Never. I’m more than positive on that. Even the magazine spread we were in last summer had talked about where she’s from: Hailing from the iconic Martha’s Vineyard, Mary learned her art organically, as an apprentice at her own mother’s table.

And yet when I glance forward, my mom is careening up the street like she’s walked it a thousand times before. She definitely knows this place. Did she spend time here with her sister?

She reaches the end of the pedestrian section of the street and a stoplight forces her to pause. I break into a run, finally gaining some ground on her. “Where are we going?” I ask, out of breath.

“Elizabeth,” she says, her eyes on her phone.

“And… who is Elizabeth?” I wheeze. Another sister? At this point, I wouldn’t be all that surprised.

The light changes, and instead of answering, she charges across, bringing us to a small corner park, where I find myself face-to-face with someone I actually do recognize. It’s Samantha Stephens, the character from the old sitcom Bewitched. She’s sitting on a broom in front of a crescent moon, one copper arm raised in a jaunty wave, her hair carefully flipped out. A small plaque is engraved with the actress’s name. ELIZABETH MONTGOMERY.

Elizabeth is a location, not a person.

I double over, resting my hands on my knees as I catch my breath. “Who… are we… meeting?” I wheeze.

Mom is scanning the crowd of pedestrians so intensely, it’s possible she’s checking for an assassin. “Probate lawyer. She should be here any minute.” Her intense cycling routine means she isn’t even out of breath.

“What’s… a probate… lawyer?”

She’s about to answer when a faint voice, carried over the sound of traffic and pedestrians, comes from across the intersection. “ROSEMARY. ROSEMARY BELL. ROSE! MAAAAAAARRYY!”

My mother looks up sharply, her face going pale. “Oh no,” she whispers.

Her panicked tone sends shivers down my spine. “What is it? Mom?” I resist the urge to jostle her. She’s as frozen as Elizabeth, and looking in the same direction, which I would find funny if it weren’t so unnerving.

“ROSE-MARY. ROSEMARY BELL.” The voice is slowly increasing in volume, my mother’s face going more and more rigid with each syllable. “ROOOOOSSSEEEMARRRY. OH MY GODDESS, THERE SHE IS.”

My mom’s eyes are now wide with alarm and she lets out a string of choice words under her breath that I have never heard her say. She is actually quite magnificent at swearing.

“This can’t be happening,” she says.