She talked about Sophie’s teacher and the woman at work who reheated fish in the break-room microwave and whether they should do Big Sur or Sedona and which of her friends should get which of her books if anything ever happened, which she had said once, laughing, at a barbecue, at thirty-three, in the way people that age say it.

She had told her mother her opinions on assisted living, on organ donation, on whether Margaret should sell the Escondido house, on open caskets — she had a whole thing about open caskets, from her grandmother’s funeral, that she had delivered more than once with a wineglass in her hand.

In thirty-six years, Emily had never once said the word cremation.

Margaret did not say any of that in the consultation room.

What she said was:

“Has the medical examiner released her?”