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eyes.”
    “Red.” Papa passes by my bedroom door with a cursory glance. “Definitely the red.”
    “Papa!” I toss my pillow in his direction. “Dr. Walsh said I should be resting.”
    “Getting out of the house will be good for you,” Papa shouts from down the hall.
    I wait for the sound of the bathroom door closing before I speak to Mama in a quiet tone.
    “I’ve only been home for a couple of days, and Dr. Walsh did tell me to rest.”
    “Rest, not hibernate,” she corrects with that comical look of hers. “This evening is very important to your father. If you don’t come, it will just confirm the media rumors.”
    “What rumors? Oh, you mean the ones about me trying to kill myself?” I pull up my sleeve, revealing my still bandaged arm.
    Mama grimaces and turns away, closely examining the stitching on the dresses. It’s too painful for her, I realize. I’ve upset her. I push my sleeve back down to my wrist.
    I sigh, defeated. “Okay. I’ll go if you really want me to.”
    Mama smiles up at me, gratitude beaming from her face. “You can borrow my cocktail gloves.” She drapes the velvet dress over my arm and brushes the ends of my hair with her fingertips. “It’s just for a few hours, Mira. Just put it on. Make your father happy.”
    As she heads out of my room she pauses, as usual, in front of the photo collage hanging beside my bedroom door. It’s got more than a dozen pictures of me when I was little. Christmas, birthdays, any event big or small that Mama thought warranted a permanent record. Mama gazes at it wistfully, then wipes a smudge from the glass with her thumb and exits the room.
    Later, standing in front of my full-length mirror with hair straightener in hand, I wonder how Mama managed to talk me into going to this fundraiser. Out in public is the last place I want to be right now, especially in a velvet gown that leaves too much of my skin exposed.
    I pop a pair of diamond studs into my earlobes and reach for the matching choker. Mama’s white silk gloves are already on, making it difficult for me to get the clasp open. I hurry down the hall to ask Mama to help.
    “That will do nicely.” Papa nods, sending me a smile of appreciation when I enter the room. I do a model’s spin for him, and he turns to his mirror to adjust his tie.
    “The gloves are perfect,” Mama says with a grin. “And I’ve got a shawl to drape over your shoulders. That way if anyone should inadvertently bump into you—”
    Papa groans. “You’re not serious, are you?” His expression shifts from pleased to irritated in a fraction of a second.
    “Beto, you know how she feels about being touched.”
    “Yes, but it’s all a bunch of—”
    “Beto!”
    “Bull,” Papa concludes. “I thought you’re seeing a psychiatrist. Hasn’t that cleared things up?”
    Mama shoots me an apologetic look; when Papa sees it, he fumes even more.
    “Mama,” I speak quickly, trying to divert the topic of conversation onto some other path. “Would you mind helping me with this choker?”
    She takes the diamond-studded chain in her hand and links it at the back of my neck. She’s so careful not to touch my skin, and I silently thank her for that.
    “I sure hope the new planner I hired gets everything right. It’s a good thing you called me when you did the other day,” Mama says, her voice cheerful. She’s in good humor tonight. “That florist at the convention center didn’t know squat.”
    “Uh-huh,” answers Papa, distracted with trying to straighten his bowtie in the mirror.
    “I wish I could have called that one office assistant you had years ago. Her parents were florists, if I remember right. She always had such lovely arrangements on her desk. What was her name? Jackie, wasn’t it?”
    “What? I don’t remember.”
    “You mean to tell me that you don’t remember your own office assistant?”
    “Why should I?” Papa huffs. “I had several during my years at Rawley.”
    “Jackie Beitner.