Out of the Pocket

1. The Open Window

There was probably some terrible cosmic retribution for being this excited to go to a funeral.

It wasn’t that I had anything against Great Aunt Isabel. I’d never had anything at all with Great Aunt Isabel, good or bad, thanks to my mom running away or getting disowned or both when she was my age. She’d always been fuzzy on the details. I supposed if I’d managed to get myself kicked out of the kind of family that comes with a giant gothic mansion and a trust fund fed by the biggest, oldest seafood company in Connecticut, it might not be a life choice I’d want to relive either.

In any case, it seemed our bridges to the rest of the family hadn’t been burned as completely to ashes as I’d been led to believe my whole life, more like singed to the point of structural unsoundness and condemned for the public’s safety, because Mom and I now found ourselves cordially and solemnly invited to the memorial services for dear Great Aunt Isabel Ironwright.

Is Green Beach really a beach? I asked. I was sitting in the backseat of Mom’s ancient Chevy Corsica on the way home from school, the way I did every day she was able to pick me up, ever since something broke in the railings of the front passenger seat, making it settle at a spine-twisting angle. Mom was trying not to look at me in the rearview mirror. I’ve always wanted to go to a beach.

Not nearly as much as I’d always wanted to go somewhere that warranted the word green in its name and historic as a prefix to its name and spooky as an unofficial pre-prefix to its name in the sleaziest tourist guides, but Mom used to talk fondly about the beach, so it seemed like the better draw for her, which was the point at the moment.

In spite of the fact that our invitation had come with a personalized promise that our plane tickets would be covered by Great Aunt Isabel’s estate, and an only slightly more subtle promise that not another dime of that estate would be allotted to anyone who couldn’t be bothered to show up, Mom had yet to agree that we were going.

It has a beach, Mom answered carefully. A small one. Probably not nearly as nice as the ones down in San Diego.

Yeah, but we can go to this one now, for free, I said. Mom had been fantasizing with me about a vacation in San Diego or Anaheim for as long as I could remember, but fantasizing was all we’d been able to do.

It’s a funeral, Angie, she said. And it wouldn’t be like a regular memorial service here, like they had for Professor Sikes. We wouldn’t be sitting around a photo, listening to a few people talk about how they feel. It would be a fu-ner-al. She drew out the word and pulled a face. Open casket, black suits, white flowers, eulogy from some family minister who probably knew Isabel about as well as we did, and the procession and the burial and hours and hours of drunk arguments at the wake, and then the Reading of the Will.

The formal way she said this was supposed to make it sound boring. Not like something the whole shape of our futures could hang on.

All that in one day? I asked.

All day, she confirmed. And then probably a more ‘laid back family luncheon’ at some godawful trendy restaurant the next day so your grandparents can explain to you how I ruined their lives.

This still sounded like more fun than staying home.

Here was my chance to visit the legendary Ironwright estate, meet people I was related to who weren’t Mom, and then maybe at some point over the hors d’oeuvres, or whatever was served at wakes, one of my living aunts or uncles might remark on how I was a real Ironwright after all, nothing like my mother, and offer to buy me a car and a free ride to Vassar.

Well, probably not that last part, but the trip part. I’d never been outside California, never even been outside Teardrop, where everything was thirty years old and falling apart anyway. I’d never seen history. I’d never seen anything except desert and stained drywall.

I would have been raring to go to Green Beach any day of any month. This month, though, after Mom’s latest appearance at school, a funeral would be more than intriguing; it would be a blessed and merciful salvation.

I’d been minding my own business during third period Chemistry, scribbling a soon-to-be-scratched-out ode to the deliciously autumnal color of Kyle McNeil’s hair in the margin of my notebook, when Mom came bursting in, wearing her Pioneer Buffet apron, a still-damp dish rag draped over the crook of her arm, and grabbed me right out of my desk for a loud hug-scolding combo as if she’d thought she’d never see me again.

It turned out she’d gotten an alert that I’d left town, and that was how I (and my entire Chemistry class) found out that, first, my mom uses child tracker on me, and second, to add injury to insult, Lisa Parsons had finally made good on her threat to pickpocket my phone and throw it into one of the open cargo cars of the freight trains that thundered down the tracks behind Teardrop High every couple of hours.

Mom and I got into a raging fight right there in class and ended up getting sent to the Principal’s office together to talk things out.

She eventually apologized for making a scene, to me as well as Principal Corbin, but that didn’t stop said scene from downgrading my social status from joke no one thinks is funny enough to mention anymore back to gag of the month.

If that wasn’t incentive enough to ditch school and get the hell out of Teardrop for a week, I didn’t know what was.

So, after this free lunch, I leaned forward between the seats to watch Mom’s face, then you and I sneak off to the beach?

Ange…

Can’t you already feel the salt breeze in your hair?

I couldn’t, because I’d never felt one before, but I took a deep breath in as though I could, and then suddenly realized how sweltering it was getting in the car. The A/C hadn’t worked since I was in kindergarten.

I hit the button for the window, but nothing happened.

Mom, childlock.

Mom pushed her button to lower my window about seven or eight inches, but she didn’t remove the lock.

Seriously, childlocks? I asked. You think I’m about to grow a daredevil streak and tuck and roll at any moment?

I wanted to be surprised, but I wasn’t. Anyone would think I was the craziest, most rebellious, hopeless case problem child in the world by the way Mom treated me, or that she was some kind of freaky cult type, but neither of those things were true.

I’d never snuck out of my room, not because there were decorative wrought iron security bars over my window (which there were), but because I liked sleep and never had anywhere worth sneaking to. I had perfect attendance, always did my homework on time, and I never got written up. At least not when Mom wasn’t barging into classrooms for me. I was an utter virgin, though that part was admittedly involuntary, and I’d never partaken of any illicit substances, unless you counted special occasions when Mom shared a bottle of champagne with me.

And Mom… she was the kind of person who celebrated by sharing a bottle of champagne with her sixteen-year-old daughter. I could curse in front of her without thinking about it. I could tell her about the boys I liked and the teachers I liked and the teachers I wanted to stab in the eye with a ballpoint pen.

I told her about whatever I was reading, even though she teased me plenty for the admittedly cheesy romances I liked. She could even summon a little enthusiasm when I’d go on about my latest favorite videogame and my latest victory therein, in what I always realized after a few seconds must be gibberish to anyone who hadn’t played. She never told me what or how long I could play or read or watch. She even reminded me with annoying regularity that I could have friends over to the house any time I liked, as if that were a possibility likely to come up.

Basically, as long as my grades were decent, which was easy with my abundance of free time, I could do whatever I wanted… other than go out anywhere, or otherwise make her wonder for even one split second exactly where I was.

Or open windows, apparently.

Can’t be too careful, she said, one of her favorite expressions, and it wasn’t nearly as much of a joke as her tone tried to make it. You’re not leaving my sight until we can get you a new phone.

Right, new phone, I nodded. One of the many things inheritance is good for.

Ange, you need to stop this.

Stop what? I asked. Thinking that something might go right for once?

You need to stop expecting something to come along and fix everything. Sooner or later, you have to stop and figure out how to make the best of what you get.

That’s what I’m trying to do! I exclaimed. This is happening, and I’m trying to make the best of it! So maybe Aunt Isabel didn’t set us up for life. But maybe she did, and if we don’t go, we’ll never know! And even if she just left us a grand or two, can you imagine how much that would help right now?

She could imagine. I could see it.

Mom, I settled my hands on the back of both front seats. I had to say this with care. You work your ass off for me.

Flattery? Yes.

True? Hell yes.

I get that. I mean, I didn’t complain once about having to wait two paychecks to get a new phone. You noticed that, right?

Mom chuckled in spite of herself. Well, now that you point it out.

I’m not pointing it out, I said.

Just pointing out that you’re not pointing it out.

Pointing out that I’m not pointing it out, because you’re cool enough to buy me a new phone at all, even when it takes two checks to save for, I said. And you’re all independent and tough and… and did I say independent? Because you’re way ahead on the independence scale. Like, you could depend on someone probably fifty times and still be ahead on points.

Speaking of points, Mom prompted.

The point is you’re good at making the best of things. Olympic gold at making the best of things. Check. But if an opportunity comes along that could make things better than that, why wouldn’t you take it?

She pinched the bridge of her nose and then quickly stopped so she could see the road again. The life you see on TV isn’t normal, she said. Another of her old standards, and another dodge of my question. The money and the magic fixes-

Yeah, I know. I hit the button for my window a few more times. It produced noise without effect. But this, I kept hitting it, faster, this isn’t normal either, Mom.

Angie…

What did I ever do to make you distrust me this much? I kept my tone even, as non-whiney as possible, but didn’t stop pressing the button.

Nothing, said Mom.

Then why? I stopped and folded my arms, staring at Mom in the mirror, waiting for her to have to glance my way. If there’s a good reason why a free weekend in Green Beach would be so horrible it wouldn’t even be worth finding out how much we might be getting, why can’t you trust me enough to tell me?

Mom sighed. I waited, and watched, and right when I thought she was about to say something, the engine coughed. It lurched, coughed again, and died right there in the middle of the road, all the rest of the afterschool traffic honking and swerving around us.

Mom turned the key three times, trying to get the engine to catch again, before she put her head down on the steering wheel and laughed.

You broke it, she said, pointing at my window button.

I laughed along, partly because this was all we needed right now, and partly because I thought I knew where her laughter might be leading.

Fine, she finally gasped. We’re going.

2. The Lost Ironwright

The worst part of talking someone into something is that you can’t ask them to talk you into it when you start getting cold feet.

The nerves hit me while flying over some middle part of the continent, full of a nothing that made Teardrop look like civilization. I’d never been so high off the ground. I’d never been so far from home. Hell, I’d never been as far as Blythe Airport before today. I’d never seen so many people I didn’t know in one place as there were in the first class cabin alone.

Suddenly, Mom’s warnings about Ironwright funeral proceedings sounded almost as intimidating as she’d meant them to. I was about to meet Mom’s mysterious family, and I was going to have to sit through one of the most formal events imaginable with them.

Whatever Aunt Isabel had left us other than a trip through the sky in comfortable chairs (admittedly amazing as that part was), there were probably a million ways I could mess up and get it taken back.

Still, when we touched down in Hartford, the promise of Connecticut and the ocean and Green Beach waiting right outside made me dash along the walkway to the terminal ahead of Mom, just to look out of a real window.

Already there was more grass in sight than probably grew in all of Teardrop, lining all the roads in neat, thick borders, and water. Not the ocean yet, but a shimmering river winding right past the tarmac, leading the way down to the coast, to Green Beach. I felt like jumping in the air like a little kid, just to see a little farther for a fraction of a second, but I reined it in when I heard Mom, fighting exhaustion from the flight, introducing herself to someone.

I turned to see the woman, mid-fifties, hair pulled back in a bun so tidy it looked like it must have been arranged by machine, holding a whiteboard with the words Elizabeth and Angela Ironwright, and reminded myself that we were here for a funeral, after all.

Hi. I went over to join her and my mother, solemn as I could, and held out my hand, expecting to meet an aunt or cousin, maybe even my grandmother, before realizing that her tailored black suit looked a lot more uniform-y than funeral-y.

Right. They were sending a car.

My condolences, the valet answered when she shook my hand, energetically. Her face wasn’t made for sorrow, but she did her best. I’m Mrs. Currie. Did you check any baggage?

We shook our heads, indicating the carry-on bags over our shoulders, which Mrs. Currie instantly attempted to confiscate from us, starting with me. This led to an exchange that went something like,

I’ve got it.

I insist.

I insist more.

You’ve had a long trip.

"I didn’t carry it here."

Please.

No.

I knew that conceding on this subject was probably some great violation of the valet code, but Mrs. Currie was more than three times my age and half my size. It wasn’t going to happen.

Eventually, she turned to Mom for an easier sell, but I knew by the way Mom was smirking to herself while watching us that she wasn’t going to let herself be left out. It seems we’re being chivalrous today, she said.

When Mrs. Currie finally gave up and redirected her efforts to leading us to the promised car — which, in spite of my best efforts at not hoping, did in fact turn out to be a limousine — Mom gave me a look, half warning, half eye-roll, like,

Yeah, we’re in for a lot of that kind of thing.

The highway followed close beside the river for most of the way down toward the coast, passing birch forests and old farm houses that looked like they should have had people sitting on their porches in hoop skirts and ruffled shirts, instead of hurrying about their days in jeans and t-shirts and ordinary business clothes, like this was a normal piece of now.

There was so much green.

Different as everything was from home, I could tell, right before Mrs. Currie announced that we were officially in Green Beach, that the scenery had changed.

The few newer style houses sprinkled along the way were gone. For that matter, the newer old-style houses were gone too. Everything here looked like it had been here forever, the green regrowing around and over it. Huge, old trees stood wherever they’d decided to spring up, maybe hundreds of years ago. Some of the houses looked as I imagined they must have when they were first built, repainted in the same muted colors. Others showed every day of their age in their bowing beams and flaking paint, utilitarian security bars screwed protectively over every window, but their intended grandness could still be seen.

Mrs. Currie almost unconsciously checked the limo’s door locks.

The houses got bigger and better kept, the hedges and fences around them taller, the air damper and saltier, until we finally turned onto a private driveway that wove through trees and fountains and topiary.

The Ironwright Estate was at least as big as all of Teardrop High, with paneled, cream colored walls and steep, shingled roofs, ivy and bougainvillea clinging to its sides. Most of it was two stories, but a third story room jutted upward from one of the near corners like a tower.

This was the kind of house that should have ghosts. The kind of ghosts that made rooms turn cold and left hints to the tragic stories of their time among the living. There should have been fairies dancing in this garden and mermaids… I didn’t know where the mermaids would fit in, but after the drive along the river, it felt like there should be mermaids somewhere.

This was where I was supposed to grow up.

No, that was mean. What mattered was that I was here now.

Several other cars were parked along the drive near the front steps, while others spilled out of the garage off to the far side of the house. Mourners? Well-wishers? Family?

I was really here.

It took Mom ringing the doorbell, introducing herself to the housekeeper, being instantly accosted with a hug and a breathless shout of Lizzie! from a man about her age, and then beckoning impatiently over her shoulder for me, before I rediscovered the courage to start up those steps after her.

Lizzie’s here? more people asked each other, crowding around the entrance from within.

Did you bring along little Angela? asked a woman.

I stepped up to the threshold of the very tall doorway to see into the foyer, which had its own chandelier, a small table with a floral arrangement, and the bottom of a winding staircase. People milled about in the rooms beyond, most with drinks in hand. Already I was trying to match their features to Mom’s, finding a chin here, a pair of eyebrows there.

The woman who’d asked about me noticed me there, and though her face was stiff and plasticky under all her makeup, I could see both the way her eyes matched the gray of mine and Mom’s and the way she struggled to keep her painted-on smile when she saw me.

This is Angela? she asked too brightly.

Hi, I answered.

I’m your Aunt Moira. I’m sure Lizzie’s told you lots about me.

Lots, I lied, with a sideways look at Mom. It’s great to meet you.

You’ll be so glad you came home, she said, and for a flicker, at the word home, I thought I might have misread the hesitation on her starched face. Maybe this was a welcome. I told Lizzie that middle-of-nowhere food would be junk! She told me it would be different in California, but… well, wait until you try a real salad with real fresh crab.

And just like that, I was back in Teardrop, plane ride or not, with Lisa Parsons and her friends giggling not-so-softly behind my back. The country, the world, wasn’t big enough to get away in.

It took one glance across what I could see of the gathering to know that I was the only person there, except a few of the older men, who was even a pound overweight, let alone forty-odd.

I was pretty good at forgetting what I looked like for short periods of time, but sooner or later, someone always reminded me.

Moira! the man who had hugged Mom scolded her.

What? said Moira. It’s not her fault she had to grow up in one of those sad little truck stop islands-

I’m Eddie, he introduced himself before I could decide whether I felt like saying something on behalf of Mom, maybe even on behalf of Teardrop. He extended a hand to me. He had my strawberry-blondish-brownish hair, cut too short for me to tell if was curly like mine. His face was abnormally clean, not a hint of old acne scars or freckles, but at least it was shaped like a face, unlike Moira’s. I’m sort of your uncle, for all intents and purposes.

Cousin once removed, said my mom, tonelessly. If you want to get technical.

Oh yes, let’s get technical, said Moira, grabbing a hand I didn’t exactly decide to give her and pulling me forward into a very large living room full of uncomfortable-looking couches, which might have been part of why almost everyone was standing. That’s your cousin Stephanie, your second cousin John…

She walked me around, pointing people out to me, pointing me out to them. I smiled and waved, and over and over I had to watch it, each person’s anticipation of meeting… I don’t know, whatever a mysterious, long lost illicit baby girl is supposed to look like sixteen years later, and then their disappointment at seeing me instead.

Some of the guests looked a lot more like me than others. There was one guy leaning against the mantle of an unlit fireplace, tall and muscled, dark hair grown out just the right length to frame his face, who I hoped very much was not a relative. I hoped even more that Moira wouldn’t force me to stumble through funeral smalltalk with him. He was on his own, watching the crowd, and when his eyes ambled in my direction, I quickly looked away.

Thankfully, Moira steered me toward the couches instead.

That’s your grandmother, she pointed, and my stomach knotted up. My grandmother. An actual ancestor. "Mom, look, Lizzie and Angela are here!" Moira waved to one of the only people making use of the seating, an older woman with not-quite-natural red-brown hair, who apparently hadn’t found the return of her daughter for the first time in almost seventeen years adequate reason to get up.

She looked once at me, up and down, then back at her drink, and said, "Why am I not