I lost track of my grandmother in the gathering crowd. It was mostly women, mostly casually dressed in jeans and tees or tank tops, sneakers or boots, along with a smattering of all-black ensembles. Many of them had bare arms covered with tattoos: flowers or pinup girls or intricate abstract designs. A couple of women, one with pink hair, sat across from me on the other couch and set down small paper plates of cheese and grapes, while they toasted each other with clear plastic cups of white wine. I thought about making a plate of cheese for myself, but before I could get up, a Black woman with very short hair sat down beside me.

“This seat’s not taken, is it?” she asked.

“No,” I said.

“Thanks.” She held a plate of cheese and grapes, too, but instead of wine she had a small bottle of Pellegrino. She twisted it open and took a sip.

I could see the brown skin of her scalp where her hair was faded in on the sides. I didn’t want to stare, so I lowered my gaze. She was wearing black jeans and black motorcycle boots.

“Joan West is supposed to be here tonight,” the woman said. “Have you heard of her?”

I looked up. “Yeah, she’s . . .” Her right eyebrow was pierced, and her eyes were sapphire blue. The edges crinkled as she smiled at me, and suddenly I didn’t want to admit that Joan West was my grandmother. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be connected with her, but this woman was speaking to me as if I were an adult, like her. To be Joan West’s granddaughter made me a child, which I didn’t want to be. “She’s great,” I said. “I like her work.”

“Yeah? What’s your favorite?”

My grandmother’s most recent paintings were quite different from her previous work, but I liked them. Long, golden sweeps of light across doorways and honeyed wooden floors. When I looked at them, I thought of her and Grandpa on their deck in Woodacre in the late afternoon, the smell of wild grasses in the sun.

“I like her Time series,” I said.

She nodded. “Very meditative. I really appreciate her photography. The shots of her children especially.”

I knew the ones she was talking about. The pictures of my dad and Aunt Tammy when they were kids in Colorado. “Yeah, I’ve seen those,” I said. “People say they’re not about her children, but about the way we think about childhood.”

The woman’s smile broadened. “You know a lot about Joan West’s work. Are you a fan?”

I realized I had put myself on a path toward directly lying about who I was, rather than simply skirting the truth with careful omissions. It was a little exciting.