My aunt, burdened with the weight of that sixth pregnancy, leaned into the steering wheel with determination. It was a miracle she could even reach the pedals considering how far she’d put her seat back to accommodate her extended middle. She threw the minivan into gear. “After the service,” she said, the van rumbling over the gravel drive, “I need you to collect the photo of your grandma. I had it framed. I’ll collect the flowers and the urn.” Her energy for funeral planning was impressive, but that was what Aunt Christine did. She took care of things. She was good at it.
I gave a worried backward glance at my birds as we drove away from the property, wondering again at the lack of eggs and nursing a hope that the empty nests were a fluke. In the distance, the tips of the mountains scraped a gray ceiling. The minivan zipped along under the somber sky.
Aunt Christine counted off the people she expected to attend the reception at the ranch, grouping them by family. “That’s nine cars,” she said. “I told them all to park against the corral fence so we don’t block anyone in. Hopefully, this rain will hold off until we get everyone inside.” She leaned forward, straining over her belly, to peer up at the sky through the windshield. “I’ve got coffee set to brew, and a couple of the ladies from the church will make sure folks get enough to eat.” She glanced over at me. “All you have to do is smile and be polite.”
“I can be polite,” I said.
On our left, PFX Cement rose up out of the earth with its five industrial silos and three enormous geodesic domes. A twisted tower of massive tubing climbed twice as tall as the silos, surrounded by scaffolding that never came down but somehow managed to appear temporary. My boyfriend worked for the company but had traded in a vacation day to join me at the funeral.
“Devon coming?” Aunt Christine asked, as if reading my thoughts.
I nodded. Devon brought a welcome balance to Aunt Christine’s structured tension. It was comforting to know that he would be at the church.
We came to Sombra and breezed through the only stoplight, continuing on into the expanse of desert surrounding the small town. Eventually the scrappy desert brush and rolling hills gave way to the tract homes and strip malls of Victorville. The sky was holding when we arrived at the High Desert Oasis United Church of Christ, but I could smell water on the wind, feel it on my face and arms.
As we crossed the parking lot toward the massive cement block of a building, I surveyed the collection of cars, wondering if one of them was my mom’s. Last I knew, she had a beat-up black Integra, but that had been eleven years ago. I had no idea anymore what kind of car she drove. We passed a Subaru with a bumper sticker from Redwood National Park. I tried to conjure an image of her camping up near Willits or Ukiah. Seemed unlikely, but no more so than her driving the Ford pickup parked next in line, reporting every day to some respectable job and collecting a steady paycheck.
The truth was, I had no idea who my mom was anymore. After eleven years, how could I? Odds were she hadn’t changed much. She probably still worked nights at some bar and slept all day. Or maybe she’d finally taken those online classes she always talked about and was working as some kind of administrator in an office building in downtown Oakland. A paralegal maybe. We passed a Mercedes and I tried to picture her driving it, her blond dreadlocks wrapped up in a bun on top of her head, but I couldn’t keep a straight face. Then again, none of Grandma Helen’s acquaintances drove such a nice car. I sobered and prepared myself for whoever we might find inside the church.
The double doors facing the parking lot hung open despite the threatening weather. Aunt Christine, the girls, and I followed the center aisle and emerged from under a deep balcony. It was an ugly, cavernous church. I had attended each of my cousins’ baptisms there, and every time I noted the stoic lack of beauty, the aggressive scent of industrial cleaning products that never seemed to dissipate. The place was covered—floor, walls, and ceiling—in an oatmeal-colored fabric. The only natural light floated in through one large, circular window above a stark metal cross. No stained glass, no structural details. I thought how I would joke later with Grandma Helen about how tacky the place was, but then, just as quickly, realized I wouldn’t.
The thirty or so people who had taken the morning off to pay their respects didn’t fill the first two rows of pews. The giant stage could fit three hundred people easy, and I could envision a giant choir singing, arms raised, but on that day it was empty except for a small table covered in white lace. On it rested a wooden urn between a vase of lilies and a framed photo of my grandmother.
I hovered beside Aunt Christine as she greeted friends in hushed voices. A round woman with short curly hair and glasses took my hand. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said. I recognized her but didn’t know her name. She had brought a lasagna out to the house, big enough to feed twelve people. “Thank you,” I said, grateful when another approaching well-wisher, a middle-aged man with a wiry beard, compelled her to move along, sparing me from any small talk. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. I looked past him to scan the faces in the room. None were my mom.
I wondered if I would miss any of these people when I was gone. My aunt was sweet but overbearing about the way she wanted things done. As for the rest of the people gathered there, I hardly knew them: acquaintances of my grandmother, friends of my aunt.
Aunt Christine’s husband, Todd, strode the side aisle of the church with his cell phone pressed to his ear. His stylish blond hair matched the self-assured smile of a guy who was used to people liking him. He lifted his free hand and waved it, as if dismissing a bad idea, and snippets of a contentious negotiation floated over the pews: that’s unacceptable, you call him.
My cousins spotted their Sunday school teacher, Mrs. Michaels, and rushed to wrap her lower half in a hug. In the dim light, her fiery red hair reminded me of a chicken’s comb. With the girls fluttering around her in their black dresses, she could have been a fat Minorca chicken, an appearance only emphasized by her pointy nose and too-small eyes. She reached to take Aunt Christine’s hand in an awkward clasp. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” Aunt Christine said, and she agreed when the girls asked if they could sit in the second pew with the chicken lady.
At the very back of the church, under the enormous overhanging balcony, I could barely make out the shaded figure of my uncle Scott. He looked healthier than he had in recent memory. He was clean-shaven and his shaggy brown hair had been cut short.
Uncle Scott and Aunt Christine were not on speaking terms, so it had fallen to me to break the news to him about his mother’s death. When I called, he had told me, unprompted and in a pleading tone, that he had been sober for five months. That was a good run for him—if he wasn’t lying.
The guy in the ill-fitting suit next to him was Matt, Uncle Scott’s best friend and NA sponsor. His hair was pulled up into a topknot and he was scrolling through something on his phone. The icy glow of the screen lit up his goatee. Matt’s hipster affectations were annoying, because really, there was nothing hip about Victorville, but Uncle Scott tended to avoid him when he was high, so the fact that he was there was a good sign.
Aunt Christine stiffened. She had spotted them too.
“Do you think we could—”
“No.” She took her seat and folded her hands in her lap.
It didn’t feel right to make my uncle sit all the way in the last row like an outcast, but the fact that Aunt Christine hadn’t thrown a fit and insisted that he leave was a minor miracle. I decided not to press the issue.
I raised my hand to throw a little wave at my uncle, hoping that Aunt Christine wouldn’t notice. He returned my wave, but I couldn’t see his face well enough to make out his expression. Aunt Christine glanced up at