You see, this is a book I read, or was read to me, actually, when I was about four. Before my mom left. It was the last book, now, come to think of it, that she ever read to me. It was a silly little book, not that famous, and I had completely forgotten it. Until now.

Maybe, like all bad things, I had put it into the basket of bad things I didn’t think about and left it there for good.

Until now.

But, it’s really too bad I had put it in that particular basket because if I hadn’t put it there then I would have remembered the name: The Persnickety Patron of Pemberly Place.

And, also, if I had remembered it, I would have remembered the cover. Which features none other than said Persnickety Patron in front of her dear Pemberly Place.

And, if I had remembered that, and remembered that cover, I would have remembered that this Persnickety Patron looked exactly, not one millimeter different, from Penelope Persephone Crisp.

But how?

My knees start to buckle a little and the wall is now my crutch as I pick up the book, stare at the cover, and puzzle over it.

How on earth can Penelope be on this cover? I mean, this makes no sense. This is entirely fiction! Isn’t it?

I look to the back cover, a serious-looking woman with short red hair and glasses. I read her bio. No, it’s not true! Of course it’s not true.

What, are you surprised when I tell you that The Persnickety Patron of Pemberly Place isn’t a true story?

No, so this is an entirely made-up character.

One that comes from the last book my absentee mother ever read to me.

And this is also who I’ve been speaking to all summer.

Hanging out with, drinking tea, building a fire.

I slide down the wall, ending up in a kind of depleted crouching position as I realize, impossibly . . .

I made her up.

I made up Penelope Persephone Crisp.

She is a 100 percent, bona fide, completely made-up illusion from the pages of a childhood book, that I thought with every fiber of my being, was real. In real life.

I made up a person.

I made up a person who maybe was a part of me all along.

I thumb through the first few pages of the book and, yes, there it is! Clear as day.

Penelope Persephone Crisp.

That is the name of her character.

In this book.

This made-up book that I made up into real life.

And then, the dreaded thought hits me.

Wait a minute.

If I made her up, then what else did I make up?

I barrel my way toward the study area with seven rather dated computers, waiting to be lit up.

The professor. The professor. The professor.

What was his name? What was his last name? I struggle to see it in my head, white rectangle sticker on the New Yorker subscription . . . B. Q . . . Barney. No Barnstable. No . . . Barnaby. Q something. Quince. Barnaby Quince!