had done her best to raise her dead son’s only child, a burden she never asked for.
When Ella was eleven, a woman had come to the cabin – she was from social services, Ella now realized, although back then nothing was explained – and after the woman’s visit, Mimi had reluctantly allowed Ella to attend school in the nearest town. It was a two-hour journey, there and back, involving three buses and one long walk along a frightening, unlit road, and it was Ella’s first experience of life outside of the ranch. Of television and internet, of different clothes and cars, of pop music and fast-food restaurants and people. So many people. Ella observed all of it with a sort of detached wonder, like a visitor on a day trip to an exotic zoo. But while she excelled academically at Valley High, socially she never fit in. Never tried to fit in, her teachers believed. Ella brought home reports with words like ‘aloof’ and ‘arrogant’ mingled in with other, less damning adjectives. Gifted. Exceptional. Her language skills in particular were extraordinary, including a pronounced talent for computer languages, the newly voguish ‘coding’ that was becoming so highly prized by California colleges.
Unfortunately Ella’s grandmother did not approve of computer science, for reasons that again were never explained to Ella, and those classes were dropped. But Ella’s GPA remained stellar, even as her struggles with social skills intensified. Ostracized by her peers at school, for her old-fashioned clothes and standoffish manner – (with the exception of the boys who flocked to sleep with her, delighted by Ella’s matter-of-fact promiscuity once she hit puberty and her complete disregard for the concept of ‘reputation’, so important to the other high school girls) – Ella’s isolation intensified. She lived in two worlds – the world of school and the world of Mimi’s ranch – but didn’t fit in to either of them.
Mimi’s horror when Ella accepted a place at Berkeley took Ella by surprise. She’d assumed her grandmother would be happy and proud of her achievement, but once again she seemed to have missed those all-important signals.
‘But I thought you wanted me to go to college?’ Ella said imploringly.
‘What on earth made you think that?’ her grandmother wailed. ‘You can’t go to the city, Ella. I need you here.’
‘But … you always encouraged me to study.’
‘Not so you would leave! After everything I’ve done for you, Ella.’
‘What for, then?’
‘For yourself!’ Mimi banged a veiny fist on the simple kitchen table that the two women had eaten on every day for the last thirteen years. ‘To fulfill your God-given potential. Not so that you could run off to one of those dreadful, godless colleges and expose yourself to … to …’
‘To what, Granny?’ Ella had shouted back, in a rare loss of temper. ‘To life?’
‘To danger,’ the old woman replied, shaking a finger at Ella. ‘Danger.’
Feeling the clay urn in her hands, that conversation came back to Ella as though it were yesterday. What ‘danger’ had her grandmother been so afraid of on her behalf? What fate in the city could possibly be worse than the slow death by suffocation of life up here on the ranch, in the middle of nowhere? Especially these last few years, when it didn’t even rain. Even God, it seemed, had abandoned them.
Turning around just once to look at the group of mourners assembled on the hillside, Ella wondered what these people were doing here. Most of them she recognized vaguely as the owners of neighboring ranches, or faces from church or the store. But not one of them really knew Mimi, or her. They weren’t friends. Ella’s grandmother didn’t ‘do’ friends. Perhaps as a result, Ella had never acquired the skill of getting people to like her, of forging bonds of affection the way that other people seemed to do so effortlessly. Instead, like Mimi, she tended to say exactly what she thought, blurting out observations or responding to questions with a blunt honesty that frequently landed her in trouble.
There was one man among the mourners whom Ella didn’t recognize, standing at the very back in a dark suit and mirrored sunglasses. Other than Ella herself, he was the only person present in ‘city’ clothes, and he looked as out of place among these simple, farming folk as a unicorn in a cowshed. He was tall and slim, and when he took the sunglasses off, Ella could see that he had a classically handsome face, like a model from a men’s clothing catalog. Strong jaw. Tanned skin. She wondered briefly what he would be like in bed, before refocusing on his identity. Maybe he’s a real-estate agent, come to make an offer on the ranch? Ella thought. It didn’t occur to her that such an approach at a funeral service might be considered insensitive, even offensive. The man’s presence made her curious, not angry.
Unscrewing the top of the urn, Ella peered inside at the dust – all that was left of her grandmother. Not even the hardy, rugged Mimi Praeger could outrun old age forever. These ashes were now the sole remnants of Ella’s entire family, in fact. With more violence than she intended, she flung out her arm, scattering the ashes to the wind.
Mimi’s neighbors gasped at the abruptness of the gesture, the shocking lack of ceremony. Ella sensed their disapproval but chose to ignore it, turning and walking purposefully back up the hill towards the cabin – her cabin, now – with her purse swinging jauntily over her shoulder and the empty urn in her hand.
‘Like she’s throwing out the trash,’ Mary Newsome whispered to Jim, shaking her head disapprovingly. The small gaggle of ranchers closest to Mary murmured their agreement. Poor Mimi. After all she did for that girl.
‘Come on, now. Let’s not be too quick to judge. Grief takes people in different ways,’ Jim Newsome reminded them. ‘Remember, that young lady’s lost just about everybody.’
Inside the cabin, Ella hurried into the bathroom and locked the door behind her. Sitting down on the toilet seat, she slumped forward with her head in her hands and massaged her throbbing temples. Please no. Not now. Not with all these people here.
The headache she’d woken up with this morning was coming back, although thankfully not as strongly as before. This morning, as so often lately, the white noise inside Ella’s skull had been deafening, to the point where she couldn’t get out of bed. And when she did, finally, stagger to her feet, an overwhelming nausea had seen her staggering to the bathroom in her tiny Mission District apartment, throwing up the entire contents of her stomach.
‘It’s a brain tumor,’ Ella had informed her doctor two weeks ago, sitting in his plush corner office at San Francisco’s Saint Francis Memorial Hospital. ‘It’s growing. I can feel it.’
‘It isn’t a brain tumor.’
‘How do you know?’ Ella demanded. ‘How can you possibly know that?’
‘Because I’m a neurologist.’
‘Even so …’
‘And because I’ve comprehensively scanned your brain with the very latest technology. There is no tumor.’
‘You’ve made a mistake.’
The doctor laughed. ‘No mistake, I assure you.’
‘Yes. You must have made a mistake.’
He looked at his patient curiously.
‘Do you want to have a brain tumor, Miss Praeger?’
Ella
