She looked tired and old, and I felt sorry for her, disgusted at my cruelty. I hated how Sally always tried to spin everything, always tried to manage Danielle. Still, I remembered Danielle’s embarrassment about the porn, her reluctance about telling me. She hadn’t even wanted me to know. Sally went in to get the phone and the outdoor lights came on—lanterns along the path, a garland of golden bulbs strung on the trellis to my left. It was getting dark.

I had a flash of memory from the night before, of Ash bending over me in the car. Suddenly the whole night resurfaced—the holding cell, that woman screaming in the corner, the girl who pulled my hair. I felt sickened, and sickening, like I was a poison I couldn’t stop swallowing. Paralyzed by shame, I stared at the floral pattern on the cushions until my focus went soft. I gulped my wine, lit a new cigarette, and sucked the smoke deep inside. I wanted anything that came from outside myself. Any foreign substance.

Ash. I had never let another person see me that pathetic. Not since middle school, anyhow, when everybody knew my mom took drugs and my clothes were always wrinkled. Fury at myself brought on a sudden vertigo, a starting and stopping, as in a dream of falling. I imagined myself in a car crash, a violent death, going over a cliff. Through a barrier and into empty air, to shatter on the rocks below. Not that there were any cliffs in Houston. This place was so flat you could see the curve of the earth.

I looked at my hands in my lap. With my nails I pinched the webbed skin between my thumb and forefinger. A tiny crescent of blood grew. I licked it. The skin on my hands had always been thin, fragile. Like my mom’s. She complained about it. If she was feeling okay, she was diligent about moisturizing. She kept tubs of cocoa butter in the kitchen, the bathroom, by the bed and the TV. When the pain increased she took the Oxy and it knocked her out for days in a row—sometimes weeks. Her hands would get scratchy and dry. She lay there and gazed at the ceiling until it was time for her pills. The smell of cocoa butter always made me miss her. Made me nervous.

Sally appeared, the phone in her hand. She had slipped on a pair of ballet flats. I stood.

“You don’t have to worry,” I said. “I’m not going to talk to reporters. I wasn’t going to anyways.”

“Oh, Charlotte, I can’t tell you how relieved I am,” she said. “Thank you.”

I shrugged.

She said, “The memorial service is tomorrow. You should be there. Will you come?”

“I guess so,” I said.

“Good. It’s at the Episcopal church on Alabama. Three o’clock.”

“Okay.”

“I’m glad. Lord have mercy if her other friends show up. I can’t imagine what they’ll be wearing.”

“What they’ll be wearing?” I said. “You’re afraid the other porn stars will embarrass you.”