CHAPTER 21
Back at my parents’ house, I change into jeans and a sweater and join
my family and Brooke in the family room. My dad already has a fire
going, and I sit on the floor, close to the warmth. It’s just a small pause
before I head over to Joan’s.
“Your words were really nice,” Brooke says, holding my brother’s
hand.
“Thanks,” I say. “I hope Joan and Phoebe liked it.”
“I know they did,” my mom says.
I stare into the fire as my dad asks Gus if they’re spending the night.
“I wish we could, but we have an engagement party tonight.”
“Speaking of engagements—I’m so happy for you and Dean,”
Brooke says.
“Thank you,” I say, glancing down at my left hand.
“Was it weird sitting beside Mick?” Gus asks.
I shake my head. “No. Not really. Although—” I say, shifting my
gaze to my mom. “Was it really necessary to invite him to sit with us?”
“He came alone,” she says. “It was the right thing to do.”
Brooke looks confused as Gus gives her a recap of our six-year
relationship. “He was the man in high school. Incredible running back.
Great guy.”
I feel my shoulders tighten. “I should head over to Joan’s,” I say,
eager to change the subject. “Are you guys coming?”
“Your dad and I will go over tomorrow,” my mom says. “Better for
Joan to space out the visits.”
“We’ll walk you out,” Gus says.
A moment later, we’re all in the driveway. Our breath fogs in the air.
Gus wraps his arms around me and whispers, “I’m so sorry, Sis.”
My brother isn’t always the most emotionally literate person, but his
whole heart is in that hug.
I nod, tears threatening again, as he and Brooke get in his car.
As they drive away, I start to walk up the street, a route I’ve taken a
thousand times.
When I’m halfway there, Mick’s Chevy Silverado pulls up beside me.
It’s the same model he’s always driven, only black instead of red. I once
asked if he’d ever get a Ford. He looked at me like I’d suggested he
become a Russian spy.
“Certain lines can’t be crossed,” he said, his expression stone-cold.
“If something happens to me, please promise me you won’t date a man
who drives an F-150.”
I wonder what he thinks of Range Rovers.
He rolls down the window and gives me a smile. “Want a lift?”
Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide” is playing on the car radio.
I hesitate. It’s only a hundred more yards to Joan’s house, but
refusing would seem standoffish.
“Sure,” I say.
I walk around to the passenger side, open the door, and put my foot
on the running board. The interior smells of cedar and motor oil—exactly
like it used to. As I reach for the bar above the window and hoist myself
up, the seat creaks, and a wave of memories slams so hard it feels like
time travel.
I close my door and put on my seatbelt as Mick lets his foot off the
brake.
“You hanging in there?” he asks.
“Barely. It’s so surreal,” I say. The physician in me suddenly conjures
up the technical term—depersonalization.
When we pull up to Joan’s, Mick parks at the curb. Neither of us
moves for a second. Then we get out, walking slowly toward the front
porch.
I start to ring the bell, then change my mind and walk right in. I’ve
never needed an invitation here.
As soon as we enter the kitchen, I see Eliot, Sam, Anna, Lucy, and
Lucy’s husband. Beyond them, I can see Joan at the kitchen table
surrounded by an older crowd. Cara is hovering over the counter with a
small posse.
I glance around the room again.
No sign of Phoebe.
I hug my friends, one at a time.
Anna glances toward Cara, then motions for us to come closer,
lowering her voice. “Do we trust this GoFundMe?”
“I don’t,” Sam says. “But to be fair, Erin would be furious if her
memorial fund didn’t have at least a little bit of financial scandal baked
in.”
We all laugh.
“Yeah,” Lucy says. “She’d haunt us for being boring.”
I smile, thinking that calling someone boring was her ultimate diss. I
once grilled her about whether I was boring. She laughed and said I was
too smart and way too high-strung to be boring. “You’d make a great
character on Seinfeld,” she added. “Sitting there at the diner with Jerry
and Elaine being all angsty about nothing.”
“She’d definitely want us to be laughing right now,” I say.
Eliot nods. “She totally would.”
“Remember when she dressed up as an elf and charged neighbor kids
a dollar to give their Christmas lists to Santa?” Anna says.
More laughter.
“Why did anyone believe that she had an ‘in’ with Santa?” Eliot says.
“She was persuasive as hell,” Anna says.
“Always,” I say, thinking of all the things she talked me into over the
years: dressing us up as “retro workout icons” one Halloween, the two of
us sporting matching headbands, leg warmers, and thong-style leotards;
the skinny-dipping “Polar Plunge” at the lake one frigid April night; and
the absolutely disastrous blunt bangs she gave us both in the fifth grade.
As I share the memories aloud, we all crack up again.
“And weren’t those bangs right before school pictures?” Lucy asks.
“They were indeed,” I say, shaking my head. “I would have been
more pissed, but they were so much worse on her curly hair.”
“Remember when Erin put me in a ‘Time-Out’ on her porch for not
following the rules of some stupid game she made up?” Sam asks.
“And once again, you obeyed her!” Eliot says. “Like, why?”
“I know.” Sam laughs. “I was always a little bit afraid of her.”
For the next small reading break, it helps to have a book ready.
Take a look at Lokepub and save one for later.
“Same!” Anna says.
“What about you?” I say, looking at Mick. “Do you have a favorite
memory?”
“Well, it’s probably not a favorite—but it was classic Erin,” he says,
pausing.
We all lean in as he continues. “The time she enlisted me to help her
move and promised me she didn’t have ‘that much stuff.’ It turned into
nine hours, two parking tickets, and a dresser stuck in a stairwell.”
“Pivot!” Sam shouts.
“Exactly,” Mick says. “And she had the nerve to tell me she thought I
was good at geometry.”
“Classic Erin,” I say, smiling.
The stories keep coming, one on top of another.
But eventually the laughter fades, and what’s left is the space where
she should be.
—
Over the next couple of hours, people start to peel off. The house quiets
in slow increments—chairs scraping back, hugs at the door, voices
dropping to murmurs. I hover near the kitchen, keeping one eye on the
hallway, waiting for Phoebe.
At one point, Mick steps in beside me. “Got a minute?”
I hesitate, then say, “Sure.”
He looks around, scouting a spot.
I suggest the porch.
He nods, and a moment later, we’re back on one of the main stages of
my childhood. It looks smaller than I remember, the white wicker
furniture gray with age, as if a million summer afternoons have pressed
themselves into the dusty cushions.
We sit on the sofa, staring at the scruffy backyard and the sunbleached fence.
Silence stretches before I settle on the first neutral topic that comes to
mind. “So how’s Maeve these days?”
He smiles, his shoulders relaxing, as I feel some of my own tension
ease.
“She’s great,” he says. “She moved into a group home with about a
dozen other residents. She’s very happy there.”
I nod. “Does she still work at the movie theater?”
“No. She’s at a coffee shop now. And she has a boyfriend. One of her
housemates.”
“Do you approve?”
“Oh, yeah. He’s great. Treats her like gold. And get this—he’s seven
years younger!”
“Go, Maeve!”
“I told her she was ‘robbing the cradle’ and now she says it all the
time.” He laughs.
“Do you think they’ll get married?” I ask, rubbing my ring with my
thumb.
“I can see it.” He pauses. “And I hear congratulations are in order for
you?”
“Thank you,” I say, my shoulders tightening again. “What about you?
Are you in a relationship?”
He nods.
“Anyone I’d know?”
“No. She moved here about a year ago for a job.”
“What does she do?”
“She’s a high school math teacher.”
“Hopefully not as tough as Ms. Sprinkman.”
Mick laughs and shakes his head. “You were so dramatic about that
class.”
“We can’t all be math whizzes.”
“Okay, Dr. Wright.”
We both smile and the air shifts, something tender and familiar
threading between us.
A quiet moment later, Joan appears in the doorway, frail and
uncertain. Mick jumps up to help her down the step and over to the chair
across from us. She lowers herself into it, her hands trembling.
“The service was beautiful,” I say.
“Thank you,” Joan says with a faint smile. She takes a deep breath
and looks at me. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.” Her
voice is surprisingly lucid. “Both of you.”
Mick and I exchange a quick glance, then wait for her to continue.
“Erin wanted you to have custody of Phoebe.”
I go still, questions surging: Did Erin have a will? Or was this just
something she said in passing? Did she contemplate joint custody—or
only one of us?
“We’re honored,” Mick says, his voice careful.
“Very honored,” I say, the word custody echoing in my ears.
“So you’ll do it?” Joan says.
Mick and I exchange a glance before he says, “Yes. We’ll be here for
her. Whatever she needs.”
“Thank you.” Joan presses her lips together. Then her expression
clouds, as if a curtain is being drawn closed. “Well, I better go.”
Mick jumps up to help her, while I stay seated, frozen.
