I laughed off his comments, but they stung. Because I was desperate to appear a certain way. I wanted my friends to think I had it all together. I asked Annette if she thought I should bid on neighborhood homes （though there was no way in hell I could）， sending texts with “？？？” and listings featuring open kitchens and master bath suites.
I knew my friends loved that I was “eclectic,” even that I was single, which seemed exciting despite the fact that I hadn’t had a date in years. I didn’t want them to see the grim underside of my life: staying up late whispering tarot card predictions to hapless callers; donning a red shirt, affixing a Target name tag, and bagging scented candles; rushing up to Round Rock to walk designer malta-poodle-doodles.
I wanted to be a rich person with a job that was my hobby. I wanted to own my own home. I wanted to pretend any college was possible for Charlie, to worry about highlighting my hair and making sure my gardener, Rod, had called my arborist, Brendan, to talk over options for treating my ailing live oak.
Whitney and Annette never would have even seen someone like Weezie. My friendship with them was my most valuable treasure. Next to Whitney and Annette, I was mistaken for one of the fortunate ones, and that felt wonderful.
Of course Whitney had had her share of tragedies—she was orphaned as a child. Annette’s family was loving and intact but she, too, had fought hard to forge her life. Our scars bound us, I knew—and our days in the syrupy terror of new motherhood. By the time we’d emerged out of those days, fragile and transformed, we were inseparable. I believed we were a family.
“Whitney’s helped us plenty,” I said that afternoon. “Now spritz that lemongrass spray around, will you? Nobody wants ‘wine with a side of mildew’ smell.”
“Oh my God, Mom, if only you could see,” Charlie said. “You’re better than both of them.”
“We will be better,” I said. “We’ll have our own house in Barton Hills, I promise. We’re so close…I just need to work harder.”
“Mom,” said Charlie. “Are you listening to me? I don’t care about staying in a fancy neighborhood. I don’t even care if we own a house! I just want you to stop putting yourself down. It’s depressing.”
“Thank goodness I have you,” I’d said, ignoring his words. He was a kid, and didn’t get it （which was, I suppose, the point）： my friendships protected us.
* * *
—
WE WALKED HOME IN the dark the night the boys found the body, and I could tell Charlie was shaken up. As I tucked him in past midnight, I sang him a lullaby like he was still a baby, my baby, because he was.
* * *
—
IN THE MORNING, CHARLIE’S big feet stuck out from underneath the covers, long and bony. I marveled at the sight of him: that beautiful profile, which I’d adored from the moment he was placed in my arms.
I lay down next to my boy. He smelled like soap and sweat socks. He was probably old enough to set his own alarm clock, but I woke him every morning anyway. “Good morning to you,” I sang softly in his ear. “Good morning to you. Good morning, dear Charlie…”
“Noooo,” he said.
“Good morning to you,” I finished.
“No,” he said. “Please, Mom.”
I gave him one more squeeze and stood. “Coffee with milk and sugar?” I said.
“Coach Henrik said no sugar,” he said, eyes still closed.
“So just a little,” I said.
“Mmmmm,” said Charlie, his assent.
Charlie had discovered track and cross-country during his freshman year. He was a natural runner, and most amazingly, he loved it. It had been hard for me to afford the expensive shoes his friends wore, but I told myself I would pay down the Visa debt （and my lingering student loans） someday. “I’ll be sponsored soon,” Charlie promised.
He never seemed embarrassed that he had no dad, that we were barely surviving on the money I pretended came only from freelance writing. My latest project was a collaboration with a local chef named Samantha, who combined Texan, slow-smoked meats with her mother’s Thai recipes. Charlie seemed （how could this be true?） to be proud of me, stopping by Sam’s restaurant, Thai Tex, with his friends, giving me a hug and saying once, “See? I told you she was writing a cookbook.” Charlie and Whitney’s daughter, Roma, did their homework some afternoons at a table right near the kitchen where Sam and I tested recipes, even though Roma had a giant “princess-themed” bedroom at home.
One of the hardest things about ghostwriting for chefs （especially famous ones） is getting the voice right. In the best scenarios, I can switch from my own stream-of-consciousness into the mind of whatever chef I’m working with. I sit down with a cup of coffee, close my eyes, and channel Vince Romaldi （My Mama’s Meatballs, bestseller）; Tracey Wills （Even More One-Pot Pasta Recipes; bestseller that led to the One Pot with Tracey cooking show on HGTV）; or Kazra “The Sushi Queen” Tamiko, whose Roll Your Own book spent three weeks on the Nonfiction Bestseller list.
Kazra barely speaks English. After my trying to contact her for months, she’d emailed me the Wikipedia page for “sushi,” flown me to her Tokyo home for lunch prepared by her mother （who spoke no English）， given me access to her Apple photo stream, and told me to write whatever I wanted. The stories I’d conjured about her day-to-day life and her mother’s hardscrabble upbringing had hit the right note: I was already under contract to ghostwrite her next two Roll Your Own books. （Roll Your Own, Breakfast Rolls for Easy Mornings and Roll Your Own, Sweet & Savory.）
But first I had to finish Sam’s book, tentatively titled “Thai Cuisine for the Home Cook.” （I knew we’d need to gussy up the name, though Sam was absolutely opposed to puns and rhymes using the word “Thai,” like “Thai Me Up” or “Try My Thai.”） I was thinking one word could be evocative, like “papaya” or “lemongrass.” Sam was in her mid-fifties, and I could just see her elegant profile with one word in a bright, slanted font. When I wrote “as” Sam, I used calming, lyrical prose.
* * *
—
I MADE CHARLIE’S COFFEE as I heard him brush his teeth in the bathroom we shared. He lumbered into the kitchen in a Howler Brothers T-shirt （he saved up to buy four or five of the iconic Austin brand’s shirts at their annual warehouse sale; today’s featured a monkey wearing a bike helmet） and shorts. I put sliced melon on the table, as well as a bowl of mini-boxes of sugary cereals.
“Thanks, Mom,” said Charlie, sipping. “Can I drive today?”
“OK,” I said, though I hated Charlie driving. I was terrified from the moment I got in the passenger seat. He was a fine driver, even a good driver, but I couldn’t help but feel as if we were about to get in an accident at every intersection.
“Have…” said Charlie, his voice fading out. He swallowed. “Have you heard from the police?”
“No,” I said. “And, honey, we won’t hear from them.”
The boys had told us that they’d entered the greenbelt via an unmarked trail off Winifred Avenue, headed to jump off the Cliffs, and had seen a woman’s body at the edge of the water. At first, they’d thought she was asleep. They tried to wake her, performed mouth-to-mouth and chest compressions. When they couldn’t revive her, they biked home. They were still little kids, too scared to handle the situation on their own. We’d all vowed to erase the night from our memories and move on.