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Lucille did have one stark memory of her mother throwing herself against the balustrade of the terrace during that summer. And then she’d left the house and driven away. Her parents had been arguing about the smallest things: which plane tickets to buy to France, the roles Ma should audition for, whether to send Rennie to a performing arts camp. It all seemed so minute now compared to what had happened. But had her mother been unwell? Was she agitated over her marriage? Over her screenplay? Or something else?

Signs of paranoia. Disturbed dreams.

She went back to the psychiatric facility recommendation and pulled the hospital website up on the computer. The homepage featured serene, smiling faces. She imagined her mother’s face among them.

She picked up her phone and called the number on the website.

“Palisades Hospital.”

“Hi. I’d like to inquire if you have history of patient records—”

“That information is confidential, ma’am.”

“I’m her daughter. My mother had a consultation scheduled?”

“Do you have the consent of the patient in question?”

“Well, my mother’s dead.”

There was only a short pause. “I’m so sorry to hear. You can request information only if you had the permission of your mother prior to her death.”

Lucille bit her tongue. “Thank you. Take care.” She hung up.

There was no point to this. The recommendation was given in 1990, thirty-four years ago. The likelihood that they could even access her mother’s records, if she had any, were slim.

She searched “Vivian Yin” on Google images. There were grainy photos of her in her signature silk red dress in 1986, the Oscar clutched in her hands. There were pictures of her dust-streaked face inFortune’s Eye. Lucille scrolled further. There was a picture of her mother with other actresses; she recognized Daisy. Daisy had been Ma’s friend; she had talked on the phone with her all the time from the living room. Lucille searched for Daisy’s number in the address book and called.

A deep voice answered. “Hello?”

“Is this Daisy Rubin? This is Lucille Wang. I’m Vivian’s—”

“I don’t know who that is.”

She faltered. “Sorry,” she said shortly. “Wrong number.” She hung up.

She typed Daisy Rubin into the search bar and sat back. Daisy had passed away from breast cancer in 2015.

She pushed the keyboard away from her and started to panic. She rooted through the address book. There were screenwriters and producers and cleaning agencies and schools. She turned to the front. Onthe first page, in the rudimentary Mandarin that Lucille recognized, were the words for aunt:??.

Lucille snapped up her phone again.

“Hello?” The voice was stiff and raspy with age.

She tipped forward. “Is this—”

“Mary Fang. Who is this?”

“I’m Vivian Yin’s daughter. Lucille. I was wondering if you knew my mother.”

The line went silent.

“Hello?”

“No,” Mary said bitterly. “No, we didn’t. Your mother made sure of it.”

Lucille frowned. “I’m sorry?”

“You know, I always wondered what it would be like to meet you.” Mary sounded spiteful. “Ma always talked about it. Our cousin she took care of. Who married and moved to Los Angeles in her fancy house with the wealthy actor and became too good for the rest of us.”