“Mom and Bea went to work. Usually, I go to my friend’s house, but today I get to stay with you!”

“Oh. Work?”

“Yeah.”

I hadn’t pictured my mother with a job, and she hadn’t mentioned one. Merilee was chock full of surprises.

“Want some?” Mirabelle held out half a papaya with the seeds removed.

“Oh, no thanks, I don’t usually eat this early.”

“We have Pop-Tarts if you prefer.”

“Maybe later, I’ll just make some coffee or something.”

“We don’t have coffee, but there’s tea bags in the cupboard. After, can I show you the beach?”

I shrugged and rummaged through the kitchen. From the looks of things, Bea and Merilee were on some kind of a health kick. Everything in the fridge and cabinets was natural this, or organic that. There was no alcohol—none that I could find anyway. Maybe Merilee had turned herself around. I found a couple of old bags of Lipton, put some water in a pot on the stove, and waited for it to boil.

We put on bathing suits and shorts. A light rain fell on our shoulders as I followed Mirabelle to the end of the street, then down a trail beside a complex of white, luxury condominiums. The narrow path led to a river lined with wooden, one-story homes; boxes atop concrete stilts in washed-out shades of green, pink, yellow, and orange. Several small fishing boats were docked along the verdant banks while white egrets perched on tips of grass blades as comfortably as if they had been sitting atop a cow’s back. At the mouth where the river met the ocean, the sea was glassy and calm. Children ran in and out of small waves that lapped the shore. Further down the beach, families, most of whom appeared to be locals, gathered at an open pavilion, barbecuing around picnic tables.

As we neared the pavilion, Mirabelle suddenly plopped down and began furiously digging in the sand like a dog who had picked up the scent of a bone. I stretched out beside her and sifted the hot silt through my fingers. It was different from the sand in California; finer, whiter, and more reflective like ground glass.

“I used to live at the beach,” I said.

“I know, Mom told me.” Mirabelle scooped a pile of wet sand from where she’d been digging.

What else had “Mom” told her about me, about us, about our life before she left?

“So, how old are you?” I asked, picking what I thought was a safe question.

“Seven.”

I did the calculations. Merilee had gotten pregnant the very same year she’d left us. Anger rose in my chest. I reached for my cigarettes before remembering I’d left them at the condo.

“Christ,” I muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just, you’re pretty tall for your age.”

“I’m the tallest in my class, except for Noah.”

“Noah is a boy in your school?”