We reach the table. And then I’m thrust into outstretched arms, my nose buried deep into a blue cotton sweater. It isn’t until I step back, away from the embrace, that I realize who is holding me so tightly. Odilie’s mother, small and round, hair short and blond and curly. Pink lipstick. Earnestness radiating from her like dust motes when you beat an old rug. I can feel the stickiness of her lipstick stain on my cheek.

“Vera,” she breathes, her eyes dewy with unshed tears. “So good to finally meet you.” She clasps my hands, her carefully filed nails digging into my skin.

“Likewise,” I mumble. The sun suddenly seems too hot, the glare penetrating my sunglasses, forcing me to squint behind them.

Odilie’s mother, whose name I still haven’t caught, gestures at the small knot of people. “Here we have Audrey and Laura, Odilie’s cousins. My husband, Richard. Dorothy and Eugene, Odilie’s aunt and uncle. Penelope is staying in Michigan, with our neighbors.” The relatives wave at me and I forget all their names immediately, my hand still hanging limply in hers. They’re all clustered around this table, looking bemused, grieved, uncomfortable.

“We’re so very happy to meet you,” says Odilie’s dad, the one who was sick, whom she was taking care of while Tom was with me. Her dad looks frail. He’s white-haired, his skin nearly translucent, veins purple and gnarled. His eyes are blue, but almost filmy, like so much moisture has collected there the past few months that he seems to be perpetually crying.

I smile tentatively. Odilie’s mother drops my hand but continues to beam at me, her daughter and husband looking at me with matching smiles. Behind me, I can sense the titters, the whispers, and I inadvertently move myself closer into the trio, as if they can save me from those wandering eyes and wagging tongues. Quinn begins chatting with a cousin, leaving me stranded with them. They bring me into the shadows of a tree.

It occurs to me, again, that no one is coming near us. I would blame it on myself, but even before I entered this part of the courtyard, no one was nearing them. It’s like all of us, the ones who were so acutely touched by this situation, are plagued. I wonder how used to it they are, the pointed glances and murmurs.

“We really are glad you got our invite. We wanted to meet you so badly. Page was the one who actually suggested we send you one.” She looks over to Page, who gives me a meaningful look, lips pursed, eyes soft.