CHAPTER 19
The following evening, I board my flight to Milwaukee with a carryon bag.
The beginnings of my eulogy are handwritten on index cards
tucked into my purse.
I return a flight attendant’s pleasant hello and make my way down the
aisle. When I reach my row, I put my bag in the overhead bin, then slide
into the window seat.
As we take off, the cabin tips upward and my mind flashes back a
decade.
It was Phoebe’s first Thanksgiving. I was home for the holidays.
After dinner, Erin and I took a walk around the neighborhood, pushing
Phoebe in her stroller.
“You think you and Mick would ever get back together?” she asked,
out of the blue. Her voice was careful, as if she’d been thinking about the
question for a while.
“I doubt it. But sometimes I wonder—”
“Wonder what?”
“Wonder why we didn’t try harder.”
“Yeah,” she said, her voice tinged with sadness.
I took a deep breath and said, “I might text him—ask if he’d like to
get coffee.”
She raised a brow. “What’s the endgame? To restore your friendship
or try again?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I think I have to see his face before I’ll know.
But even just being friends would be much better than this.”
—
That night, I texted Mick.
He wrote back saying he was free in the morning and suggesting a
lakeside coffee shop.
—
The next day, I arrived ten minutes early, ordered a latte, and chose a
table near the window with a view of the water. Snow flurries swirled in
the air, lightly dusting the ground.
My heart raced when I heard the bells on the door jingle. I looked
over, and there he was.
He wore a brown coat I didn’t recognize, a black wool cap, and
rugged boots. He’d grown a beard, and I liked it.
He spotted me, nodded, and walked over to my table. I held my
breath until he reached me.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” I echoed. “I like your beard.”
“Thank you,” he said.
He glanced around, as if checking for people he knew, then slid into
the chair across from me. His coat smelled like woodsmoke and cedar,
his eyes looked startlingly blue.
“Thank you for coming,” I said, my knee bouncing under the table.
“It’s nice to see you.” His voice was rough, like he hadn’t used it
much yet that day.
I took a deep breath. “How are you?”
“I’m good. You?”
“I’m fine,” I said, trying on a slight smile.
It faltered fast.
“Are you getting coffee?” I asked, gesturing toward the counter.
“No. I just had some.”
Disappointment rose. “Oh.” I nodded.
He tapped the table with one knuckle, then glanced out the window. I
followed his gaze. The snow was picking up.
“How’s your family?” He finally met my eyes, but I couldn’t read his
expression.
“They’re good,” I said. “My brother’s dating someone new. We all
like her.”
“Nice. Tell him I said hi.”
“I will. How’s Maeve?”
“She’s great. She got a job taking tickets at a movie theater in
Waukesha.”
I smiled. “That’s wonderful.”
“Yeah. I’m proud of her.”
“And your parents?”
“The same. Mom’s still drinking. Dad’s still ignoring it.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “It is what it is.”
I took a deep breath, gathering my courage. His body language
wasn’t encouraging, but I told myself I had to go for it.
“So the reason I asked to see you is that I thought maybe enough time
had passed that we could be friends?”
He held my gaze, then shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good
idea.”
“Oh. Okay,” I said, blinking. “I understand.”
He hesitated, his eyes softening. “I just don’t know how to be around
you without remembering…” His gaze flicked outside.
“Okay,” I said again.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Maybe it wasn’t a good idea for us to meet.”
“Maybe not,” I said.
He got to his feet. “Take care of yourself, Billie.”
“You too,” I said, my voice wobbling.
As he walked away from the table, I kept my eyes lowered, tears
slipping down my cheeks. I didn’t look up until I heard the bells on the
door jingle.
And just like that, it was over.
Again.
—
The plane jolts lightly as we descend, pulling me back to the present. My
throat tightens. I’m about to land in a world without Erin.
I text my father as soon as we touch down: We landed early. Take
your time.
Already here. Usual spot, he texts back immediately, as dependable
as Lake Michigan freezing every winter and thawing every spring.
As soon as I’m on the curb, the cold cuts through my coat.
“Billie bean!” my dad calls out, waving.
I wave back, rolling my bag in his direction.
He hurries toward me, grabs the handle of the suitcase, and gives me
a one-armed hug. “I’m so sorry, kiddo.”
“I know, Dad.”
He looks like he’s about to say more but just shakes his head before
loading my bag into the trunk of his Cadillac.
As he pulls away from the curb, I study his profile—the slope of his
nose, the silver streaks overtaking his dark hair, the sunspots on his
cheeks. All reminders that time is passing.
And then it strikes me—Erin will never grow old. No gray hair, no
wrinkles, no slow unwinding of years.
Another memory returns: Erin and I, in the fourth grade, waking up
before dawn to watch Princess Diana’s funeral. I remember my mom
saying that thirty-six was way too young to die. I also remember thinking
thirty-six wasn’t that young.
I couldn’t have been more wrong. The thirties were barely a
beginning.
I tune back in to hear my dad talking about Joan. “She shouldn’t be
living on her own anymore. Mom and I went over last night. It’s getting
bad.”
“Shit,” I say under my breath. Not only is Phoebe without a mother or
father, but she has no family other than Joan—a woman barely able to
take care of herself. “What are we going to do?”
“We’ll figure it out. Mom said Cara Rogers started a GoFundMe for
Phoebe.”
“That’s nice,” I say. “But money is the least of our concerns right
now.”
“I’m sure everyone will give in different ways,” my dad says. “You
know what they say—it takes a village.”
I nod and stare out my window, grateful to be back in my village.
—
As we walk in the back door, I inhale the familiar scent of my childhood
home—pine cleaner, firewood, dog food. I feel a knot of belonging and
estrangement I can’t untie, like slipping on an old coat: familiar but a bit
too tight.
Henry, our thirteen-year-old Sheepadoodle, rounds the corner, tail
wagging. I lean down to rub his ears as my mom appears behind him.
She is dressed in one of her signature L.L.Bean ensembles—khakis,
white turtleneck, and an oatmeal-colored fisherman sweater. Her
wardrobe hasn’t changed much since the eighties—and tonight, it
comforts me. She steps around Henry and wraps me in a long hug.
“I just can’t believe it,” she says as we separate.
“I know,” I reply, slipping out of my coat.
My dad takes it and hangs it in the closet, then heads upstairs with
my bag while my mom and I go to the kitchen.
“Are you hungry?” she asks.
I shake my head as my phone buzzes inside my purse.
I pull it out and see a new text on the friend group chat—one that
Erin started years ago. It’s surreal to see her name still on the thread. I
can’t help wondering where her phone is. Was it destroyed in the
accident? Bagged up as evidence? Or returned to Joan, intact, locked,
and glowing with new messages?
I skim the last few texts—Lucy lamenting that there is no wake; Eliot
explaining that Joan wasn’t up for one; Anna inviting us over to her
place; Sam saying he won’t be arriving until tomorrow morning.
I type back: Not up to anything tonight but can’t wait to spend
time together tomorrow.
I tap send, then type another text: Is this really happening?
Eliot replies with a broken heart emoji.
I stare at the screen for several seconds, then set my phone facedown
on the counter.
“How about a cup of tea?” my mom asks.
“Or bourbon?” my dad says, joining us.
“That sounds more like it,” I say.
He nods and reaches up into a cabinet, pulling down a bottle of
Woodford Reserve, still wrapped in a red ribbon from the holidays. He
fills two glasses with ice, then opens the bottle and pours a shot into
each.
When he hands me one, his hand trembles.
“To Erin,” he finally says.
“To Erin,” I echo.
Our glasses clink before we both take a sip. The bourbon burns,
warmth filling my chest.
After a few more sips, I say, “I think I’m going to turn in for the
night.”
“Okay, honey,” my mom says. “Let us know if there’s anything we
can do for you.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say. “It’s nice to be home.”
“It’s nice to have you home,” she says.
—
When I open the door to my old room, I feel a wave of relief that my
mom finally turned it into a proper guest room. The bed is neatly made.
The walls are bare.
I close the door behind me.
