We dined on the back porch, as Lanie had hoped, eating salad and green beans and roast chicken, watching the sun dip behind the other houses. I watched my sister closely, uncomfortable with the way she pressed an index finger against her bandage and smiled when she thought no one was looking. What had happened in that kitchen? Had the knife slipped, as she had said? Or had she done that to herself on purpose? Was the incident evidence of the unraveling Adam had described?
Despite its inauspicious beginning, dinner ambled along pleasantly. Ann entertained us all by reciting a poem she had written for class, and Lanie was, for the most part, a charming hostess. Adam began explaining the Elm Park housing market to Caleb, who gamely nodded along and asked relevant questions even though I knew he cared nothing for real estate. Somewhere in the middle of all this, Lanie reached for the open bottle of wine. Without so much as missing a beat, Adam casually moved it out of her reach. His movement was so deft that I don’t think Caleb even noticed, but I did. I glanced at my sister and realized that her wineglass was not only empty, it was clean—she hadn’t had any wine all night. I struggled to remember if I had seen her drinking at Aunt A’s house after the funeral.
“More chicken?” Lanie turned to me and asked brightly, no resentment that Adam was monitoring her alcohol intake evident on her features.
I accepted and complimented her on the food, and she told me she had learned the secret to a perfect roasted chicken from some new cooking show. My head spun as though I had stepped into some alternate dimension. I couldn’t decide what I found more disturbing: the bandage on her arm or the earnest sheen in her eyes as she expounded on oven temperatures.
And then Caleb mentioned the podcast.
In his defense, he knew I had wanted to ask Lanie how she felt about the most recent episode, and he hadn’t been privy to Adam’s concerns about my sister’s mental state. I should have warned him. But I had been so busy keeping my eye on Lanie, waiting for her to do anything that felt off-kilter, that I forgot to tell him I had decided not to bring up the podcast.
And so, as he reached for a second helping of green beans, he casually asked, “Lanie, what do you think about this ‘special episode’ of Reconsidered? Were you just as upset at her portrayal of your mother as Jo was?”
Adam choked on a mouthful of chicken; Lanie’s face froze. I could see the storm clouds brewing in her eyes, the familiar click of her jaw, and sensed her calm about to shatter. In desperation, I did the only thing I could think to do: I knocked over my iced tea.
Everyone jumped to their feet, throwing napkins at the mess. I thought that the ruse had worked until Lanie excused herself to refill the iced tea pitcher and never returned. After five minutes, the memory of her bloody forearm compelled me to rise.
“I’m going to see if Lanie needs any help,” I said casually, trying to contain the panic welling up inside me so as not to alarm Ann.
“Thank you,” Adam mouthed.
The kitchen was empty; the iced tea pitcher sat unfilled on the counter. My stomach somersaulted, and I froze, straining to hear any sound of my sister. I told myself that I was being ridiculous—perhaps Lanie had just used the opportunity to take a bathroom break—but between Adam’s concerns, the “accident” with the knife, and the torment that had flashed across her face when Caleb mentioned the podcast, I was certain something was wrong.
There was a rustle of paper in the living room, and I hurried in to find Lanie sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of a bookcase, a large book open in front of her.
“Hey,” I said tentatively. “What are you looking at?”
“Adam’s college yearbook,” she said, not looking up. “He transferred from the University of Michigan to Elm Park College after we got engaged, you know.”
“I didn’t know that,” I said, sitting beside her. “That was good of him.”
She shook her head. “I think he resents me for it. I think he thinks I ruined his life.”
“Lanie, that’s not true. And, anyway, Adam’s life isn’t ruined. It seems like you guys are doing pretty well for yourselves.”
She smiled without warmth and looked down at the open yearbook. I followed her gaze, bracing myself to see a picture of young Adam, that carefree smile I remembered so well.
But Lanie wasn’t looking at the student photographs. She had the book open to the professor headshots. From the center of the page, Professor Leland smiled up at us.
Lanie’s strange reaction to Adam’s mention of the Lelands replayed itself in my mind. Carefully, I asked, “What’s on this page?”
She slammed the yearbook shut. “Nothing.”
“Are you okay?” I asked tentatively.
“Of course,” she said, her tone free of inflection. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
I wanted to tell her that I was worried about her, but I didn’t want to reveal that Adam had told me she wasn’t sleeping. Instead, I said, “You seemed upset that Caleb mentioned the podcast. He feels badly.”
She looked away. “You know that saying that we marry our fathers?”
“You think Caleb is like our father?” I asked in surprise.
“I think Adam is.”
I glanced down at the closed yearbook, her fixation on our father’s possible lovers starting to take shape. “Do you think Adam’s cheating on you?”
She leveled her eyes at me. “He doesn’t exactly have a good track record for fidelity.”
I swallowed the bitterness that rose in my throat and said, “Adam loves you.”
“Dad loved Mom,” she responded stubbornly. I was just glad that she hadn’t said Adam loved you.
Before I could respond, Ann stepped into the living room. “Mom?”
“Yes, sweetheart?” Lanie said, her voice suddenly sugared. The darkness cleared from her face as she smiled at her daughter. Adam is wrong, I thought decisively. Lanie is nothing like our mother. Our mother had never shielded us from her black moods.
“Daddy and Uncle Caleb are looking for you and Aunt Josie.”
We followed Ann back to the porch, where the rest of the meal passed without incident. Soon we were nibbling on cookies and a small posse of neighborhood children was collecting Ann for a game of Ghost in the Graveyard.
“Don’t forget your coat!” Lanie called after her as she ran down the steps.
“That was wonderful,” I said, standing up to help Lanie clear the plates. “Thank you so much.”
“Sit down, Josie,” Adam insisted. “We can get this.”
Adam and Lanie disappeared into the house, each carrying a plate in both hands, leaving Caleb and me alone on the porch. Caleb inhaled deeply and surveyed the trees separating the backyard from the golf course, their leaves just starting to tinge golden.
“Who knew Illinois was so lovely?” he said.
“I did,” I admitted. “But I’d forgotten. It’s been ten years since I’ve been here.”
“A fella could get used to this.” He smiled.
The evening calm was shattered by the sound of breaking ceramic. Heart pounding, I jumped to my feet and rushed through the back door. Lanie was standing in the center of the kitchen, fragments of plates still vibrating around her feet, the discarded remains of someone’s dinner splattered on her bare feet. Her fists were clenched at her sides, and even from behind I could tell she was shaking with rage.