“Regina, don’t slurp like that.”

She continued to slurp, but more quietly. “What’s repressed?” she asked.

“Repressed?”

“Uh huh.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“Sylvia. She told Daddy you were repressed. What’s it mean?”

“It means ‘quiet.’ ” And I told myself to keep quiet but asked her anyway: “And what did Daddy say?”

“He didn’t say anything.”

“What else did Sylvia say?”

“She said I could come to her apartment for a whole day and play with her cats.”

Over my dead body.

I made plans to take Regina with me and stay at my parents’ while Frank was in Chicago. Neil was just back from Vietnam; I thought being around him would reassure me that Frank’s trip was meaningful and necessary. But the day before Frank left, Gloria called from Los Angeles to say she was flying in to see her mother. (Her father had died two years earlier.) I grabbed at the opportunity of inviting her to spend a few days at our house. Pat was not coming with her, but she was bringing their three-year-old son, Brian. At first she hesitated at my offer, but when I said Frank would be gone, she readily accepted.

She timed her arrival just right; her rented car pulled into our driveway three hours after Frank pulled out of it. Instead of running out to greet her, I stood near the window, out of sight, and watched her lift Brian from the front seat and take the luggage out of the trunk. She was radiant. Her blond hair was blonder—I assumed from the sun—parted in the middle and drawn back in soft waves to form an old-fashioned bun. Instead of slacks or something else casual, she wore a cream-colored tailored suit. It was a style that seemed to be disappearing, and I was somehow proud of Gloria for hanging on to it. It made her look soft yet determined, behind the times but beyond them too. My stomach churned all the way up to my throat: I felt like a kid whose favorite grandmother was coming to visit.

I finally got myself moving to help her with the luggage. When we got it inside, I hugged her so hard that she laughed. It was good to hear her laugh, the way she used to before I met Frank.

“This is Mommy’s friend,” she said to Brian, who was gripping her skirt. “See, I told you her hair is red.” She turned to me. “I don’t think he’s ever seen a real redhead. Just about everyone in California is a blond.” She brushed his fleecy locks.

“Regina’s taking a nap right now. Are you hungry? Do you want a shower?”

“Just some coffee.” She looked around the living room and into the dining room. “This is beautiful, Irene. Really beautiful.”

“It’s a little too dark. We’re surrounded by trees.”

“I’ll take this any day over that California glare.”

“Stomach hurts,” said Brian.

Gloria put her hand on her stomach and said, “No, it doesn’t.”