I had not told Ellen about the flight delay, and part of me hoped she wouldn’t be at the airport. I could turn around and be back in Brooklyn before the day was over. Or I could hole up in a hotel room for a few days, avoiding my needy family and well-intentioned Caleb and every person who thought my father’s death was entertainment. Or I could just stretch out on the airport floor and sleep.
But Ellen was waiting at baggage claim, her golden hair held back by a pair of enormous black sunglasses, her spray-tanned hands on the hips of her black shift dress. She looked as though she’d stopped eating again, her skinny arms and narrow hips an almost comical juxtaposition to the breasts Peter had bought her for her last birthday. Despite everything, I couldn’t help but smile when I saw Ellen. She remained exactly as expected: collagen-filled lips pursed, wearing a familiar expression of disdain as she surveyed the unwashed masses. I snuck up behind her and threw my arms around her.
With a satisfying shriek, Ellen squirmed away and whirled around. Her righteous anger morphed into alarm when she saw me.
“Good God, Josie, what have you done to yourself?”
“It’s just hair,” I said, touching it self-consciously.
“And thank heavens for that. I’ll make an appointment for you with Mom’s stylist. Don’t worry.”
I wasn’t actually worried—I had come to appreciate how the slightly frazzled pixie cut mirrored my slightly frazzled mental state—but I nodded my acquiescence anyway. I knew from years of experience there was no point in arguing with Ellen—about anything, really, but especially about hair.
I retrieved my luggage from the carousel and followed Ellen to her car. She issued a lighthearted barb about the condition of my suitcase as I heaved it into the trunk, and then slammed the trunk shut and pulled me into a tight hug.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she said, clasping me against her bony frame and nearly suffocating me with Chanel No. 5. Just as suddenly as she’d embraced me, she pushed me away. “I’ve missed you, you bitch. God. I can’t believe how long it’s been.”
“I’ve missed you, too, Ellen,” I said, smiling. “It’s really good to see you. Even under the circumstances.”
Her eyes softened. “I’m sorry about your mom, hon.”
“Yeah.” I nodded. “Thanks.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No,” I said, climbing into the car. “I just want to think about something else for a bit. Tell me about you. Tell me about work.”
Ellen obliged, happy as always to have an audience. She regaled me with news about her interior design business, her stepdaughters, and a trip to Venice she and Peter were planning. I welcomed the near-constant stream of chatter until a sign for Elm Park forced me back to reality.
“Ellen,” I said suddenly, interrupting her monologue about the travails of learning Italian. “Is Lanie going to be there?”
Ellen pulled her sunglasses down. “Did I tell you that Isabelle wants to move in with her boyfriend? I know she’s twenty and can do whatever she wants, but I think it’s a mistake. I keep telling her, ‘I know I’m only your stepmother, but he’s not going to buy the cow when he gets the milk for free.’ ”
“I live with my boyfriend.”
“Oh, right,” Ellen said, putting a hand over her mouth in an exaggerated show of faux embarrassment. “No offense, of course, darling.”
I knew I was playing right into her hand, but I couldn’t help but respond. “Plus, you’re only—what?—eight years older than her? Does she actually listen to you?”
“Why shouldn’t she? I’m young and I’m beautiful and I’m married to a rich man. I must be doing something right.” Ellen glanced over at me. “I’m also kidding, Josie. It’s okay to laugh.”
The idea of Ellen making a self-deprecating joke was more amusing to me than the so-called joke itself, and I finally did laugh.
“You’re not kidding and we both know it. Now, tell me: is Lanie going to be there?”
Ellen sighed. “Of course. Your sister might be a screwup, but she’s not going to miss her own mother’s funeral. What did you expect?”
I shrugged and slumped down in the bucket seat. “I guess a part of me thought she might be dead.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” Ellen ordered, stretching a hand out to squeeze my shoulder. “Just try not to think about her, okay, honey? This week is going to be hard enough without worrying about your sister.”
I nodded my agreement, but inwardly my heart lurched—because when it came to Lanie, there was always something to worry about.
Seven miles north of Elm Park, after we had departed from the interstate and were traveling on a county route, we passed a familiar gravel road winding between a pair of desiccated cornfields. Part of me wanted to beg Ellen to turn down that road, follow its rutted path to the farmhouse that stood—or at least used to stand—at its terminus. The impulse was ridiculous, of course. There was nothing for us there anymore. Grammy and Pops had been gone for fifteen years, and the farm’s new owners had probably ripped down the house and started factory farming on its footprint.
“The family farmer is a dying breed,” Pops had told me once, lighting a pipe as we sat on the farmhouse porch together. I was ten years old and did not know what he meant, but I wanted to be taken seriously—more seriously than my sister and cousin, who were engaged in a squabble over some watercolors out back—and so I had nodded sagely. It wasn’t until years later, after he was gone, that I understood. When Mom and Aunt A sold the farm, it was to a corporation, not another farming family. There was no soft-spoken man with a midwestern drawl and overalls, no friendly woman baking fresh apple pies and tending the chickens. Just cold, impersonal business.