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I know around then she was pretty worried about money.
    Anyway, the whole time we were setting up the new apartment, she was in a great mood. She even unpacked an old scrapbook of Dad’s photos, and showed Kennedy and me a bunch of landscape shots he’d taken during his study-abroad year in India. I thought they were pretty amazing, but I could see by the slow, dreamy way Mom turned the scrapbook pages that they meant something else to her. Then she gave us a big speech about what a brilliant photographer he was, how daring and original, how proud she was that he’d dedicated his life to his art.
    â€œYou do that too,” I reminded her. “Dedicate your life to your art.”
    â€œYou think so?” she answered. “Because I think I dedicate my life to my two precious daughters.” She kissed my cheek and then Kennedy’s, closed the scrap-book, and stuck it in her nightstand.
    We’d been living in the new apartment for about a week when one day, right after Easter, Dad called. He’d be in town for the next month or so, he said, and wanted to invite Kennedy and me over “for Sunday dinner.” This was surprising, because whenever we saw Dad, he always drove to our place and took us out for “ethnic food,” which usually meant Chinese. And then afterward we’d do mini golf or go to a movie, anything where we wouldn’t have to talk very much.
    But now he was inviting us “for Sunday dinner,” as if it were a sacred Bailey family ritual. Kennedy was so excited she actually put on a prairie dress, and I decided to wear my jean skirt—dressier than my usual jeans, but not too hyper-formal. Mom hugged us and told us we both looked gorgeous, and then she dropped us off in the driveway of Dad’s small red house.
    This short, perky woman with streaky highlights and a fake-looking bronzer tan answered the door. When Kennedy and I stood there like maybe we’d gotten the address wrong, Dad came rushing over to introduce her as Mona. And then he casually mentioned that she was a “family friend.”
    â€œWhose family?” I asked. Dad gave me a look that meant: Don’t start being difficult, Marigold. I’ve been divorced for five years, and I’m allowed to have girlfriends. And I will NOT allow you to mess this up for me.
    So, of course, I stopped looking at him.
    Things went downhill from there. For dinner Mona made baby back ribs, not knowing that Kennedy had just turned vegetarian, and that serving anything with the word “baby” in the title was just the sort of thing that would make my sister totally lose it. By lose it I mean burst into tears and not be able to stop sniffling, even though Mona kept handing her paper napkins and saying things like, “Honey, the animal is already dead.”
    â€œUm, Mona? That’s kind of the point,” I informed her, purposely avoiding Dad’s eyes.
    Finally Dad cleared off the table and ordered an olive pizza for Kennedy, and we all watched pro wrestling on TV until none of us could stand it anymore. Then he drove Kennedy and me back to our apartment.
    â€œMaybe next time we’ll go bowling,” Dad said as we got out of the car.
    â€œUh-huh,” Kennedy said cheerfully. “Well, see you!” She ran into our apartment building as if she was trying to get out of a rainstorm.
    â€œBye, Dad,” I said. I suddenly felt sorry that we’d both given him such a hard time. So I leaned into the car and kissed his cheek.
    â€œBye, Monster,” he said sadly. “I’m sorry it was such a bad evening.”
    â€œIt wasn’t so bad,” I lied. “Tell Mona thanks for the dinner.”
    â€œI will. She’ll be glad you said that.” He reached for my hand and squeezed it. Then he looked into my eyes. “Everything okay at home?”
    â€œSure. Why wouldn’t it be?”
    He kept holding my hand. “I mean with