I was left standing beside the pallet of potting soil. A woman with a baby stroller was staring at me, and when she realized I had seen her she turned away, her face reddening. I didn’t know what to do. I sank down onto an overturned pot. I was shaking. I was hot and freezing at the same time. I dropped my head into my hands, forcing myself to take several breaths. I was in public. I was mortified.

The strains of eighties pop wafted through the garden center, a man singing about jumping. A voice said over the intercom: “Jennifer to checkout. Jennifer to checkout.” I pushed my hair back from my face, trying to smooth it out. I wiped my eyes; to my surprise they were dry. I picked up my purse from where I had dropped it on the ground near the potting soil. I put on my sunglasses and left.

Chapter 47

My mom called while Dad was out picking up dinner.

“Your father told me,” she said over the phone. “I’m so sorry.”

In Hong Kong, it was tomorrow, just after nine in the morning. I was in my room, where I’d been hiding since I got back from the garden center.

“Your grandmother was a great artist,” Mom said.

I remembered Joan saying Your mother is an artist, and for a split second the connection between Joan, my mother, and me seemed crystal clear, revelatory. I knew I should understand who they were and who I was and why all this had happened—but the moment vanished as quickly as it came, and I was in the guest room in Woodacre, and Mom was in Hong Kong, and Joan was gone.

Chapter 48

On Friday morning, I learned that Steph had called very early and told Aunt Tammy she was sorry about Joan, and she could no longer do the yard work.

I called her, but it went straight to voicemail. I left a brief message, trying to sound rational, cool. “Please call me back. We need to talk.”

Dad changed my plane ticket to leave after the memorial service, so now I had an extra four days in California. The irony wasn’t lost on me.

Steph hadn’t called me, so I texted her.

I just wanted to check in on you. Are you okay?

If you don’t want to talk, just tell me.

Eventually, Steph responded: I can’t talk right now. I’m really sorry for your loss. I need some space please.

I stared at her message. There was no opening for me to follow up. I deleted it.

Tasha told me I was in shock. “You do this,” she said over the phone. “After the thing with Jacob, remember? You went to class and acted like everything was fine. Have you ever even admitted that it wasn’t fine?”

I didn’t remember.