I spot them sitting in the second row of chairs, on the aisle: Pompous (him), rigid (her), self-righteous (both of them). They want everyone to think they’re so perfect, except for this tragedy that befell their granddaughter. But they aren’t perfect. For example, they’d be mortified if I told everyone about the Harris family secrets. Let’s start with crazy Aunt Emma everyone is terrified of being around. What if Betsy is just like her? Is that what’s happening to their only living granddaughter? I mean, she has a nose piercing, tattoos, she smokes weed. She was with Mary the day she died, at the park. What has she done? And if that’s not enough to really get their old hearts racing, perhaps I should announce to everyone here tonight that their beloved only son screwed a servant of theirs, knocked her up, all while he was a newlywed. Oh, and then talked his wife into adopting his love child? That would turn some heads. I wonder if I should bring all this up to Sarah?

No, not now. I need to focus on the memorial. Sarah leads me around the side of the chairs, far enough so no one bothers us as we trudge through the thick soft sand. Sarah says, “They’ve seated family up front, of course. I see David’s parents are already seated. Is Mary’s birth mother coming?”

What? I stop walking as a wall of rage crashes on my shoulders, tenses my neck. How dare she ask me this? I turn to Sarah. “Of course not. We don’t even know who she is. I am Mary’s mother.” My heart is racing. No one is to know about Elizabeth. Mary must have told Liz and Sarah about her birth mother. Mary is a complete traitor. My whole family: turncoats. Sarah must sense my anger, probably because my arm has gone rigid in hers, my pulse beats in my temples.

She stutters, “Oh, I guess I’m mistaken. Mary had mentioned something about meeting her, how wonderful she is. A doctor? Anyway, where’s Betsy off to when she graduates?”

I turn to her, my sunglasses so dark Sarah’s face is shadowed, silhouetted to its basic parts. Small nose. Pointy chin. Patrician. “Saddleback Community College.”

“Good for her.” The way she says it makes me think Sarah worried Betsy wouldn’t be off to college anywhere, our lost daughter. Another lost daughter. But mostly my mind is buzzing with Sarah’s knowledge of Elizabeth James. Before I can delve further into my anger, Betsy catches up to us.