“I’m here to drive you,” I say, changing tactics, praying it works. “I’ll take you home.”

I open the passenger door for her and she gets in without much more argument.

The little girl watches me. She has icy blue eyes like my father, the same hard stare, and it feels like seeing a ghost. I open the door to the back seat. She shakes her head no.

“Yeah,” I say. “Mrs. Ivory is watching you. I’m taking you to her house. For cookies.”

That gets her and she climbs on the back seat. I have to help her up, but it’s hard to with my belly in the way. Buckling her in is also a challenge. She wiggles around and I can barely fit myself back there. I’m pretty sure she should be in a booster seat or something. She’s so little.

On the drive to Mrs. Ivory’s house, the little girl busies herself sticking her hand down the crack between the seats. I hope there’s nothing gross in there, nothing sharp that could hurt her.

“My son John-John won first place in the science fair. Did you hear?” Mrs. Ivory says. “He trained a field mouse to run though a maze. They gave him a big blue ribbon.”

John-John has got to be at least forty now. Maybe fifty.

“What’s her name?” I ask, pointing to the back seat. Margo told me when Irene had the baby, but I said I didn’t want to know anything about it. Maybe the baby was a boy. Maybe I’m only making ghosts in my head.

“Oh,” Mrs. Ivory says, giving me a blank look. “Oh, that’s my daughter Mary Beth. Don’t you remember?”

I know I can’t leave this kid alone with Mrs. Ivory. But it’s not even a problem, because when we get to her place, Mrs. Ivory gets out of the car and walks into the house, without so much as saying goodbye to me or the kid.

“What’s your name?” I ask the girl. I turn and look at her, trying not to notice the way the flyaway hairs around her temples curl just like mine.

“Ju-ly,” she says.

“Julie?”

“No! July!” She giggles and bobs her head back and forth, rolling her eyes. “Aprilmayjunejuly!” she shouts in her singsongy little voice. “August! September! Ah-tober! Ah-tober!”

What kind of idiot names their kid July? April is bad enough, but at least it’s a real name. Thank goodness she wasn’t born in December or on Independence Day or Halloween.

“What’s your name?” she asks, pointing at me, like I won’t know who she’s talking to otherwise.

“April.”