“How are your parents doing?” she asked as she took another sip.

I smiled. “Good. Enjoying retirement down on Sanibel Island. They ride a golf cart around every day and meet their friends for tennis or happy hour.” It was a weight off my shoulders to know that my parents were happy, even if some part of them would always be missing since June died. They had spent so long after her death like ghosts, going through the motions but only half-present. So when they decided to move south, I told them I would miss them but that they should do what made them happy. It seemed that they finally were. We spoke every so often, and they FaceTimed with the kids, but I hadn’t seen them in more than a year. Sometimes it felt like it hurt them more to spend time with me than not to.

Judy smiled. “That’s wonderful to hear. I think of them often.” She stopped there, and we both understood what she meant.

Yet the weight of not talking about June sometimes felt greater than the burden of having to share my feelings, and I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. I crossed my legs, and the bottom of my white linen pants rode up, the hint of the bandage on my leg showing. It still hurt, but I had learned to walk normally, on the side of my foot ever so slightly, so that virtually no one could tell the difference.

“What happened to your leg?” Judy said as she looked down and then up again. Her eyes widened a touch, and the same look of fear flashed across her face.

I inhaled sharply at her expression, my facade shattered. “I—I got hurt. One of my friends accidentally tripped me, and my leg got a scratch.” I regained my composure and waved my hand around dismissively. “It’s really nothing.” I took a long sip from my wine, avoiding her eyes.

There was silence, and I finally looked up. She sat with her back perfectly straight and shook her head.

“There’s something wrong. I can feel it. There’s something troubling you, and I felt it from when you walked in the door.” Her voice was no more than a whisper. “Are you in danger, Amy?”

The glass in my hand felt heavy, slipping out of my grasp. I quickly set it down on the patio table. I stared at it for a moment, Judy’s body distorted through the glass. Judy had always called herself an empath. Well, sometimes “empath,” other times “angel messenger.” Occasionally “crystal mother.” I never paid much attention to any of it, because she was always a little bit of everything, like a collage of titles and experiences, all bound together with the rubber cement of her will.

Yet she had never called me out on something like this.