be strong: she’s about to enter the cold, hard real world.

I’m not sure how to respond to her silence, so I stare at her and shrug. “I’ve had a long day.”

“Sure you have.” She chuckles again. I know she thinks I do nothing but mope around in our home all day. I guess that is all she sees of me.

I glance at the door across from where I stand. It leads to the back patio. Both girls’ rooms have exterior doors and an external stairway leads to the front, outside courtyard. This is how Betsy comes and goes as she pleases. I should have turned the doors into windows before the teenage years. It’s too late now.

“Mom, anything else?” She’s watching me as I stare at myself in the full-length mirror in the corner of her room. I know she wishes she had my sexy figure, thin build. She has David’s big bones, poor girl. I turn my head, check out my backside looking over my right shoulder. Not bad for forty-two years old.

I remember a question I’d been meaning to ask her, my memory finally coming through. “I haven’t seen Josh lately. Why don’t you invite him over for dinner this week to celebrate graduation?” I haven’t seen him at all, come to think of it. Why didn’t I keep up with them, invite him to dinner? I know they’ve been texting this school year and Betsy is very sweet with him. I just haven’t seen him. I’ve been focused on other things, and healing, of course. It’s hard to explain to anyone who hasn’t been through this how debilitating the loss of a child can be. It makes it so hard to keep track of the other people in your life because you’re so consumed with the one who has gone. But I must. I’m the mother. That’s why I have my handy app. And Betsy has used the love word with him in texts. I need to monitor that kind of language.

“We broke up a couple weeks ago. I meant to tell you.” Her eyes focus on a stain on her bedspread. She picks at it with her fingernail.

“What? Really? Oh, I’m sorry, honey.” I blink and stare at Betsy. She seems unfazed.

“It’s not a big deal. I still love him, as a friend. We’ve always been more friends than anything.” She finally stops picking at the bedspread and smiles at me. “The passion was gone. You know the feeling?”

I don’t want to know, no. I swallow. “I always thought you could do better anyway.” Josh seemed perpetually barefoot, smelled vaguely of weed and needed a bath. Even when he was wearing tennis clothes he seemed, well, dingy. I care about Betsy, and who she dates. It’s a reflection on me, everything she does, everything she will do. “So is there anybody new I should know about?”

She meets my eyes. “No.”

“Well, that’s good. You should focus on your studies. Spend time with me. And Dad. You’ll be graduating so soon.”

“Thank God. And I know what you think, Mom.” She’s staring at the ceiling. Telling herself to be patient with me, perhaps? Her frustration zings through the air, hits me in the gut. Nothing I haven’t handled before.

She should watch herself tonight. I’ve already been so disappointed by her dad this evening.

“I love you.” I walk to her bedside, touch her soft, shoulder-length blond hair with my hand. I lean forward and kiss her cheek and try not to react to the diamond stud sparkling from the side of her nose. I can’t remember if we shopped for a dress for graduation. Did we?

“What are you wearing for graduation?” The look on her face tells me that I should know the answer. One of the aftereffects of strong emotion is memory loss. My memory also is hazy because of the free-flowing pharmaceuticals prescribed by Dr. Rosenthal. But I stopped most of those. I need to focus. Even without the drugs, I can’t seem to hold on to things like before.

“The purple Free People dress. Remember?” Betsy shakes her head.

I don’t remember. “Of course. Now I remember. You’ll be beautiful.”

Betsy smiles, and it’s hollow. I don’t think she believes me, but maybe she just doesn’t care. “I’m wearing the silver one to the ceremony tomorrow.” She looks down at her hands, her fingernails bitten to the quick, another result of the tragic accident we’ll commemorate tomorrow. She curls her hands into fists, hiding the carnage of her fingernails. “Are you sure it was a good idea to invite the whole world to this funeral celebration thing?”

“I’m not sure. Your dad handled it all.”

“Woo-hoo! Come grab a drink. My sister’s dead.” Betsy hops off her bed, takes a step toward her bathroom and stops. Her hands are in fists but her blue eyes have a glassy sheen, as if she’s about to cry. She crosses her arms in front of her chest.

“Oh, honey, you know it’s to remember her, not to celebrate her death. Your dad always likes to go over the top where Mary’s concerned. He always spoiled her. She was his favorite. They had all those secrets. Those inside jokes. That’s why it’s you and me against the world.” I smile at my pot stirring. I dropped some of my best refrains there.

“Mom.” She shakes her head no, but she knows I’m right. “Time for you to go.”

I reach out to her, pull her into a hug. She’s stiff, but she doesn’t push away. I’m glad she trusts me, at least a little. We stand for a moment, locked in a comforting embrace. She’s a good girl at heart.

She breaks the hug, but I slip my hand around her wrist. Holding her tight. Just a little reminder of who is boss. Then I notice a new tattoo on the inside of her left wrist, her Mary tattoo is on her right. I smile and grab her left hand, holding it in the air.

“What’s that? On your wrist?” My tone is too sharp. I force a smile.

Betsy shakes free, steps back from me, recovering her composure, pulling her sleeve down, covering her hand. “It’s an infinity symbol. You know, eternity, empowerment, everlasting love.”

“You didn’t have my permission to mark yourself again.” This is totally unacceptable. The next thing you know, she’ll be covered in those awful things.

“It’s tiny. I’ve had it for months and you didn’t even know. So chillax.” She stares into my eyes until I look away.

Defiant daughters are the worst. “You’ll be sorry, later. When you’re old and saggy.”

She arches her eyebrows. I know she’s thinking about adding, “Like you, Mom.” But I’m neither. So she smiles instead and says, “FYI, I’m meeting some friends after the lame ceremony tomorrow night. We’re planning a few surprises for senior day, and graduation night. I’ll be home late.” Betsy arches an eyebrow. “No need to stalk me.” A challenge.

I meet her eyes and she laughs. She’s teasing me, of course, not laughing at me. She’s eighteen years old. I can’t stop her from doing what she wants and I have other people to stalk right now. “Just be smart.”

“I am smart, Mom, even if you don’t think so.”

“Oh, don’t be silly. I love you.” I’m a master at dodging her, you see. I try hard not to compare her to Mary, but it’s not easy. Mary was brilliant. Beautiful. Oh well. I walk out of the room in silence, pull her door closed behind me and make my way to the stairs. My heart thumps from the tension between us, a tension that only develops when two people love each other deeply. There’s no deeper bond than a mother and a daughter. Betsy knows that, too. She’s just having a little phase.

Upstairs in the kitchen, I pull the bottle of chardonnay back out from its hiding spot behind the orange juice and vanilla almond milk and pour a full glass. I’ve limited myself to one glass a night lately, but tonight is a celebration. I’m proud of my self-control. My liver thanks me, too. Right after Mary died—well, for months after—it was a different story. But now we try to move on.

Some of us have.

In the living room I twist the knob and the fireplace bursts to life. I sit on one of the two overstuffed cream couches that face each other framing the fire. I never dreamed I would live anywhere like The Cove, let alone in a multimillion-dollar, beach-chic soft contemporary. But as I look around, that is where I am. It’s too bad my mom couldn’t see me now, surrounded by all the luxury money can buy. And soon, we’ll move to an even grander home, 1972 Port Chelsea Place. A happy address. I wonder if there’s an ocean view from the second floor of the new house?

I take a big gulp and finish my wine as I stare at the flames leaping in the fireplace. It was a warm day in May, more than a year ago now, when David and I were driving to Los Angeles to help Mary pack up her dorm room, a task I was dreading. I mean, a kid’s dorm room after a full year of college is about the least sanitary place on earth. But there we were, David and I, on a mission together.

“I have a great idea.” I had tapped David’s arm, as if I’d just come up with the idea. I wanted to understand why he had broken his promise to me and allowed Mary to connect with her birth mother. I thought tequila and sex could help me extract an answer. “Let’s go to Cabo for the weekend! Reconnect.”

“You think that’s what we need? To reconnect?” David answered, eyes hidden behind sunglasses, focused on the 405 North.

“I do.” My voice was warm, happy. Inviting. I missed him, us. I missed our family, how it had been. I wanted everyone to be close again. And it started with David.

“And why, exactly, would we go to Cabo now when Mary’s coming home from college today?” He turned up the radio. End of discussion. Tears filled my eyes and I blinked them away. But the betrayal, the hurt? You don’t just blink that away. Those feelings sit at the bottom of your heart, festering.

Once we’d finally packed up her despicable dorm room, Mary took us on a walk around campus.

“Next year I live in that house. Can you believe it?” she gushed as we walked down 29th Street, otherwise known as The Row. The impressive Southern-style Kappa Kappa Gamma sorority house, complete with Doric columns and window boxes bursting with red geraniums, was intimidating to me. I couldn’t imagine living in one house with all those women.

“It looks nice, but not as nice as home. I can’t wait to have you back for the summer.” I slid my arm through hers. She stiffened, or was it my imagination?

David wrapped his arm around her shoulders and she leaned into him, leaving me to walk alone on the sidewalk. Typical.

He said, “This sorority thing will cost me an arm and a leg, that’s all I know.” He pretended to complain but he loved every moment of Mary’s joy, of Mary’s college life. And living vicariously through her social acceptance. A daughter who is a member of the top USC sorority meant good connections for David’s investment business. “Proud of you as always, kiddo.”

“Thanks, Dad. I can’t wait for next year. But, of course, it will be fun to be home for a couple weeks, too.”

“A couple of weeks?” I’d asked. My heart hammered in my chest. She had all summer to be home with us.

“I got a killer internship here. So I’ll come home for a bit and then head back up to LA. My friend has a place I can crash. It’s all worked out perfectly.”

This was new. “You said you’d be home. That you’d work, save up.” My old-fashioned, came-from-nothing work ethic was shining through.

Mary leaned against me. “I know, Mom. But I’m premed. Dad agrees it is a great idea and it is an amazing opportunity with a hospital. I’ll be working with patients and I’ve been offered a research position. It’s important for my résumé, for med school.”

“It’s with her? Elizabeth James? Isn’t it?” They were teaming up against me, again. Tears stung my eyes. Mary had found her birth mother, a woman who was now a leading plastic surgeon in LA. She had agreed to work with her, spend all summer with her.

“Just drop it, Jane. This is a great opportunity for Mary,” David had commanded. The liar. The cheater.

Looking back now, I realize what I had done wrong. I allowed Mary to go away to college, to leave my orbit, and she went awry. Stupid amateur mistake, but she was my first child, so I didn’t realize the pull of college life. I never had the desire for more school, for that fake sorority experience, for the liberal arts degree that leads you nowhere. At her age, I had a career to launch, a future to secure.

And no money. There was that, too. So, sue me. I slipped and let Mary go to USC. A huge mistake.

Once Mary was away, David strayed. It was all because of Mary’s choices. She disobeyed me, disrespected me and caused chaos in our family. I won’t make that mistake again. I’ll keep Betsy close to me, one way or another. I’ve learned my lesson.

That day, in the car, I did as David commanded and dropped it. I didn’t say another word, not on the entire drive back home. I was so furious I don’t remember where we had lunch. The effects of betrayal are deep, and lasting, especially when you are harmed by the people you love the most. I know you’ve been betrayed by someone you loved, haven’t you? See, you don’t forget it. You say you’re over it, but you still remember it, feel the weight of it deep down in your heart. I’m just like you. That day I was in shock, consumed by anger. It’s understandable, don’t you agree?

I force the memories away and stare into the fireplace. I am looking forward to my little coffee date with Elizabeth James tomorrow. It’s step one in the Jane back in control plan. I need her out of our lives completely so I can reconnect with David and Betsy. She’s a malignant tumor I need to extract.

We haven’t seen each other for more than a year. She’d been wary to meet me, for good reason, but I pleaded with her, one mother to another. It’s just coffee, I’d promised.

I stand up feeling a little dizzy from the wine, but it’s nice. I should be able to go back to sleep now. I turn off the fire, flip off the lights in the kitchen and living room, and walk to our bedroom, following the sound of David’s snores. I slide into bed, praying for sleep. Tomorrow is a big day.

As I try to fall asleep I remember my first ladies’ luncheon at The Cove. I’d taken extra time to curl my hair, to wear my most expensive, best-fitting tennis dress. The girls were home with the babysitter. All heads turned as I walked into the room, the new, hot young mom. We’ve all been there. You think you’re queen of the castle until a new princess arrives on the scene. A silence washed over the four white-tablecloth-draped tables.

“Hello, are you Jane?” A woman with a big smile, huge fake boobs (not done as expertly as mine) and an impossibly large diamond extended her hand. “I’m Sarah. Welcome to the neighborhood.” She broke the ice. Deemed me worthy of their acceptance. I should thank her someday, I suppose.

As Sarah escorted me to the seat next to her at table three, the idle conversation started up around me. I knew I was the topic. Once seated, all of my tablemates introduced themselves. I was invited to a Mommy and Me playgroup on Tuesdays, another woman asked me to be her tennis partner in the upcoming mixer. Another asked me to join her book club. Bunco was every Thursday night. I accepted every invitation.

I had arrived. It’s hard to crack into a group of women like this, let me tell you. Have you tried it? My palms were sweating the entire lunch. But they liked me. I was a great girlfriend. I was.

I think the trouble with me and all of them began when I started winning at everything. Tennis, Bunco, even on my snack day at Mommy and Me. Jealousy is a powerful emotion. Slowly, over the years, invitations stopped arriving. And the moms all started looking older, too. Bedraggled, sunburned, sleep deprived. But I never compromised my looks for my kids. I took care of myself. While they all started sagging, I looked even better. It happens. It wasn’t my fault their husbands would give me approving winks.

It hurts. I was invisible to them during the last few years before Mary died and I’m incommunicado now. I always had my kids and my husband to focus on. But what now? What is a housewife to do when her kids leave home? That’s the million-dollar question. Well, actually, I believe our net worth is much more than that, I can assure you. My eyes pop open again and I stare at the ceiling. Grief has given me time to think, to strategize. When everyone ignores you, and tiptoes around you, you have space.

David’s rumbling snores aren’t the worst part about trying to sleep at night. It’s what I see when I close my eyes. Sometimes I wonder if it would have been better if she were never found. Then I would never have viewed her face. I wouldn’t be haunted by the nightmare of the half-eaten shoe still laced onto her half-eaten foot. That’s the other nightmare. It’s falling or the foot.

When those images zoom into my head, I open my eyes and I focus on other things, like random accidental deaths. Did you know hippos kill almost three thousand people a year? I know, I didn’t either. See, you’re distracted just thinking about it.

I don’t tell anyone about these two nightmares. I know they’ll fade away in time, like the memories of my mom getting fainter every day. No, it’s best they all think I am fine. Sure, Betsy and David have caught on to some of my routine. Betsy doesn’t join me in the kitchen for late-night chats these days, and David wasn’t wooed by tonight’s impressive table setting. But no one really knows another person, not fully. And I have so many more loving tricks up my sleeve.

Elizabeth James, for example. She will not come near the ceremony tomorrow, even though I’m certain she has been invited. She isn’t wanted or needed by anyone there. David and Betsy won’t even notice her absence, but they will notice the new and improved, sweet-as-molasses Jane.

The three of us will link arms, walk to the front of the service together, our little family. And then, after the ceremony, David will tell me about our new house and I’ll wrap my arms around his neck as he scoops me into an embrace. The crowd will be so happy that we’ve made it through our loss, that we have found happiness together again. It will be smiles all around, like a dream come true. Even Betsy will be happy, her nose ring sparkling as she nods in approval.

But seriously, I’m going to win them over. Surprise both of them. You’ll see.

MONDAY

THREE DAYS UNTIL GRADUATION

3
6:30 a.m.

My foghorn alarm blares and jars me out of bed. I scamper to the bathroom to turn it off. Shaking fingers jab at my phone. This routine happens every morning. Normal people have a soothing alarm, not this blaring foghorn. But I’m not normal. I’m special. Even though the sound scares me to death every morning. It works, though. I’m awake.

I grab my toothbrush and turn on the water, quickly dampen it before turning the water off again. I’m not worried about California’s perpetual drought. After what happened last year, I’ve developed a fear of water, especially the vast, deep ocean surrounding us. Did you know water covers 71 percent of the surface of the earth? Oceans hold 96.5 percent of the earth’s water. The Pacific Ocean, my view, is the deepest ocean, reaching more than six and one-half miles deep. The California Current moves south along the west coast of North America. I shudder as I tap my toothbrush on the edge of the sink. I learned from the coroner’s office that if you drop something into the ocean north of here, it always drifts this way, even a body.

From the bathroom I glance at David’s empty, cold side of the bed. He’s left for work extra early this morning. But that’s fine. Today’s our coming-out party and he probably has to knock out some things before he can focus all of his attention on me, and Betsy and our remembrance for Mary.

I study my reflection in the mirror above my sink. Not bad. I’m sort of like an actress who’s been on sabbatical and is offered a part: she reluctantly takes it and wins an Oscar. There is work to be done but I can see the beautiful me in there. I slept in yesterday’s makeup. It’s mostly faded away, rubbed off on my pillow, most likely. Dark smudges hang under my eyes from worn-away mascara, but what’s new and a little alarming is the deepening web of wrinkles beside each of my eyes. Botox will get rid of those in an instant.

In the closet, I slip off my T-shirt and stare approvingly at my own body in the full-length mirror. I look a little thin, but you can never be too rich or too skinny. Mom loved to repeat that one. My stomach is flat, a feature that only departed from my physique about three months into my pregnancy with Betsy, and returned shortly after her delivery. And of course, my surgically enhanced breasts are exactly right, a little larger than necessary, but hey, go big or go home. If David and I were to go on one of those island vacations he loves, I could rock a bikini for old times’ sake. I try to imagine it, us, on vacation again. Me in a floppy hat, white bikini, skin warm from the sun, and David unable to keep his longing eyes off my body. He grabs me as we walk into our casita, whispering “gorgeous” in my ear as he pulls me to the bed. Yes, we’ll do that again, soon, perhaps in the new house.

I check the time. I need to hurry to be ready for my coffee date with Elizabeth. Once I’m showered, I enjoy putting on full makeup for the first time in a while. I take my time, and I’m pleased with the results. I pull on jeans—they’re baggy, but they’ll do for this morning’s activities—and a flattering white blouse.

I wait for Betsy in the kitchen, hoping for more mother-daughter time like we had last night. Sometimes I’m lucky and I catch her in the morning when she’s hungry or needs a water bottle to take to school. Most days, though, she exits through her bedroom door and rushes through the courtyard to her car before I even realize she’s gone, like her dad, the other mouse running from momma cat.

I can’t blame her. She doesn’t think about me, or my needs. I remember acting the same way with my own mother when I was ten. It’s a selfish phase most girls go through, and Betsy and I are enjoying an extra long, extra trying phase. It balances the fact Mary and I never had one. Sure, we had our disagreements, but not the ongoing war of disappointment and misunderstanding that Betsy and I seem to be locked in.

Last week, David walked into a huge fight between my daughter and me. It was after 11:00 p.m., far too late for Betsy to be out on a school night. I waited for her in a chair, outside in the dark, sacrificing my own comfort. I care about her and her curfews. When Betsy had finally walked into the courtyard, I had confronted her before she could sneak downstairs via the outdoor steps.

“Stop right there.” I stood up. I scared her and that made me smile.

“Oh my God,” Betsy yelled. “You would be out here like a freak. Leave me alone.”

“You smell like smoke. Where have you been?”

“I told Dad I had a bonfire tonight. You can’t keep treating me like I’m a child. I’m eighteen. Besides, if you had taken the time to have an actual conversation with Dad, he could have told you where I was.” Betsy backed away, heading toward the outside stairs, trying to escape to her room to get away from me, her mother: the person who gave birth to her, the person who gave her life.

“Who were you with? I want to know your friends.” The fact was Betsy never brought her friends home. I knew all of Mary’s high school friends, for years, and they all seemed to like me. Some of the boys liked talking to me more than they did Mary. But with Betsy, I only knew Amy, from middle school. After Amy moved away, Betsy didn’t bring anyone else home, no matter how often I pushed to meet her “group.”

Mary had told me when she was a senior, and Betsy was a junior, that Betsy was in a totally different crowd. Mom, we don’t overlap friends, not at all. I can’t really tell you more. That’s why I had to surprise her in the courtyard. I have to catch her when I can. She’s sneaky, my Betsy.

Last week in the courtyard, Betsy wasn’t just sneaky, she was mean. Her voice was cold, firm. “Your snooping is freaking me out. You need to cool it. I’m going to bed—don’t follow me.”

“Don’t you dare walk away from me, young lady!” I had yelled. Too loud. We’re all too close together here at The Cove. I can’t believe I raised my voice.

David stepped through the door from the garage at that moment. Mortified by my outburst.

“Jane, honestly. I heard you from inside the garage. What will the neighbors think?” He was mad at me, not worried about what Betsy had said or done. David still cares about the neighbors, still has friends in the neighborhood. Clients, too.

Betsy saw her chance for an exit. “Welcome home, Dad. Good night.” She smiled as he walked to her side.

“Good night, honey.” They hugged and she was gone.

I am very tired of this treatment. Instead of backing me up, supporting my good parenting, David had walked past me into the house, leaving me alone in the courtyard staring up at the stars piercing through the night sky like laser beams. Just then one of the palm trees in our courtyard shed its hull, something that happens at least once a year. The heavy wooden canoe-shaped beast landed with a bang a foot away from where I’d been sitting. I could have died.

But I’m a survivor. And I always win. Something Elizabeth will discover in ten minutes, the palm trees later this morning.

4
9:00 a.m.

Elizabeth is late but I’m fine with it. Gave me time to settle in, grab the corner table at Starbucks, order a small black coffee. Why can I never remember what I’m supposed to say for small? And why can’t I just say small? As I sip my coffee I watch the line of well-dressed women and men, and wonder which one of them is happy. Who is cheating on their spouse? Who is living a lie?

Have any of them given up a child for adoption and then pushed their way back into that child’s life? I mean, after the adoptive mother gave up everything and raised the girl as her own, cared for her, made her the woman she was, and then you swoop in for the easy part? For the glory? Who does that?

Elizabeth does. And there she is now, pushing through the glass door with an air of importance, her long dark hair cascading down her shoulders. She’s wearing a white lab coat to enhance her doctor status and high heels. Sexy doctor status. Nice try, but you still have nothing on me. She spots me in the corner and I watch her lips purse. Is she nervous? I mean, when I visited her clinic in LA last year I didn’t really threaten her, although she seems to have taken it that way. Silly restraining orders. They don’t really do anything, do they?

I should have taken one out on her. She is the one who didn’t listen, she’s the one who never backed off. She lured Mary to her with an internship. Unforgivable.

She pulls the chair out across the table and sits, crossing her arms in front of her.

“Don’t you want anything to drink?” I ask. I’m not getting her anything, and the line is ten deep, but I’m being pleasant. I tuck my blond hair behind my ear, making sure my huge diamond studs sparkle in the sunlight streaming in over my shoulder.

“No. What do you want, Jane?” She folds her hands together on the table. Pity she’s never found a man. Maybe she isn’t interested in them, not that I care.

“I want you to get in your car and drive back to LA. You aren’t welcome here.”

Elizabeth smiles. “That’s funny. Mr. and Mrs. Harris invited me personally. You know I used to work for them. I’m part of the family in more ways than one.”

“This ceremony is for me, her mother, and David, her father, to say goodbye to Mary in front of our friends. Not for you, some servant, a housekeeper who had random sex and didn’t want the results. You act like you’re family but you’re just the help. I’m family, do you understand? I was nice, before, when Mary found you. I had to be. I didn’t want to upset Mary. But now Mary is gone. You have no hold over me, nothing.”

Elizabeth smiles, her face flushes. Good, she should be embarrassed, the slut. “You’ve never been nice to me, or to your daughter, from what I can tell. And you don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, really? I know David allowed our daughter Mary to contact you, and unfortunately, you responded even though you promised to never have contact with the baby you gave up.” I take a sip of my coffee but I continue to stare at my nemesis.

“You’re still mad about that, aren’t you? As you know, Mary contacted me first. I did nothing wrong, and neither did Mary. It’s all just so small-minded of you.” She shakes her head at me like I’m a toddler about to be put in time-out.

I’d like to wipe that smirk off her face, or throw my coffee at her. But I won’t. “No, I’m not mad. Just disappointed.”

“You liked pretending Mary belonged only to you. But she was mine, too. I loved her. I just didn’t have the means to provide for her, not like David does.” Elizabeth sits back, takes a deep breath.

My mind is pinging, facts merging together, swirling around like the time does these days. But there’s something. “You mean like David and I do. He is my husband.”

“Yes, and Mary’s father, her biological father.” Elizabeth smiles.

The thing about the truth is you can see it when it’s revealed. Even if it’s been in front of you all along, even if you never, ever, wanted to see it. Oh my God.

“You didn’t.” I lean forward as she scoots her chair back.

“I’m not the one who was married. I didn’t do anything wrong. But I do feel a little bad for you, I mean, it was during your first year of marriage. Isn’t that supposed to be the golden year?” Elizabeth stands up. “Don’t worry. Mary didn’t know David was her real dad. We never told her. To protect her. And I suppose, to protect you.”

What? This is nonsense. She’s lying, she must be. This cannot be true. My head is swirling, heart pounding. I want to throw my coffee at her. I want to force her to stop talking. Force her to go away for good. I take a breath. “You’re lying.”

“Why would I? Mary’s gone now. I don’t care about you, or your petty jealousy. Mary was going to be a brilliant doctor, just like me. Her mom.”

I want to grab her by the neck and squeeze. I want her to stop talking. David was with her? Our first year of marriage? He has cheated on me before? And with her? A servant? I can barely breathe. I manage, “David wouldn’t do that to me. We were in love then.”

Elizabeth leans forward. “He was already regretting his choice. I really can’t blame him. You have control and boundary issues, Jane.”

“Oh, do I?” I hiss. I stand up, hands clenched in fists.

“You do. And besides, Mr. and Mrs. Harris were in love with the idea of a grandchild. You should have seen the way they pampered me, feeding me exquisite meals, buying maternity clothes for me. David was married, they couldn’t understand the delay, and meanwhile, I was pregnant. It all worked out.”

I take a step forward and I’m standing next to Elizabeth now. The air between us is toxic. “I didn’t want to get pregnant then. If I wanted to I would have.”

“Well, something made him turn to me.” She takes a step back. She’s leaving. But then she stops and says, “Look, Jane. It didn’t mean anything. It was a one-night stand. I was house-sitting for his parents. It was a mistake. Except it gave us Mary. All of us were blessed to know her, to have her in our lives.”

I’m shaking all over. If she comes to the ceremony I won’t be able to control my rage. I cannot have her there today. I won’t. It’s my new start. “Do not come to the ceremony. Do not or you will be sorry.”

She shakes her head and laughs. “You are a piece of work, threatening me again. This isn’t about you. It’s about Mary, and David and his parents, too. They asked me to be here, to mourn Mary. She’s my daughter, too.”

As she walks away I pick up my phone. My hands shake as I punch David’s number, and the call rolls to voice mail. “We need to talk. Now. Call me or come home.”

I sit down, trying to breathe. I will not allow this to ruin things, not now. No, I will get David back, and then we’ll discuss his further betrayal. For now, I will keep the peace, play my role. Once we’ve moved into our new house, he will pay for this.

5
10:00 a.m.

Tree service companies are so responsive, especially if you’re calling from The Cove and willing to pay double the typical fee because it’s an emergency. I called last week after my near-death experience and today here they are. The crew and I already had assessed the situation and they’d explained their strategy by the time David bursts into the courtyard, red faced and frantic.

He got my message, apparently. I’ve been ignoring his return phone calls, forcing him to come home. I won’t confront him about what I’ve learned from Elizabeth James. Not now. But still, he came home to me. That’s a good sign. He must be reminded of my power.

I give David a little wave and notice the shock on his face when he finally spots the guys, one climbing up each of the two trees. “What is going on here, Jane? What are you doing to our magnificent palms? What’s the emergency?”

“I’m getting rid of them. They’re a menace.” I put my hands on my hips and take a sip of my coffee. He grabs my shoulder. I shake his hand off.

He says, “They’re one of the primary assets of our home. We can’t replace them. They’re grandfathered in. They represent our two girls.” David talks to me as if I were a child. As if I care about what he is saying. As if I hadn’t already spent a half hour plotting the demise of his precious trees with the guys implementing the plan.

Above our heads I notice the men are listening to David instead of me. They stop climbing.

“Oh no you don’t. Keep climbing. I signed the papers. Cut them down now. I’ve already paid, signed on the dotted line. Do it,” I command. It feels good to hear the chain saws rev up.

“You’re destroying our home, the value,” David yells. I can tell he wants to say more but he shakes his head. It is loud, with the chain saws, hard to talk. I watch as he walks into the house and slams the door. Poor, pouting David. He doesn’t realize, even after twenty years, that I know what’s best for our family. Palm trees are killers. They have to go. Period. And I’m not the one destroying our home, dear.

I hurry inside the house, per the men’s directions, and listen as the chunks of palm tree crash to the ground in the courtyard. It’s satisfying knowing they are dying, knowing I won. I destroyed them first, before they could get me. That’s what winners, survivors do.

Back inside, I try to find my husband. I fight the urge to ask David about Elizabeth’s accusation. Maybe I’ll just ask him for a hug, for some reassurance about the ceremony this afternoon. I’ll demand that he make sure Elizabeth James does not attend. That’s the first step.

“David, we need to talk. The ceremony tonight has me all out of sorts. Let’s hug.” I stand near the front door and hold my arms out to him.

“You are unbelievable,” he says as he walks past me and out the door.

“Wait, we need to talk,” I scream after him, but he can’t hear me over the chain saws. It’s fine. If he had stopped, hugged me, I might have asked him if he is actually Mary’s biological father. I’m certain it isn’t true. What kind of man would cheat as a newlywed? Not David, not my David. As I watch chunks of palm tree drop to the ground, my stomach turns.

Of course it’s true.

I take a cleansing breath and walk to the kitchen. It’s fine that he ran out the door. He’s angry right now and he wouldn’t be fun to talk to about this newly realized betrayal. I will stick to my plan, reunite our family. And then we will have the important chat, once we’re settled in our new home.

I wonder if Betsy is home. If she passes through the kitchen, I’m ready to smother her with love. I walk to my desk and glance above my laptop at the invitation pinned to the corkboard:

JOIN US FOR A CELEBRATION OF THE LIFE OF MARY HARRIS

BELOVED DAUGHTER OF DAVID AND JANE HARRIS

BELOVED SISTER OF BETSY HARRIS

BELOVED GRANDDAUGHTER OF DAVID AND ROSEMARY HARRIS

5:00 P.M. AT THE COVE PRIVATE BEACH

PLEASE DRESS IN THE COLORS OF THE SUNSET

MONDAY, MAY 20TH

RSVP: KYLIE DORN

Most of the details of today’s event were handled by David’s assistant, Kylie Dorn, a spunky, sunny young woman with full, pouty lips and a waist to breast ratio like Barbie’s. I know she’s mostly man-made, but the guys don’t seem to mind. She draws the appreciation of all men she comes into contact with, much like I do. We have a lot in common.

I briefly wonder if she’ll be in attendance this evening, full lips pouting even more, breasts wrapped in the tight black fabric of feigned mourning. Oh, scratch that. The invitation directs us to wear the colors of the sunset. How cute. Of course she’ll be there.

Stupid Elizabeth is likely on her way back to LA by now. She’s afraid of me, and she should be. Good riddance.

I hear footsteps in the hall. Betsy walks into the kitchen wearing black jeans, a black T-shirt and a frown. Her nose piercing taunts me, sparkles, challenging me to say something about it.

I swallow. “Good morning. Can I get you breakfast?”

Betsy’s face scrunches together with disgust as if she’s having an alien encounter. She wasn’t expecting me to be here. I enjoy surprising my daughters. It keeps them off balance.

She says, “No. I don’t eat breakfast. I thought you knew that by now.”

She’s so surly. Perhaps I should give her something to think about at school today, a little tidbit of juicy information for her to ponder during art class. “Did you know your father is Mary’s biological dad?” I ask.

Betsy’s disdain face has been replaced by something else. Her mouth drops open. She didn’t know.

“What are you talking about? Have you been drinking? Popping pills?” She throws her hands on her hips, ready to argue with me.

“No, of course not. I had coffee with Mary’s birth mother, you remember Elizabeth? Mary told you all about her.”

“So, that’s old news. You always told Mary she was adopted. I still don’t know why you made such a big deal about her wanting to meet her birth mom.” Betsy shakes her head.

She’s trying to act like this revelation doesn’t matter, that it isn’t true, but I can see the stress in her clenched jaw, her rigid posture.

“It is a big deal. All of it.” I know my voice is cold, hard.

Betsy takes a step back. “You’re lying about Dad, aren’t you?”

I fight a surprise burst of emotion threatening to choke my voice. “No, I’m not. We were married when he, well...” I cover my face with my hands, push tears from my eyes.

Betsy leans against the counter, deciding what to think.

I mumble, “I’m devastated.”

“Did Dad tell you this is true?” she asks.

“No.” I sob. “Haven’t talked to him yet. But it’s true. Your dad is a liar. I’m sorry.” I’ve needed a little leverage, something to force a space between them. I’ve found it.

“I have to go to school. I need to get out of here. It’s all screwed up, everything. I mean, when are you going to get rid of Cash’s dog bowl?” She points at the white porcelain bowl tucked under the kitchen island. The words—Love. Eat. Play. Cash.—are glazed in black block lettering on the side of the bowl.

Obvious change of subject, darling daughter, but fine, I’ll play. “Oh, does it bother you?”

“Kinda, yeah. He died six months ago.” Betsy yanks open the refrigerator, hiding her tears.

As if I didn’t know when he died. But I need to be patient and kind with her. It’s a hard day, the anniversary of Mary’s death. Learning your dad has cheated, fathered a baby who became your sister. It’s a lot. I remind myself I need to smother her with warmth and cheer and support. Besides, she’ll love the new house and we’ll just put all this nastiness behind us.

I say, “I can put the bowl away if it bothers you.” I flash her a big, fake beaming smile. My jeans are sagging and I yank them up on my waist.

Betsy closes the refrigerator. She holds a container of pomegranate seeds, a healthy choice. I’m proud. I always worry about her weight ballooning up. “You know what? It does. It bothers me. And that’s not the only thing wrong. I cannot believe I have to go celebrate Mary’s death today, like I don’t think about her, miss her, every single minute.”

I try to catch her arm but she darts past me, stopping at the door to the kitchen, watching me.

Tears fill my eyes, running down my cheeks. “I miss Mary every minute, too. That’s why I care about you so much. You’re my only focus now. We’ll sit together at the ceremony, I’ll be there for you, Betsy. You can lean on me.”

My tears match Betsy’s. Poor girl. I’m the only parent she needs. I hope she confronts David for me. That would be much more satisfying. He’d be crushed by the disappointment. It’s so important to him to be the hero, Betsy’s perfect dad. Not anymore. Not ever again, it seems.

She wipes her face with her sleeve. “I can’t cry anymore. I can’t do this. I can’t listen to you and your lies. I have to go.” She’s gone, out the door before I can remind her to be home in time for the ceremony. I know she heard me, though. She heard the truth about her philandering father.

A text pops up on my phone: I’m here.

I glance at the time and can’t believe it’s already 10:45 a.m. Such a busy morning. I grab my purse and hustle through the almost tree-free courtyard and out to the street. Sam, my driver of sorts, jumps out of the front seat and opens the passenger door behind the driver’s seat.

His hair is brown and unruly. Always. As if he doesn’t own a comb. “Hey, Mrs. H.”

“Hi, Sam. I took your suggestion and finally did something nice for myself. I had a manicurist come by the house. What do you think?” I flutter the fingers of my right hand.

“Glad you did something nice for you for a change, instead of just taking care of everybody else like you tell me you do. You know, when you’re not sad.”

I slide into the back seat. He closes the door behind me and hurries to the driver’s seat. When he gets in I say, “Yes, motherhood is trying sometimes. Sorry to keep you waiting. I was just finishing up the breakfast dishes. Betsy and I had a lovely meal together. She’s such a wonderful young woman, so sweet.”

He meets my eyes in the rearview mirror. His eyes are dark, widely spaced, caring. “Glad you two are getting along. I know today is a hard day.”

I may complain to Sam too much about Betsy. I’ll change that, perhaps. But I’ll start tomorrow. It’s so easy to talk to Sam, unlike my family members. And he’s always on my side. I allow him to see me open my purse, reach for tissues. My facade of cheer crumbles. The ceremony is tonight. “It’s such a hard day. One year since Mary died. And can I confide in you, Sam?”

“Of course, Mrs. H.”

“Betsy isn’t really nice to me. She’s mean.”

“You’ve told me that. I’m sorry. Maybe she’s sad.”

I shrug. “That could be it. Or maybe it’s something else? Guilt?”

Sam meets my eyes in the mirror. “Guilt? For being mean to you?”

No. It’s so hard to get people to see things sometimes. “No, for fighting with her sister, at the park, on the day Mary died. Never mind. It’s not important. I’m saying too much.”

“It’s okay, Mrs. H., you can tell me anything.” Sam and I have been together now since a month after Mary’s funeral. I don’t drive much anymore, or so I tell him. It fits with my grief and I like being chauffeured by a person who listens to my every command. Sam takes me most of the places I need to go. He still drives for Lyft, but he blocks out our schedule: doctor’s visits, grocery store trips. And Friday morning, whatever errands I need to run, if I can get myself up and out of the house and away from my addicting computer.

Some errands I handle on my own, but he doesn’t know that. “Well, let’s see. I don’t think I have to worry about Mary’s birth mother showing up and ruining things this evening, so that’s good.” I love being able to confide in Sam. He is so loyal. Like a friend. I smile at the thought.

Sam says, “You don’t like Elizabeth, that much I know. But how do you know she won’t be there?”

“I made it clear she isn’t welcome. We had coffee this morning.” Oops, I sound a bit mean. I soften my voice. “I hope she listened. I asked her to see things from my point of view. I’ve lost so much.” I dab at my eye with a tissue. Sam looks concerned. He’s watching in the rearview mirror.

“Do you have a dress for tonight?” he asks.

I haven’t given my attire much thought. Funny, I’ve been imagining my coming-out party, but not my dress. Sure, I could wear the orange silk one I’d expected to wear last night, still hanging up with the expensive price tag dangling under the arm. But no, Sam’s right. Why not splurge? I need to look good. Focus on the future. David owes me some retail therapy.

Sam turns into the parking lot of the office building and into a reserved space.

I say, “I suppose I do need to find a sunset color dress. That’s what the invitation says. Any ideas?”

“I’ll make a couple calls, Mrs. H. What is the name of the store you like?”

“The Boutique. It’s pricey but fabulous.”

“On it.” Sam does whatever I ask. Why can’t everyone in my life be like this? My husband couldn’t even be faithful in our marriage during our first year together. My daughter can’t share a meal with me. But Sam, he listens. He cares.

He hops out and opens my door for me. I walk into the now-familiar lobby of the sleek twelve-story office building. Dr. Rosenthal’s office is on the first floor, discreetly located around the corner from the elevator bank. I keep my sunglasses on and scurry inside. I’ve never run into someone I know here. I suppose if I did, no one would be that shocked to discover I’m visiting a shrink.

Dr. Rosenthal was highly recommended by Detective Alan Branson, who was the lead investigator on Mary’s case. He told me it would be helpful to talk to someone, to help me sort through my devastating loss. Part of me thinks he was tired of being the one I talked to, but I’m pretty sure he had a crush on me and handed me off to Dr. Rosenthal so he wouldn’t be tempted. He’s an honorable man. There aren’t many of those around these days, I’ve discovered. #MeToo.

I don’t know if the detective still talks with the doctor, about me, or Mary, and of course, everything is confidential with her. But as far as Detective Branson was concerned, if he needed to, I would let him read the notes of our sessions. He’d fall in love with me even more. I tried to do everything he told me to do, and I listened carefully to everything he said. It’s always a good idea to have the police on your side, crush or no crush.

The bored receptionist meets my eyes and nods as I take a seat in the waiting room. She and I know each other now, but we never speak. There is nothing pleasant to say, nothing fun about being here. It’s just an important part of what I do now. At least she understands I don’t want to talk to her. Most people don’t.

“Hello, Jane. Please come in.” Dr. Rosenthal opens her door and welcomes me.

I do as she says, and once inside her office, I settle into my regular spot: a light blue velour La-Z-Boy. Of the other choices, a wooden rocking chair, a saggy forest green couch or the La-Z-Boy, I was drawn early on to the soft velour.

Dr. Rosenthal takes her seat behind her thick wooden desk, folds her hands together. “You look good, Jane. I know today’s the day she was found. I’m so sorry. The first anniversary of a tragic death is very difficult.”

“That’s why we’re having the memorial, I guess.” David’s stupid idea.

Dr. Rosenthal stares at me. “I know it’s hard but the ceremony is happening, so let’s try to do a little work to get you prepared.”

“Sure. Of course.” I meet Dr. Rosenthal’s eyes. I’m preparing for the future, stepping back into the spotlight. I’ll be fine. I suppose she doesn’t realize that.

“Jane, today’s ceremony will be hard. Guests will say the wrong things but they don’t mean to upset you. I need you to practice your meditation. Your breathing.” The doctor is a big believer in meditation. She’s given me CDs to listen to, her voice attempts to calm me in between sessions. Dr. Rosenthal is staring at me. I must have drifted off.

I’m not sure what to say. I nod.

“People will say insensitive things, like Mary’s in a better place or everything happens for a reason, or you’re lucky to have another daughter. They will blurt hurtful things because they’re uncomfortable.”

“I know. I’m their worst nightmare.” I try to feel guilty about that, but I don’t. I blow my nose. The sound makes Dr. Rosenthal cringe every time. I rather enjoy the reaction.

“It’s frightening for most of us to imagine what you have lived through. How are you and David?” She pulls off her reader glasses, twirls them in her hand.

“He’s very busy, at work.” He’s also a liar, and a serial cheater.

“Hmm.” Dr. Rosenthal says a lot without words sometimes. She stares at me. I am supposed to fill the air again.

Fine. “We’re focused on Betsy. We had a beautiful family dinner in the dining room Sunday night, even though I accidentally set four places. Habit, I guess.”

“Oh, Jane.” She covers her mouth with her hand. I surprised her with that one.

“I know. It was a mistake. Everything is just so hard. I’m trying. Dinner together was a good start. It’s complicated.”

Dr. Rosenthal nods. “Grief is complicated.”

I nod. “Some days I don’t want to get out of bed.” That isn’t true, but it’s what she wants to hear. Recently, I can’t sleep. I’m agitated, restless since I stopped taking all the sedating drugs she prescribed.

This new information about David, and his inability to be faithful, his lies, well, all of that makes me want to kick a hole in a wall or light a fire in his closet. I see his shirts smoldering, his perfect row of ties light up in a blaze. I stare at Dr. Rosenthal, milling over my revenge fantasies while she analyzes my grief.

“You should be moving through the acute stage of grief by now, but I fear it may be more severe. From what you’ve told me, you may have what researchers are calling complicated grief.” She pauses. “Not many people have heard about the diagnosis.”

I have. I’m smart. I smile. “I am complicated.” My attempt at humor falls flat. But my acting skills are superb. My research also pointed to complicated grief. I’ve read all about it online. Hand me the golden statue.

Dr. Rosenthal isn’t smiling, so I suppress my grin.

She tilts her head, makes a note in my file. “Anyway, women are more vulnerable to complicated grief than men. It often results from a difficult loss, like the loss of a child. It’s a pathological condition. Do you think we should put you back on the pills?”

Oh good, the diagnosis I was shooting for, and an offer of more pharmaceuticals. Does the diagnosis cover a cheating husband and a disrespectful surviving daughter, too? As you surmised by now, there is too much going on for me to numb myself into oblivion for days on end, as tempting as that sounds. Been there, done that. It isn’t a productive state. Things and people slip away from you if you’re not paying attention.

“No, I don’t think more pills are necessary.” True. I could knock out an entire herd of cattle with what is in my medicine cabinet presently.

“All right, well, we’ll stay on top of it. Grief isn’t as simple as the five stages.” Dr. Rosenthal pulls out her box of Cheez-Its and offers me a handful. I decline as always. It’s our pattern, codependent patient/doctor thing. It feels familiar, and weird. I know she’s trying to deepen our connection. But I think we’ve got a good thing going here.

She pops a few overly orange crackers in her mouth and talks while chewing. “Grief is stressful, so it’s common to alternate between acknowledging the emotional pain of your loss, and setting it aside. Grief comes in waves, like the ocean.”

The cold, dark ocean. I look at my freshly painted nails. The color is called deep ocean dreams. Yes. Makes sense for grief and death to come in waves. It may take up to four minutes to die from drowning, but drowning people can only struggle on the surface for sixty seconds before submersion occurs: a truly horrible way to die. Poor Mary. I blink and look up at Dr. Rosenthal.

“Jane, do you have any unusual fixations these days?” She stares at me, her dark eyes trying to pierce through me, see inside my mind, see the truth.

“No, not really.” I wonder if she knows more than three thousand people die in the US because they choked on their food?

Death by Cheez-Its? Possible but unlikely.

It’s time for her to think I’m getting better. After today’s memorial service, of course. Next week, she should tell anyone who asks that I am suffering from complicated grief but I am improving. So, no, I won’t share my tragedy obsession, or my fear of the ocean. Or the nightmares. Or the bubbling rage I feel toward my husband at this moment.

She’s still waiting for me to speak, to elaborate. Her eyebrows smash together on her forehead, she twirls her pen in her right hand.

“No fixations, not really, unless you count getting Betsy through high school graduation. I mean, that’s typical mom stuff, right? It takes all of my attention. I’m volunteering in her school, shopping for the perfect graduation dress. We’ve been looking at colleges online, swapping stories about all of her friends’ futures. It’s wonderful. I’m just a typical mom in most respects. Preparing family dinners, making sure Betsy does her homework. Baking cookies. Wow, I must be getting better if I’m complaining about typical housework.” I smile. I am so normal it hurts.

I’m the perfect vision of a happy homemaker. I always set the perfect table, remember?

“Well, that all sounds good. How is Betsy?” Dr. Rosenthal notes. “She could benefit from counseling. I know she feels extremely guilty about her sister’s death.”

This I know is true. Betsy was there, fighting with Mary at the park. She feels responsible deep down. I’ve been mining her guilt, too, feeding it, fueling it like a fast-moving wildfire. I say, “I hope she hasn’t convinced herself it was her fault. I hope she didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Of course she didn’t. It’s just that the mind is powerful. She should come to me so we can be sure she’s processing all of this correctly. Grief is confusing, as you know. At the beginning, it’s really intense, all consuming. It cancels out everything else, all the people and activities that are important to us. But over time, it settles down, makes a space in our hearts, our lives. It’s not healthy for Betsy to believe any of this is her fault. I know you’re reinforcing that.”

I shift in my La-Z-Boy, wiggle my toes. She is correct. I am reinforcing things. “Don’t worry. Betsy’s fine. She is my daughter, strong like I am. I’m so proud of her. I’m getting better and so is she. I’m her role model. We all turn into our mothers eventually, right?” I smile. Betsy is my legacy.

“Are you like your mother, Jane?” Dr. Rosenthal’s face is frozen, a poignant look, as if this is an important question. She still doesn’t realize I don’t discuss my mother. Ever. She doesn’t realize I’m in control of these sessions, not her. Sorry, Doc. For the record, I’m not like my mother. Gayle Lambert was a monster.

Dr. Rosenthal is so easy to manipulate, as you can tell. I pivot: “You’ve said all along that grief is the most painful form of love. Betsy loved Mary very much, even though they were opposites and they fought a lot, too much. Betsy has that bad temper, you know. Must be from David’s side. Poor Betsy, I don’t want to imagine her hurting anyone.” I shake my head. I’m a gentle, simple housewife worried about her daughter’s explosive anger. Meanwhile, I’m the one seething, but we won’t discuss that right now.

“Rage can be a sign of underlying issues. Tell her to come in. It’s important.” Dr. Rosenthal is leaning forward on the desk.

Really? “It will have to be after she graduates on Thursday. She’s too busy right now.” I smile. I have no idea what she does, but she is busy. I’m the best mother.

“Mmm. Let’s get back to you.” Dr. Rosenthal takes another handful of crackers, pops them in her mouth and slides the box out of sight. Orange crumbs dust her black sweater.

I am my favorite topic. “Yes?”

“Are you still isolating yourself in your home?”

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