CHAPTER 20
I wake with a start, rolling over to glance at the time on my phone: 6:15.
Too late to try to go back to sleep, too early to get up.
I check my texts, surprised to see one from Dean that just came in,
4:10 a.m. Vegas time: Hang in there today. I know you’ll do a beautiful
job honoring Erin. Wish I were there with you.
I immediately call him. “Why are you up so early?”
“Can’t sleep. I should be there with you.”
“No, you should be at your conference. But I’m glad you’re awake. I
needed to hear your voice.”
“I’m here.”
“I’m scared, Dean.”
“I know.”
“What if I can’t get through my eulogy?”
“Then stop. Take a breath. Start again. No one’s grading you.”
“What will I say to Phoebe? I still haven’t talked to her—my calls go
straight to Joan’s answering machine.”
“It doesn’t matter what you say—just that you’re there,” he says.
He sounds so certain that for a moment, I believe him.
—
When I finally get up, my parents move around me like I’m made of
glass, footsteps soft, voices lowered as they discuss the honey-baked
ham my dad dropped off at Joan’s and my brother’s plan to meet us at the
church with his girlfriend, Brooke.
My mom makes scrambled eggs and bacon, but I can only manage a
piece of toast and a cup of coffee.
Then I head back upstairs to wrestle myself into my stiff black dress
and tights.
When we get in the car, I slide into the backseat, folding my hands in
my lap. My dad drives slowly, and I gaze out the window at the streets
where Erin and I used to ride bikes. Finally, we turn into the church
parking lot.
I take a deep breath, staring out the window at a white Audi pulling
into the spot across from us. Two women step out—one with long blond
hair, the other with a short, dark bob. They look about my age, but I
don’t recognize them. Not from high school. Not from Erin’s social
media. Once upon a time, Erin and I knew every corner of each other’s
lives—every name, every face. That suddenly feels like a long time ago.
My dad turns in his seat and meets my eyes. “You ready?”
I nod, and we all get out of the car and walk toward the church. My
pace is New York brisk, and we quickly catch up to the women from the
Audi.
“You think Miss Jackson will be here?” I hear the blonde say.
“If she shows up for the kids’ soccer games, surely she’ll come to a
parent funeral.”
Their voices are too light, too casual, like they’re chatting at school
pickup. I can’t wait to get away from them.
We enter the church. The narrow narthex is dark, drafty, and echoey.
The scent of incense clings to the air. I flash back to the prayer I said at
the votive stand in St. John the Divine with Mick. In the past few days,
I’ve never felt more torn about my faith. If there’s a God, how could he
let this happen? And yet, I need to believe that Erin’s spirit lives on—that
she’s watching over Phoebe.
I scan the small crowd for my friends but don’t see anyone I know.
As we join the line to sign the guest book, Cara descends in a cloud of
perfume. She gives me a hug that feels too long and tight, then asks how
I’m holding up.
I bite my lip and nod.
“Do you want to go see Joan and Phoebe? They’re downstairs in the
bridal room.”
Perhaps that’s what the room is called, but in this context, it’s jarring.
“That’s okay. I’ll see them after.”
“So you’re coming to Joan’s?”
I nod.
“How long are you staying in town?”
“I’ll be here through the weekend.”
The words feel small. Phoebe just lost her only parent; her
grandmother is slipping away; and I’m flying back to New York on
Sunday night. Guilt flares, but I push it aside. One impossible thing at a
time.
“Well, I’m going to get seated,” Cara says. “Since we’re both doing
eulogies, I think we should sit in the front.”
I nod as she turns to enter the sanctuary.
A beat later, we reach the front of the line. My mother signs the guest
book first, then passes me the pen. As I print my name in all caps, I wish
I were writing Dean’s name, too. I feel an ache for him, but it fades as I
face what’s in front of us: a card table covered with candles and dozens
of photographs of Erin, including the one I took of her, Joan, and Phoebe
on the day she was born. Erin’s smile in the picture is luminous, almost
unbearable.
As I pick up a program at the end of the table, my mom leans in and
whispers, “Mick’s here.”
I turn and see him approaching us.
“Hi,” he says when he’s just a few feet away.
“Hi,” I say, grief for Erin colliding with the jolt of seeing Mick after
so many years. The past rushes back all at once, the years between us
paper-thin.
Mick takes a small step forward, and for a second, I think he’s going
to hug me. Then I realize he’s just getting out of someone’s way. I almost
reach out to hug him myself, but the moment has passed.
“It’s good to see you,” he says, holding my gaze. He looks
comfortingly the same, just a few more lines on his face.
“You too,” I say.
“I wish the circumstances were different. Needless to say, I guess.”
I nod.
He glances away, turning to shake my dad’s hand, then giving my
mom a hug.
“How’re your parents and Maeve?” my mom asks.
“Everyone’s well,” Mick says.
“Are you here with anyone?” my mom asks.
I cringe at her question as Mick shakes his head.
“You’re welcome to sit with us,” she offers.
Before he can answer, my brother approaches with Brooke. After
another round of hellos and hugs, my dad suggests we take our seats.
As we enter the sanctuary and proceed down the aisle in single file, I
do everything I can not to look at Erin’s casket. Then I spot our friends
about five rows back on the left. Eliot is on the end nearest the aisle, and
he jumps up when he sees me. His eyes and cheeks are red.
“I love you,” he says, hugging me.
I try to reply but can’t get any words out.
I glance down the row, making eye contact with my other friends,
then follow my dad to an open pew on the right. He slides in first; then
my mom, Brooke, and Gus. I sit next to my brother, with Mick on my
other side. The seating arrangement feels vaguely disloyal to Dean,
though I know he wouldn’t mind.
I look down at my program, staring at Erin’s senior portrait on the
cover. I vividly remember her complaining that she’d had a “bad curl
day.”
I take a deep breath and open the program. Under “Words of
Remembrance,” there are only two names: Cara Rogers and Wilhelmina
Wright. I’m going second.
I close the program and lift my eyes, forcing myself to look directly
at the casket. It is rose gold and covered with pink and purple lilies and a
yellow blanket I immediately recognize. For years, Erin couldn’t fall
asleep without it, and seeing it there almost breaks me.
Tears spill, sudden and hot. My mom passes me a Kleenex, and I dab
my eyes, willing composure back. But it’s gone again in the next breath
—when Joan and Phoebe walk past us, arm in arm. Joan looks
shockingly unsteady, and Phoebe’s resemblance to Erin is uncanny, her
curly hair pulled back in a lumpy ponytail.
We stand for the first hymn. I hear my own voice, then Mick’s low
baritone.
Scriptures are read. Another hymn is sung. The service moves like a
tide—slow, rhythmic, unstoppable. There is an air of unreality to it. I
almost feel like I’m an actor in a movie, playing a part.
Then Cara walks to the front of the church. Her speech is filled with
superlatives but fails to capture the essence of who Erin was—at least the
version of Erin I knew. Capturing the complexity of an entire life in a
few minutes suddenly feels impossible, and I wonder if I’ll do any better.
Cara concludes, “I simply don’t know how I’m going to do life
without my ‘ride or die.’ ” She then blows a kiss toward the ceiling.
Now it’s my turn.
Mick stands, stepping into the aisle to let me pass.
My legs feel like rubber, and I pray that my knees don’t buckle as I
climb the stairs to the pulpit. I set my note cards on the lectern and take a
shaky breath. I begin.
My name is Billie Wright, and I’m honored to say a few
words about my beautiful friend.
Erin and I met when we were three years old on the
Richmond School playground. According to our mothers,
Erin strutted right over to me and gave me such an aggressive
hug that I fell down and began to cry. Confused, she sat on
the ground and began to kiss my “boo-boos.” That was Erin
in a nutshell. She had so much confidence, charisma, and
compassion, along with an incredible capacity to make
friends and find fun. She could talk to anyone and had a way
of making people feel at ease.
Erin was a born leader, which was evident throughout our
childhood. Among our neighborhood friends—all of whom
are here today—she organized elaborate games and plays,
making sure everyone felt included and important.
Erin was hilarious. As a young kid, her wit was way
beyond her years, and I remember my parents telling her that
she had a future career as a comedian or a writer for SNL.
One summer, the two of us set up a lemonade stand at which
Erin also sold knock-knock jokes for a quarter. Remarkably,
no grown-up ever turned down her offer, and often they
splurged for a second or third joke. Her favorite, as I’m sure
many of you recall, was “Knock, knock. Who’s there? A little
old lady. A little old lady who? Hey, you can yodel!” Her
delivery cracked me up every time.
Erin loved karaoke, Mexican food, summer days at the
lake, musicals, and romance novels. Reading was her favorite
pastime, and she once told me there was no need to leave
Wisconsin so long as you had a good book. Erin loved this
state, this town, and the people in it.
Erin revered her mother, Joan, who raised her with grit,
devotion, and unwavering love. Erin adored her mom right
back.
But the thing Erin loved most in this world was being
Phoebe’s mother.
Phoebe—your mom was so proud of you. She was proud
of how hard you work in school, how fierce you are on the
soccer field, and how kind you are to your friends. You share
her spark, her humor, her giant heart—and yes, her beautiful
curly hair. I know life will be so difficult without your mom
at your side, but everyone in this church promises to be there
for you, reminding you of how special your mother was, and
how very much she loved you. You’re not alone.
Erin’s time with us was way too brief, but it was nothing
short of magical. She lived life with her heart wide open,
finding joy in the ordinary moments that many of us rush
past. If we can all live a little more like Erin, then she will
always be with us.
I finish reading and gather my note cards with trembling hands. It’s
done. On the way back to my seat, I make eye contact with Phoebe. I
give her a nod, and she nods back, looking much older than eleven.
When I get to our pew, Mick stands and whispers, “Nice job, Billie.”
The rest of the service passes. Then the organ plays and everyone
stands to go. I reach for my coat, and Mick helps me into it, his hand
brushing my back just slightly.
—
Outside, the temperature has dropped. The cold slices through me. I hug
myself as we make our way toward the cars, the church bells tolling. We
proceed to a nearby cemetery for the burial. There are no chairs set up, so
we all stand in a cluster behind Phoebe and Joan.
In the middle of the brief ceremony, the wind kicks up, drowning out
the final prayers. But as the casket is lowered into the ground, I can make
out the sound of Phoebe weeping. Her cries rip through the air, ragged
and uncontainable.
And then it’s over.
My heart aches with the finality of it. Erin is gone. Utterly,
irrevocably gone.
I walk back to the parking lot with Mick, Eliot, and Sam. My parents,
Gus, and Brooke trail behind us. None of us speak.
The only sound is the crunch of gravel beneath our shoes and gusts of
wind that won’t let up.
