Florence’s childhood had been blighted when her little brother, Aaron, died in a boating accident at the age of four. Leon and Julia were both shattered by the boy’s death, emotionally catatonic for ten years, until I was born in 1931. Julia always said that just by being born, I had brought them back to life. They doted on me, indulged me, applauded all my little victories, and chastised my flaws, though they mostly overlooked my major faults, so much so that even though the stain on my cheek means I’ll never be truly beautiful, I have a certain amount of confidence, even esprit that I probably haven’t earned.

Quite apart from the fact that I usurped her parents’ affection, Florence never reconciled herself to the birthmark on my cheek. She wept on the day I was born. On the Cyrano set, no less. Certain that my father was having an affair with an actress who played a nun, Florence had insisted on watching the filming even though she’d been having intermittent contractions. Cameras were rolling in that last poignant scene where Cyrano (my father) was about to expire in Roxanne’s arms when Florence let out a terrible scream, and then several more in quick succession. They hauled in a divan, Florence lay down, and Rowland fainted when I was delivered by the studio nurse assisted by the wardrobe matron. Swaddled in Cyrano’s velvet cape, they put me in my mother’s arms. She kept brushing my right cheek with her hand, and crying. And how do I know this? She told me. More than once.

Florence never liked me, but tant pis. I hardly ever saw her after she went to South Africa. That is, until she married Walter, and (still throwing tantrums) I was forcibly removed from Summit Drive to live in stuffy Brentwood. I rebelled in every way I could think of. Irene did not rebel; she just waited it out with a serenity I came to admire, and then, to imitate. Irene refused to call Florence Mom, and I refused to call Walter Dad, so they just stayed Florence and Walter. Irene and I became true sisters, allies against The World of Florence and Walter. Julia and Leon came to love Irene like another granddaughter.

And then she married Gordon. She was not yet twenty. As soon as she moved out of the Brentwood house, Florence started eyeing my birthmark as though she—once again—wanted to “do something” about it. I’d already been subject to two of these painful, fruitless treatments. I telephoned Julia in tears, and she said, “Pack your things. You’re coming home.” Never were words sweeter to my ears.

When Florence found me throwing clothes in a suitcase, I (never averse to drama) declared, “I’m leaving, and you’ll never be able to hurt me again!”