He shifted in his chair—he suddenly looked furious. “How did you know about that?”

“About what?”

“My father.”

“I—I don’t know about your father. I was talking about my mother.”

“I had to leave to take care of my father. They told you that. You made up that lie about your mother to try and what, get close to me?”

“Fuck you. I’m not lying.”

Andy put her arm on Izabel’s arm.

“I’m sorry,” Izabel said. “Look.” She got out her tablet, searched for a picture of her mother, and then showed him. “This is what she looked like before she got sick.” She found another picture. “This is what she looked like when she was sick.”

“Why did you take a picture of her like that?”

“She asked me to. She said, ‘Remember me both ways.’ Which I thought sounded dumb. Like someone on TV would say.”

“Do you remember her both ways?”

“Some days I remember mostly memories from when I was a kid. Some days, mostly memories of her sick.”

“Sorry I said you were lying.”

“It’s fine,” she said.

“You’ve lied before.”

“When?”

“On television,” he said.

“Yes, I lied then,” she said slowly.

“Why did you lie?”

“It seemed like the right thing to do.”

He didn’t say anything.

She heard Paz in her ear. “Ask about college again.” That was the first time she’d heard Paz’s voice through the earbud, and Izabel hoped she hadn’t jumped in her chair.

“So where did you go to college?” Izabel said.

“Pratt,” he said. “Would’ve been part of the last class to go through.”

“An artist?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Sort of.”

“What’s that mean?”

“I specialize in packaging. Not everyone thinks of that as art.”

“Seems like an art to me.”

“What do you do?” he asked.

She hesitated for the first time. She didn’t want him to know about Cami. She tried to play off the hesitation as embarrassment. “I told you—I didn’t finish school.”

“So nothing?”

“I never figured out what I was good at.”

“What do you do with yourself?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on. What’s a typical day look like for Izabel?” He looked happier now.

“I clean. I shop for things I need. I watch old television and read old news.”

“Old news?”

She nodded. She pulled up her app and showed him. He took her tablet and scrolled through.

“You can pick other years,” she said. “Forty years ago. Fifty. Whatever time you want to read about.” She didn’t like him having her tablet in his hands, but before she needed to ask him for it, he handed it back. “What’s your day look like?” she asked.

“Hanging out at home, working on my projects.”

“You clean and shop?”

He laughed. “I have groceries delivered. I have someone come in to clean.”