Betsy smacks her hands down on the table, shaking the paint canisters, flipping my black-paint-coated paintbrush onto the table, barely missing the backdrop. The kids and moms at the nearest table to ours, a group that seems to be stuffing paper bags with party favors, turn and stare at our table. It’s my turn to blush.

Betsy leans toward me and whispers, “Are you accusing me of hurting Mary?”

I scoot over beside her, my paintbrush dripping black paint on the backdrop. I whisper, “Oh, dear, why would I think that? I mean, all I know is you two had a big fight, went on a hike in Point Park together. You came home and Mary never did.”

True. They were fighting about something. Mary was having a lot of conflicts that last day of her life. Anger isn’t healthy, we all know that. Holding things inside, secrets, they can eat you up. Anger plus secrets is bad for you: your heart rate increases, your breathing becomes shallow, your muscles tense up and you feel shaky. Your mind may take you back to other times when you’ve felt this angry.

Like just this morning, for example, on Port Chelsea Place. Anger also triggers acting-out urges, the urge to yell, to scream, to throw or hit someone, to lash out in verbally harmful ways. Right now, I’m calm. I’m in charge here. It’s Betsy’s turn to feel the burn.

Betsy steps back. I sense a lot of eyes on us, watching, waiting for something. An explosion or something, who knows?

My daughter’s face is pale, her lips pursed. “Mary was alive when I left her, you know that. This is why people hate you. Accusing your own daughter of something horrible, of knowing some sort of secret. I don’t know what you’re up to but I desperately want to be normal again, to feel normal again. It’s hard enough to not have Mary. She was my best friend. If you try to open this all up again, we’ll lose the little bit of respect we have around here. I can’t take it, the stares, the pity. Not again. If you try to open Mary’s case, Dad and I will tell everyone you’re insane, a monster.”

Oh, really? Before I answer her, I look up. There are too many eyes on us, watching us. I don’t want them to hear our conversation, to interfere with me and my plans. I need to get out of here. A panic attack would be good right about now. I pretend to try to catch my breath, tears spring to my eyes. “I am not a monster. I love you.”

Betsy grabs my arm. I need to get us out of here.

“Mom. Stop. Breathe. Oh my God. Don’t make a scene.” Betsy pulls me toward the doors, past too many moms, too many kids, too many stares.