CHAPTER 18
The day passes in fragments—voices, lab results, worried faces. I
counsel a woman through her first ultrasound. I discuss egg retrieval
schedules. I scribble notes in margins. I adjust medication doses. My
hands move; my voice carries on. But I’m somewhere else entirely.
Later, I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror and barely
recognize myself. My face is too pale, my eyes too wide. Mascara has
smudged under one eye, giving me a haunted look.
I splash water on my face, to no effect.
The door creaks open, and I see Lesli in the mirror.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
I turn to face her, trying to form the words: Erin is dead.
I nod, but I can’t speak.
Her forehead creases, and I can tell she knows something terrible has
happened.
“Let me know if you want to talk about it,” she says, her voice low
and calm.
“Thank you,” I say.
She taps my arm before ducking into a stall.
—
After my last patient leaves, I summon the courage to look at my phone,
finding text messages and voicemails from my mom and my brother,
Sam and Eliot, Anna and Lucy. I tell myself I need to call them back—at
least text—but it’s too daunting.
So I call Dean, always my safest place to land.
“Hey,” he says, a sizzling sound in the background.
“Where are you?”
“Making dinner.”
“You’re already home?”
“Yeah. Slow day. People seem to be making good decisions out
there.”
Erin flashes in my head—followed by Russ and his decisions—and I
get a wave of nausea.
“You still coming?” Dean asks.
“Yes,” I say. “I’ll be there soon.”
—
I usually take the subway down to Times Square, hop the Q to 63rd, then
walk a block to Park Avenue. Dean thinks it’s ridiculous, insisting that I
should always take a taxi. But the frugal midwesterner in me can’t resist
a $2.90 tap.
Tonight, though, the subway feels impossible. I call an Uber—even
springing for a Black car. Seconds later, it glides up to the curb. I climb
in, lean back, and do everything I can to keep my mind blank.
Twenty minutes later, we turn onto Park Avenue, then pull up to
Dean’s building. I thank my driver and step out.
Oscar, my favorite of Dean’s doormen, booms from the marble lobby,
“Evening, Doc!”
“Hi, Oscar,” I manage.
“How many lives did you save today?”
“None,” I say, forcing a smile. “That’s Dean’s territory.”
“Ah, yes!” Oscar clasps his gloved hands. “You create the lives!”
“I try,” I say, giving him another smile.
Oscar laughs as I step inside the elevator.
When the doors open to Dean’s penthouse apartment, I inhale the
scent of leather and caramelized garlic. Jazz murmurs low. Bill Evans.
Before Dean, I thought listening to jazz was pretentious. Now I get it.
I hang my coat in the hall closet, then walk to the kitchen. Dean has
already changed into his “home scrubs” and is standing barefoot at the
stove, stirring marinara sauce. He rests the spoon on the counter at a
perfect right angle before turning to face me.
“I hope you’re hungry.”
“A little bit,” I say, though my stomach is a stone.
He pauses a beat, then says, “Did you call your ex?”
I nod.
He scans my face. “Wanna tell me about it?”
“Not yet,” I say, eyeing the bottle of open wine on the counter. I turn
to get a glass, then fill it before sitting at the kitchen island.
Dean lowers fresh linguine into boiling water. He turns the flame
down on the stove and rounds the island.
“Hey,” he says gently, staring into my eyes. “Talk to me.”
My fists clench in my lap.
I take a deep breath and force the words out. “Erin was in a car
accident last night.” I pause, looking down, and repeat Mick’s words.
“She didn’t make it.”
“Fuck,” Dean says, his arms around me instantly, folding me into the
tightest hug.
When we separate, I give him the details like a reporter. Facts are all I
can manage right now.
He exhales hard when I get to the part about Russ.
“I should’ve told Erin what I really thought of him. I had so many
chances—it might’ve saved her life.”
“No,” he repeats, his dark eyes fierce. “She wouldn’t have listened.
People make their own choices, in their own time. You can’t do this to
yourself.”
“It’s not just Russ. There are so many things that could’ve stopped
this from happening,” I say, my mind spinning through the endless
causes and effects. “I almost called her yesterday. And then I didn’t—”
“Billie. Listen to me. This is not your fault.”
I meet his eyes. It doesn’t fix anything—but it steadies me.
—
After dinner and dishes, we curl up on the couch and turn on the
television, The Bear spilling its usual chaos. Halfway through, I get up to
use the bathroom, checking my phone on the way back to the sofa.
There’s a text from Mick. I open it and read: Service Friday—Queen
of Apostles. Hope you’re hanging in there.
My stomach drops. Queen of Apostles is Erin’s parish—where I
watched her float down the aisle in a white dress for her first
communion.
I return to the sofa and show Dean the text.
“Should we book flights now?” he asks. “I need to cancel my
conference.”
“Oh, shit. I forgot about Vegas,” I say, thinking of how much work
he’s put into this trauma conference, where he is not only one of the
keynote speakers but also one of the three organizers.
“It’s fine. Everyone will understand. And if they don’t…” He shrugs.
“No. You need to go to the conference—”
“Billie. She’s your best friend. Our maid of honor. I need to be there.
I want to be there.”
“I want you there, too,” I say. “But I really think you should go to the
conference. I can do this on my own. And honestly, I’d rather you meet
all my people under happier circumstances.”
He nods, a pinch between his brows. “Whatever you think is best.”
I sigh. “I should probably return some texts. My mom’s been blowing
me up.”
He nods and clicks the TV off, then rests his hand on my leg.
Over the next fifteen minutes, I text everyone back, promising I’ll
call tomorrow. Then I scroll to Joan’s number, knowing this is the one
conversation that can’t wait.
The phone rings three times before Joan’s ancient answering machine
clicks on, her cheerful voice telling me to leave a message after the beep.
“Hi, Joan. It’s Billie,” I say, my heart pounding as I struggle to find
the right words, knowing there are none. “I’m so sorry. Sending prayers
to you and Phoebe. I love you both so much and will see you soon.”
A second later, Joan calls me back.
I brace myself and answer.
“Billie? Is that you?” Her voice is thin and shaky.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Joan. I’m so sorry.”
“I know, honey,” she says. For a moment I think she’s crying, but
then I realize it’s just her ragged breathing. “Will you say something at
the funeral?”
“Of course,” I say. “I’d be honored.”
“Erin loved you so much.”
“I loved her, too. She was like a sister.”
We sit in silence for an unbearable moment.
“Can I talk to Phoebe?” I finally ask.
“She’s asleep,” Joan says, her voice drifting, flat and far away. “Can
she call you tomorrow?”
“Sure. Anytime,” I say. “But if she’s not up to talking, please just tell
her how much I love her. And I’ll see her soon.”
“I will, honey,” Joan says. Then—hesitant—“You’ll come back,
won’t you?”
“Yes,” I say. “I’ll be there.”
—
That night, I lie next to Dean in the dark of his bedroom, my mind stuck
on the moments I’ll never get to have with Erin. The phone calls. The
laughs. The visits. I’d made my choice—New York over Wisconsin—
believing there would always be more time. Now there won’t be.
I cling to the bright memories, touching each one like beads on a
rosary—holiday visits, late-night talks, and our postcard weekend in
New York two Decembers ago. She, Phoebe, and I ticked off every kid
favorite classic: ice skating under the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree,
a matinee of The Lion King, a pilgrimage to the American Girl store, and
high tea at the Plaza Hotel.
We even squeezed in a visit to Serendipity, where Phoebe’s ice cream
sundae melted faster than she could eat it. She looked up at me,
chocolate sauce on her chin, and said, “One day, when I’m a grown-up, I
want to live in New York, too.”
Erin threw her head back and laughed. “Here we go again! First I lose
my best friend to New York—now my daughter!”
I rolled my eyes and said, “You haven’t lost me.”
“Kinda sorta,” she said, smiling.
“Well, I’m glad Billie lives here,” Phoebe said, spoon in the air. “This
is fun!”
“Finally,” I said, smiling. “Someone who gets it.”
I push the memory away and cling tighter to Dean.
