Plastic children’s play toys are scattered all over her lawn, as are piles of leaves from the previous fall, sitting in rotting lumps under the late summer sun. A hummingbird drinks nectar from a plastic bird feeder that hangs from a metal hook. Sherri, already nervous for this encounter, nearly trips on the long dog chain with one end wrapped around the porch column. She feels ridiculous in her heels. Is it really time for her to switch to more comfortable footwear?

Val sits in a rotting rattan chair on the porch smoking a cigarette. “You’ve still got that crazy fucking hair.”

“You used to say it looked like pubic hair.” Val had a way of saying things that stayed with Sherri.

“Did I? Sounds like me.” Val laughs and coughs—she is clearly used to both activities. “Of all the things to remember.”

“I remember you were nice to me, too.”

“Don’t tell anyone.” Val eyes Sherri from head to toe. “Do you have weigh-ins out in California? Because you still look like this.” She holds up her pinkie finger, and Sherri remembers how Val once told her that she was big-boned. Is she saying she actually thought Sherri was thin? Has Sherri’s conception of her own body for the last forty years been defined by the old woman sitting in front of her?

Everyone tells Sherri that she looks great for her age—and she imagines it’s their way of saying she looks good enough to model for an ad for Metamucil. What, she wonders, does great “for your age” even mean? Is there some agreed-upon aesthetic template for an almost-sixty-year-old woman? She looks OK, she supposes, but she has to work at it—and pay for it. She’s grateful she can afford Coolsculpting, BBL, and Pilates. She has time to play tennis and swim and go for hikes in Joshua Tree. So far, thank God, her joints and back haven’t failed her. She’s tried hard not to make Violet crazy about her weight and her looks, but it’s always been difficult for Sherri to bite her tongue when she notices that her daughter has gained a few pounds, or her outfit isn’t flattering, or she could use a bit of lipstick, just as she finds it hard to be kind to herself when she notices the way time has changed her body. She knows she’s not young anymore, not like those girls who drive out from Los Angeles in their boho sundresses and booties. They have gleaming skin and lustrous hair and little dogs in their purses.