Folsom, California struck her as a strange place for an outlet mall.
But there it was, the Folsom Premium Outlets, where she found black jeans and tall black boots to go with her green velvet jacket. She would wear these to the funeral.
She had briefly considered a wig. But that might push it too far. All she wanted was to stir things up a little and give her mother and her sister an opportunity to express their disapproval.
Baiting them would feel good. After years of subservience, pointless and unrewarded kowtowing, the provocations of a fashion statement were long overdue.
No disrespect toward his father. He wouldn’t have cared what she wore to his funeral. He probably wouldn’t have noticed she was even there.
Her sister would sling out two nasty comments, one on arrival, one on departure.
By the time she arrived in Laguna, she would have two icy retorts for her sister prepared. Each would be more pungent that biting. She was ready to shed her obsequiousness, but she had no interest in snarling.
She knew precisely how, without a word, her mother would express disapproval of her appearance. Her mother would look her up and down. A dismissive expression just short of a glare would shade her eyes. Then, despite formidable self-control, her mother’s eyes would narrow.
Only her brother would tell her how nice she looked and how good it was to see her. He would enjoy her belated display of independence.
Pulling out of Folsom, California, she figured that’s how it would play out at the funeral.
What puzzled her was the effect of her father’s death. She was not convinced his passing would bring an end to her family’s hurtful adjudications.
It must have been something else that wound down her submissive ways.
At some point, she would recognize it.
