Natalie walked down the hall toward the back of the apartment. “Your apartment has personality already.” She picked up a framed photo of Jasper at the beach that I’d placed on one of my end tables. The prior evening, I’d chosen to place three pictures of Jasper in inconspicuous places: my bedside table, an end table, and my desk, as if I didn’t want anyone to see them. “That picture was taken at the beach in Venice.”

“How often do you talk to him?” she asked.

“Isn’t he beautiful?”

“He has black hair.” She traced his form in the photo with her finger. “He doesn’t look like you.”

“We have the same nose.” I’d noticed that and been pleased about that trait that I shared with my Jasper.

“Do you miss him?” She traced my form with her finger. She was studying the photo so carefully. Even though I believed in the photo, the same way I believed in my son, I had a few moments of anxiety, wondering if she would detect anything unusual about the picture that would lead her to question its verisimilitude.

I sat on the sofa and leaned back against the cushions. “This morning, I went to the grocery store. Everything I saw reminded me of Jasper.” I crossed my legs and adjusted a pillow behind my back.

“When’s he coming back to live with you?” She looked around the apartment. I had carefully arranged Jasper’s belongings. Not a lot of them—a teddy bear and several children’s books had yet to be unpacked. The objects didn’t look staged. They looked natural. I had a drawer full of his clothing and a futon for his bed.

“Do you know?” she asked.

I could see Jasper in Venice by the boardwalk. I could see him playing baseball with his father. He had a head of dark curls, roses in his cheeks, and glowing olive skin. I was tempted to tell her that it was a matter of weeks.

The reason he was still in California … his father and I had decided that he needed a male role model, a strong man in his life. I felt the loss of Jasper.

“His father has enrolled him in a school there.”

Natalie eyed me. “You said he was coming back soon.” I heard derision in her voice.

“It’s a special school and we’ve decided it will be best for him.”

“What’s wrong with you?” She scowled at me.

“I’m looking out for him.”

“Does your kid even exist?”

My throat tightened. “Yes. Of course.”

“Why aren’t you more upset?” Natalie said. “You should be really upset.”

In Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, there’s an imaginary child who dies. It was one of the few plays I’d seen, and I only saw it because years ago I’d dated a second-rate actor who’d performed in an inferior production of it.