“I used to watch her play outside her school from across the street. I loved to see her jumping rope or sitting on benches with her friends,” Tilly said, pouring piping hot tea into a cup. “She could play alone and be just as happy as when she was in a crowd. I wasn’t around much when she was little. I had shows up and down the coast and spent more time on buses than a bus driver.”

“But she was with you?”

“No, she was home with her father. He was a very good father. He used to love seeing me onstage, but then complained that the stage was the only place he could see me. He kept it up for a long time, caring for Antonia all alone. Until one day he didn’t wake up. Nia got herself dressed and walked to school. She came home and tried to wake him up again. She dressed and fed herself for two days before she broke down in tears while a teacher read a story to the class. That teacher stayed with her while they sent people to the house.”

“What happened?”

“It was a heart attack that killed him. Antonia was a couple years younger than you are now. When I came home, I found two trays of food she’d made for her father. She’d even fed the cat and brought in the mail.” Steam swirled above Tilly’s cup, misting her eyes. “She was a strong girl, just like you. She was alone. I think that’s why she has such empathy for you. She sees herself in you.”

“What is empathy?” I asked.

“Oh, how can I describe empathy,” Tilly pondered, then stood up sharply. She extracted a tube of lipstick from her bag and drew a frowning face on her cheek. She pointed to the frown, her face pinched with sorrow. “Do you see this? Now come give me a hug.”

I wrapped my arms around Tilly and our faces met, cheek to cheek. Then she opened a compact and pointed to the faint frown face on my cheek.

“That,” she said, her voice breaking as we both stared at the pigment I’d absorbed from her, “is empathy.”

Tilly baffled me in many ways but she also could sound like clarity itself.

“Why is Nia angry with you?” I asked.

Tilly closed her eyes. There were tiny black smudges on her eyelids and just below her eyes.

“I nursed Nia until she was three years old. You had to see it. I would slip backstage between scenes, and there she would be, ready to jump into my arms. Lights, camera, breasts! I couldn’t figure out how to make her stop. She didn’t really need it. She was eating hamburgers with pickles by then, for heaven’s sake. So one day I sprinkled cayenne pepper on my nipples and—”