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.
It was hard to reconcile the farm being nothing more than a line on some corporate balance sheet. We had spent nearly every weekend on the farm, and I had pleasant, sepia-tinted memories of chasing chickens and playing hide-and-go-seek in the barn. In particular, the memory of our Fourth of July gathering in 2000 was etched on my heart. It was the last time we were all there: Grammy and Pops would be killed by a drunk driver less than one month later, and, three months after that, Uncle Jason would leave Aunt A. The Cave family had already moved into the house next door to ours. It was the beginning of the end.
But we didn’t know what was coming for us, and so we celebrated. Uncle Jason had driven to Indiana and stocked up on fireworks, which made Mom and Aunt A cluck their tongues in disapproval and Pops’s and Daddy’s eyes light up with mischief. While we awaited nightfall, the adults prepared a feast. Pops supervised while Daddy and Uncle Jason grilled hamburgers and chicken breasts, drinking beers and telling bawdy jokes in muted tones. Mom set out an impressive array of salads: green, pasta, potato. Aunt A drank too much wine and ruined most of the deviled eggs she tried to prepare, leading us in a slurred rendition of “America the Beautiful” all the while. Grammy made three pies for dessert, including my father’s favorite, pecan, even though she teased him it was a winter pie.
Snacking on sloppy deviled eggs, Lanie, Ellen, and I crept down to the pond. Our mothers’ younger brother had drowned in the pond as a child, and we were forbidden to play there unsupervised—but that summer, twelve years old and practically grown up, we no longer felt obligated to obey such rules. We constructed makeshift fishing poles from sticks, dental floss, and safety pins, and used stale Cheetos and stolen bits of raw hamburger meat as bait, neither of which proved enticing to the fish we were certain were in the water.
A frog captured Lanie’s attention, and she leaned forward, trying to coax it toward her cupped hands. But she misjudged the stability of the muddy bank and tumbled in head over heels. The water wasn’t deeper than a foot or two, but she fell with a spectacular splash and emerged soaking wet and covered in algae. Ellen wrinkled her nose in disgust, and that was all the encouragement Lanie needed. She took off, chasing Ellen toward the farmhouse, slimy hands outstretched like a zombie. I ran on Lanie’s heels, yelping with excitement. Lanie caught up with Ellen just as they reached the adults and smeared a handful of green algae across Ellen’s face and through her golden hair. There was a quiet second, the calm before the storm, and then Ellen started to scream. Our mother had been horrified by Lanie’s behavior, but Daddy and Aunt A laughed until they cried and even Grammy looked as though she was struggling not to chortle as she led Ellen and Lanie around the back of the house to hose off.
Later that night, as the sun dropped behind the horizon, we roasted marshmallows over a bonfire as Uncle Jason set up the fireworks. Lanie made a double-decker s’more for Ellen, who—this was years before she would become obsessed with calories—ate it with relish. The incident with the algae was forgotten. We were a family, and there was nothing that could come between us. Or so we thought.
• • •
Cold beads of sweat sprang up along my hairline when the WELCOME TO ELM PARK sign came into view, marking the spot where the cornfields gave way to the town’s uninspired grid of paved streets and square lawns. Elm Park had once been a bustling town bursting with potential, but like so many small midwestern towns before it, its prospects had faded. By the time I left, the first of the factories was already gone, relocated to a country with cheaper labor; in the ensuing years, the other factories had followed, as did most of the big-box stores and both of the movie theaters. Ellen narrated all this as we drew closer to the city limits, her tone such that I expected little more than a ghost town, just boarded-up buildings and deteriorating homes.
But Elm Park looked just as I had remembered. The welcome sign was the same weathered oval with faded green letters and paint peeling from the carved elm tree leaves decorating the border. Just beyond the sign I could see the dark, hulking hospital, and on the other side of the street, the 7-Eleven with a handful of loitering teenagers sipping Slurpees in front of it. I had the feeling that if I were close enough to see their faces, I’d recognize them.
Intellectually, I knew that wasn’t true. Anyone young enough to be skulking about convenience stores would be too young for me to have known when I lived in Elm Park. But as Ellen and I drove farther into town, the uneasy sensation that the entire place had been undisturbed by time only intensified. The most noticeable changes I spotted were that the elementary school had a newer, shinier jungle gym and that a couple unfamiliar restaurants dotted the edge of campus. As Ellen drove past Ray’s Bistro, a memory hit me so hard that I dug my fingers into the seat’s upholstery to avoid crying out.
In the weeks before Ellen and I left for college, Aunt A had grown increasingly emotional about our departure. She had been following us around for weeks with watery eyes, offering to drive us to the mall or the swimming pool, despite both of us having driver’s licenses (and having stopped hanging out at the mall years ago). I almost felt guilty about leaving, but I knew Aunt A didn’t want
us to stay in Elm Park forever.
Like Lanie seemed poised to do. We had once loved touring Elm Park College’s campus with our father and imagining our own matriculation there (the dorm room we would share, the majors we would choose, the picnics we would have on the quad), but things had changed. I planned to attend the University of Illinois, which had an undergraduate enrollment of 32,000 people—10,000 more than the population of Elm Park—while Lanie rejected the idea of college altogether. She’d graduated from high school by the skin of her teeth and had refused to apply to college, despite Aunt A’s pleading. We had no idea what she planned to do. She hadn’t been living with us for months, and it had been weeks since I had seen her. The most recent sighting was brief, when I had caught her in the kitchen “borrowing” some money from Aunt A’s purse.
Somehow, though, Aunt A had extracted a promise from Lanie to attend a going-away dinner at Ray’s. Aunt A had dressed up for the occasion, wearing a silky tunic that disguised her slightly round figure and setting her long, glossy brown hair in rollers, and Ellen and I had followed her lead, both in sundresses with full skirts and lipstick. Our reservation time came and went without Lanie materializing. The three of us picked idly at the bread basket while Aunt A repeatedly sent the waiter away with assurances that our fourth would “just be a couple more minutes.”
It wasn’t long before neither Ellen nor our waiter could conceal their irritation, and Aunt A finally conceded defeat. As if on cue, just as our waiter disappeared into the kitchen with our drink and appetizer orders, my sister breezed through the door. In a room full of people dressed in their Sunday best, Lanie wore a white T-shirt with a ripped neckline, denim cutoffs, and mud-caked Dr. Martens boots. Her makeup was smeared, eyeliner collecting under her eyes in exaggerated shadows. Her septum piercing looked tarnished, like it possibly had blood on it. She didn’t look like she had showered in days. And she was clearly high.
“I’m here,” she announced loudly, drawing the attention of everyone in the room.
“Lanie,” Aunt A hissed, gesturing to the empty seat beside her. “Sit down.”
Lanie smirked and dropped into the seat.
“So nice of you to join us,” Ellen said sarcastically.
Aunt A shot her a warning look and turned to Lanie. “We just ordered drinks and appetizers. Do you know what you want? I’ll call the waiter over.”
Lanie waved a hand in my direction without meeting my eyes. “I’ll have whatever she’s having.”
Aunt A flagged down the waiter, who had emerged from the kitchen to stare distrustfully at us, and ordered a Diet Coke and a garden salad for Lanie.
“So what have you all been talking about?” Lanie asked, leaning back in her chair, her glazed red eyes jumping from Aunt A to Ellen and back, again not landing on me.
“You,” Ellen said.
I kicked my cousin under the table. She glowered at me.
“Actually, we’ve been discussing how exciting it is that Ellen and Josie are leaving for college tomorrow,” Aunt A said brightly.
“Yeah, it’s fucking fantastic,” Lanie sneered.
“Hey,” I said sharply. “What’s your problem?”
Ellen snorted, and Aunt A shot me a look that was equal parts disappointed and sympathetic. Lanie sat up, bobbing her neck like a snake ready to strike, and opened her mouth just as the waiter arrived with our drinks and salads.
“I don’t want this,” Lanie said as he tried to present her with a plate.
He hesitated, glancing at Aunt A for direction.
“I don’t want this,” Lanie repeated, her voice rising in volume. “Get it out of my fucking face.”
“Of course, ma’am,” the waiter said through gritted teeth, pulling the salad away.
“It’s delicious,” I said, taking a bite of my identical salad.
“You would think that,” Lanie said. She looked around at all of us before standing up and throwing her napkin down on her seat. “I have to pee.”
We chewed in silence for fifteen minutes until Aunt A went to check on her. Even before Aunt A returned to the table, I knew that Lanie was gone.
Discussion thread on www.reddit.com/r/reconsideredpodcast, posted September 20, 2015
Why should we believe her? (self.reconsideredpodcast)
submitted 12 hours ago by notmyrealname
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about episode 2 since it aired. It blows my mind that Warren was convicted on such ~little~ physical evidence. It really got me thinking: why should we believe Lanie? Everyone just took her at her word, but why? Especially after she lied the first time?
spuffyshipper 150 points 12 hours ago
I’ve been wondering the same thing. Didn’t anyone question her at the time?
armchairdetective38 89 points 12 hours ago
She was the star witness for the prosecution and she was cross-examined by the defense team.
spuffyshipper 74 points 11 hours ago
But the defense team only accused her of being “confused,” not of actually lying, right?
urugly 10 points 11 hours ago
what did you expect them to do? she was a pretty white girl and he was a big scary metal freak
armchairdetective38 89 points 11 hours ago
She was only 15 years old (16 by time of trial) and traumatized. The defense team wouldn’t have wanted to push her too hard for fear of alienating the jury.
miranda_309 90 points 11 hours ago
This exactly.
Source: I am a public defender.
elmparkuser1 165 points 12 hours ago
IMHO, Lanie Buhrman is not a credible source. I grew up in Elm Park, and I was a freshman the year the twins were juniors. They had only been in public school for half a year at that point—they were homeschooled first, remember—and Lanie already had a really bad reputation. She ran around with a really rough crowd and was always in trouble. I walked in on her getting high in the girls bathroom one time at like 9 AM. I wouldn’t trust her farther than I could throw her.
chapter 6
Aunt A lived in one of the older sections of town, her neighborhood populated by rambling Victorians in various states of disrepair. Some, like Aunt A’s, had been renovated and maintained, while others had fallen into neglect and were blighted by peeling paint, decaying trim, and sloping roofs. Although Aunt A often referred to her home as a money pit, she took pride in its upkeep. It had been purchased during a more hopeful time in Aunt A’s life when she thought she might fill all four bedrooms with a large family, and when she envisioned herself and her ex-husband spending long weekends together on restoration projects.
As a child, I had been captivated by the house’s showy exterior, with its wraparound porch, turret, and widow’s walk, so different from our own modest Dutch Colonial. It didn’t take long after moving in for me to become disenchanted. Old homes might be glamorous from the outside, but inside they are drafty and haunted by constant, eerie creakings of indeterminate origin.
Unfolding myself from the passenger seat, I was almost flattened by a sweeping sense of déjà vu. Suddenly, I was fifteen again, standing in this same driveway, one hand clutching my sister’s, the other wrapped around the handles of a suitcase. The mounting dread I had felt that afternoon returned, oozing darkly through my body. That had been the moment I realized everything was forever changed: my father was dead and my mother had retreated deep inside herself, further than ever before. The most frightening part was that this time it seemed permanent.
Aunt A stood on the porch holding her cat, Bubbles, in her arms, just as she had that long-ago afternoon. Her face even wore the same bittersweet smile. It pained me to see how much older my aunt looked. Aunt A’s thick chestnut-colored hair was streaked with gray and pinned up in a loose bun that aged her ten years. Her familiar face was lined with distinct creases, and every part of her seemed more subject to gravity.
A lump formed in my throat.
“I’m sorry,” I said without meaning
to.
Aunt A smiled, her eyes glistening with tears, and she descended from the porch to enfold me in a warm, feline-scented embrace. “I know, darling. I know.”
The lump dissolved into hot, salty tears that crowded my tear ducts, but I refused to allow them to fall. I had no right to cry. I was the perpetrator here; I had left Aunt A, just like her husband and her sister.
But the tears refused to be denied, and I pushed myself away from Aunt A before she could see them.
“Excuse me,” I mumbled. “I need to use the restroom.”
As the front door swung shut behind me, I heard Aunt A say to Ellen, “That poor girl.”
Aunt A’s kindness squeezed my heart and made me feel even worse. I should never have abandoned her.
• • •
I dried my tears in the downstairs bathroom, and then could not stop myself from scanning for evidence of my sister. I had forbidden Aunt A or Ellen to mention Lanie, and I had heard nothing of her since I had left Illinois all those years ago. Ellen once sent an email with the subject heading News About Lanie and I had deleted it without opening it, shaking with rage. I then sent Ellen a missive reminding her exactly why I had no interest in speaking with or about Lanie ever again, to which Ellen simply replied “Understood.” Aunt A used to try to get me interested in Lanie’s life, but, after the first dozen times I shut her down completely for even breathing my sister’s name, she stopped making further attempts. I knew they both thought the total ban on anything related to my sister was extreme, but cutting her out completely was the only way I knew how to survive.
Now, though, back in the house where we had once both lived, I couldn’t help but wonder what she had been up to all these years. I found nothing other than a photograph half hidden behind the sheet music on the upright piano. Lanie was wearing a wedding dress, a white tulle confection that did not suit her, and standing between Aunt A and Ellen, both of whom were dressed in black. No one looked happy. Lanie’s face was puffy, and her eyes were avoiding the camera. Aunt A was clenching her jaw the way she did when she felt resolute, and Ellen wore the resentful expression of a hostage. The picture might have been humorous if it hadn’t been my family. No one told me Lanie had gotten married. I wondered who her husband was, if it had lasted. I wondered if she was happy.
Truth Be Told Page 7