I had expected her to be exuberant at having gotten away from her mother, and with Amy, exuberant was a very high gloss on her normal bouncy, cheerful self. Waiting at the end of the cordoned-off area where passengers ran the gamut of greeters like me, I watched her plod up the ramp and into the airport lounge. No bounce. No shine. Even her hair looked dull, if anything that orange could be deemed dull. The dark brown roots, about the color of my hair, were at least an inch long, another indicator of trouble. Instead of the ragged jeans and skimpy T-shirt I’d expected, she wore a baggy linen pinafore dress, with a faded jean jacket shrugged on over it. Her ancient carpetbag, the kind with wooden handles, bulged alarmingly. The whole effect was saved from waifdom only by Amy’s extremely well-endowed bosom, undisguisable even in the pinafore. “Aunt Liz.” She smiled when she saw me, but the smile wrung my heart, so beset with worries did it seem. She probably didn’t realize how much of what she felt showed—life hadn’t yet dealt her the poker face that keeps the world at bay.
