CHAPTER 25
I wake up disoriented, then remember where I am. I roll onto my back,
Mick’s words from last night surfacing at once: Don’t lead me on
again.
I tell myself not to dwell on it. It’s not the time to be thin-skinned.
I check my phone and see a missed call from Dean. We’ve exchanged
a few texts since the funeral, but we still haven’t spoken. I send another,
promising to call in a few. He hearts the text.
The familiar hum of childhood fills the house: the clink of breakfast
dishes, the cadence of my parents’ voices.
I wash up, then head downstairs, hesitating in the kitchen doorway.
My mom putters by the sink while my dad sits at the table in his old gray
robe, the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel spread open before him.
He looks up and smiles. “Hey, doc,” he says. “What’s a ‘temporary
halt in breathing’? Five letters.”
“Apnea,” I say, sitting in my chair.
“That’s it,” he murmurs.
My mom turns and says, “Coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
“Want to pick your mug?” she asks, opening the cabinet filled with
mismatched mugs dating back to the eighties.
“Surprise me.”
She selects a Shutterfly mug with a faded photo of my brother and me
in front of the Disney World castle, then pours me coffee, setting it on a
place mat before me.
“How was last night?” she asks, joining us at the table.
I sigh. “It was okay. Mick and I took Phoebe to his place for dinner.
She needed a change of scenery.”
“That was a good idea,” my mom says.
I nod and take my first sip of coffee, grateful it’s strong. “So—big
news from Joan yesterday.”
My parents look at me.
“She told Mick and me that Erin wanted us to have custody of
Phoebe,” I say, hearing how odd it sounds.
“Both of you?” my mom asks.
I nod.
“As in…joint custody?” she says.
“That’s not completely clear.”
“How do you feel about that?” my mom asks.
“It’s complicated. I have to talk to Dean.”
“So if you did this, would you move back?”
“I don’t know. It would be hard to uproot our lives and careers. But
Mick and I agree that Phoebe needs to stay put.” I pause. “There’s a lot
to figure out.”
“What does Mick say?” my mom asks.
“He’s up for it.”
“What if you both want to do it?” my dad asks.
Their questions are fair, but it’s starting to feel like an inquisition.
“I really don’t know,” I say.
“Can I ask one more thing?” my mom says.
I nod.
“What if you want to do it, but Dean isn’t on board?”
I stare at her, blinking, hearing her real question beneath the words.
“He’s my fiancé,” I say. As if that explains everything.
—
Not long after, I’m walking down the street to Joan’s. The sky is blue, the
air sharp but not as cold as yesterday. I pick up my pace, as if speed
could push away thoughts of Erin underground.
When I walk into Joan’s house, I find her and Phoebe in the family
room watching Jennifer Garner amid the pastel world of 13 Going on 30.
Erin and I saw it at the theater, then bought the DVD a year later. We
watched it so many times that we memorized the lines.
Thirty, flirty, and thriving, I think—the phrase landing sideways.
“Morning, girls!” I say.
Joan looks up and smiles from her rocking chair.
“Morning, Billie,” Phoebe says, her voice still scratchy with sleep.
On the coffee table in front of her is a plate of waffles, piled high
with whipped cream.
I sit on the sofa beside her, watching the early 2000s magic spill
across the screen.
When she’s finished her waffles, Phoebe snuggles against me. Her
pajamas smell like fabric softener. I take her hand in mine, staring down
at her small fingers. I try to picture Erin’s little-girl hands, but they stay
just out of reach. Then, suddenly, it comes back—the smattering of
freckles, her deep cuticle beds, and what she called “squoval” nails.
When the credits roll, Phoebe mutes the television and asks if we can
go shopping.
“Of course,” I say. “Maybe we can go to the library and check out
some books, too?”
Phoebe nods.
“Why don’t you change and then we can go?”
“Okay,” she says, getting up and running out of the room.
I glance at Joan, still staring at the TV, then clear Phoebe’s plate and
juice glass from the coffee table. I carry them to the sink and load the
dishwasher, the movement grounding.
Remembering my promise to call Dean, I fish my phone out of my
bag, then head for the porch. As I dial his number, I catch myself hoping
it goes to voicemail. I tell myself it’s better to have this conversation
face-to-face—not over a hurried call.
On the third ring, Dean answers. “Good morning,” he says, the low
murmur of his conference in the background. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m doing okay,” I say.
“I’m glad your eulogy went well,” he says.
“It did. I somehow got through it without crying.”
“I’m proud of you,” he says, and I can hear in his voice how much he
means it.
“Thank you.”
“So what’s your plan for today?” he asks.
“Phoebe and I are about to go shopping.”
“That’s good. Doing normal stuff helps.”
“We’re trying.”
“What time do you get in tomorrow?”
“Around four. You?”
“Earlier. But I’ll come back and pick you up.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to.”
“Thanks, Dean,” I say. “See you soon.”
—
As I head inside, Cara pulls up in a black Mercedes. She gets out and
walks toward me in a purple spandex workout set, her hair pulled into a
high ponytail.
“Good morning! I was on my way to Pilates, but I wanted to check on
Joan and Phoebe. How’re they doing?”
“They’re holding up, all things considered.”
She looks past me, toward the house. “Is it okay if I swing by later
and pick Phoebe up? I thought it might be nice for her to spend time with
my kids.”
“That’s very thoughtful,” I say. “But we already have plans.”
Cara pauses, a quick strain in her expression before her smile returns.
“Of course. In that case, I might run over to Erin’s and grab a few of
Phoebe’s things for the week.”
“I can do that,” I say.
She stares at me a beat, then fishes a key out of her purse. “You’ll
need this. Erin’s spare key and fob.”
“Thank you.”
She turns to go, then stops. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think Phoebe
should go back to the condo. It could be…triggering.”
“I’ll ask how she feels,” I say evenly.
She gives me a polite smile—warm at the edges, cold in the center.
“I actually wanted to talk to you about something else,” she says,
pausing. “I think it’s time that Joan go into assisted living—if not
memory care.”
“I agree.”
“Oh. Good,” she says. “Well, given that…”
I brace myself as she continues. “My husband and I have talked it
over, and we’d love to have custody of Phoebe. We have plenty of space.
She’d have her own bedroom and a close family environment.”
“That’s so kind of you,” I say. “But I think Erin had other
arrangements in mind.”
“Oh?”
“She wanted Mick and me to have custody.”
Cara gives a single, startled laugh, her composure slipping. “You and
Mick? But you’re not even together. And you don’t live here.”
“We’re sorting that out.”
Cara blinks, her lips curving into a tight smile. “Well, then. Sounds
like you have everything under control.”
I reach out and touch her arm, willing myself to be gracious.
“Not at all. It’s going to take a village.”
She nods, some of the tension leaving her face. “Okay. Just let me
know how I can help.”
“Will do.”
She turns and gets back into her car without another word.
