"You're on television. We see you all the time." Jodi moved toward Edith Boudreaux. "Mrs. Boudreaux, I believe that you and I are related. State records indicate that I was born to your mother, Pamela Johnson, thirty-six years ago. But I don't believe that. I believe that you gave birth to me. Is that true?" The color drained from Edith Boudreaux's face, and her lips parted and she said, "Oh my God." The two women in their sixties turned toward us, one of them holding a rust-colored dress that had to be four sizes too small. "Edie, do you think this works for me?" Edith didn't hear them. She took a half-step back and then stepped forward again, gripping the Formica counter to steady herself. I smiled at the two women. "I'm sorry, but Mrs. Boudreaux is busy, now." The woman with the rust dress made a face and said, "I don't think anyone asked you" Edith blinked six or eight times, then said, "Jill, will you help Maureen, please?" You could barely hear her. The blond clerk went over to the two women, but Maureen wasn't happy about it.
