CHAPTER 28
The next morning, after a quick coffee with my parents, I head back
over to Joan’s, finding Phoebe already up, eating cereal in front of
the television. I sit with her for a moment, then mute a commercial and
turn to face her.
“So I talked to Mick last night—”
“About Hank?” she asks, eyes wide.
I shake my head. “About you and Gram.”
“What about us?”
“We really don’t think you should be here alone—like we discussed
yesterday.”
She nods, thinking this over, then says, “Can you stay here with us?”
“I wish I could. I have to get back to Dean and my patients.”
Her face falls. “Okay,” she says.
“But Mick is going to move in for a while.”
“And Cash?”
“Yes. Cash too.”
She smiles.
“Would you like to go unpack some of your stuff?” I ask.
“Yes! I want to see my stuffed animals.”
We head upstairs to find Joan still sleeping. Outside Erin’s old
bedroom, the boxes Mick hauled in last night are lined up in a neat row.
Phoebe and I open them one by one. As she lines her animals up on the
bed, I fill Erin’s empty dresser with her clothing.
After a while, she looks up at me and says, “I wish you didn’t have to
leave today.”
“Me too, honey,” I say. “But I’ll be back soon.”
“How soon?”
“In two weeks. For your spelling bee.”
“Promise?” she asks.
“I promise,” I say.
—
The plan is for my dad to drive me to the airport, but Mick texts to say
that he and Phoebe can take me. That would be great, I text back.
Thank you.
A few hours later, Mick pulls into the driveway with a light honk.
It’s time to go.
I hug and kiss Joan goodbye, telling her I’ll be back soon.
She nods, a blank look on her face, as Phoebe steps forward.
“I’m going to the airport, Gram,” she says. “Be good.”
Joan smiles.
We swing by my parents’ house, and as Mick loads my bag into the
truck, my parents hug me in the driveway.
“Text when you get through security—and when you land,” my dad
says, as if I were flying alone for the first time.
“I will,” I say as Mick and I climb back into the truck.
As we pull out of the neighborhood and turn onto the main road, I
look out my window, choking up. The faint funk of silage sneaks through
the truck’s air vents. Farm fields unspool into interstate, barns giving
way to billboards for cheese curd outlets and roadside fireworks
warehouses. Phoebe is quiet in the backseat, her arm around Cash, the
cab settling into a taut silence.
When we reach the terminal, Mick eases to the curb, shifts into park,
then hops out to get my bag. I unclip my seatbelt, slide out of the truck,
then open the back door and give Phoebe a quick hug.
“I’ll call you tonight,” I say, keeping my voice light. “And I’ll see
you in less than two weeks.”
She nods, eyes solemn.
“I love you, Feebs,” I say, realizing it’s the first time I’ve said it all
weekend.
“I love you, too,” she says.
I lean in to give her one more hug, then close her door and turn to
face Mick.
“Remember. Whatever you decide, I’m here,” he says.
His words land like a promise—not pressure—and I nod, grateful.
We hesitate, both of us leaning in just a fraction as if contemplating a
hug. But we don’t. I glance over and find Phoebe watching us from the
window. I tap the glass and blow her a kiss before rolling my bag
through the sliding doors.
An hour later, the plane takes off. Every moment puts more miles
between me and my hometown. As I scan the patchwork of green and
gray below, I picture Joan watching television on her sofa, my parents
puttering in the kitchen, Phoebe and Mick driving back from the airport
in his Chevy. The white-noise hum of the jet engines is soothing, but my
thoughts won’t settle. They drift between the past and the present until I
finally nod off.
When I wake up, the light has shifted. The digital map on my screen
shows we’re somewhere over Ohio—in the middle, neither here nor
there.
CHAPTER 29
Two hours later, I’m on the curb at LaGuardia, scanning the line of
cars for Dean’s Range Rover. He spots me, hops out, and jogs toward
me.
“Hey, baby,” he says, giving me a quick kiss.
“Hi, honey,” I say.
He takes my bag, rolls it to the open trunk, and sets it inside.
We slide into our seats and buckle up.
“Thanks for coming to get me,” I say.
“Of course,” he says, pulling away from the curb and merging into
traffic.
“I missed you,” he says, resting his hand on my thigh.
“I missed you, too,” I say.
I lean back in my seat as the city rises up ahead, the skyline coming
into view.
“Tell me about your conference,” I say.
I want to hear about it—but I also want to postpone talking about my
weekend.
I try to follow as Dean talks about chairing a plenary session on
emergency response systems, moderating a panel of international
surgeons, and discussing national trauma guidelines with hospital
administrators. But his words sound muffled, as if he’s speaking through
glass.
“So how are you doing?” Dean asks as we turn onto 125th Street, a
thread of concern running under the lightness.
“I’m okay,” I say. “But there’s a lot to talk about.”
“Oh?” he says, glancing over at me.
“Can you come up?” I ask.
“Of course,” he says.
A few minutes later, Dean pulls into a space in front of my building.
He grabs my bag from the back and follows me up the stairs to my lobby,
then into the elevator.
Once we’re in my apartment, he gives me a long hug. I press my face
into his sweater, breathing him in.
When he lets go, I see worry in his eyes.
“Have you eaten?” he asks.
I shake my head, realizing that I never had lunch.
“Want me to order?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say.
He walks over to my couch, perches on the edge, and starts scrolling
on his phone.
“What are you in the mood for?”
I shrug. “You pick.”
He nods, keeps scrolling, then settles on Italian.
“I’m going to take a shower, if that’s okay?” I say, wondering why I
sound so formal.
“Of course,” he says. “Take your time.”
After my shower, we eat quietly on the sofa, paper bags rustling as
we unwrap containers: house salads, chicken piccata, linguine with red
sauce.
I can tell he’s waiting for me to open up, and I ease into it, telling him
about Joan’s health, Erin’s condo, Phoebe’s spelling bee—everything but
the question of custody.
“When’s the spelling bee?” he asks. “I’d love to go with you.”
“In two weeks. On Friday.”
He pauses, frowning. “That’s Bobby’s wedding weekend.”
“Oh, shit,” I whisper.
He sets his fork down, aligning it parallel to the container lid, as if in
a sterile operating field.
“It’s important, right?” His voice is tentative.
“It’s a big deal to Phoebe. And I already promised her I’d be there,” I
say.
What I don’t add is that I want to be there—that I’d rather sit on a
folding chair in an elementary school gymnasium than sip cocktails on a
beach in St. Lucia with his medical school friends, as lovely as they are.
Dean exhales. “Okay,” he says. “She needs you there.”
I clear my throat. “There’s something else, too.”
He holds my gaze.
“Joan said that Erin wanted me to have custody of Phoebe.”
He nods, staring past my shoulder before finally meeting my eyes.
“Actually,” I say. “She wanted me and Mick to have custody.”
There’s a pause. One breath. Two.
“So…joint custody?”
“Or just one of us,” I say. “Joan wasn’t clear, so it’s hard to know
exactly what Erin had in mind.”
“How do you feel?”
“I feel…honored but overwhelmed,” I say. “And a little scared.”
“So you said yes?”
“No. I said I had to talk to you.”
He leans back into the sofa, the cushions giving under his weight.
“So, what do you think?” I ask, holding my breath.
“I think…I’m in.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. She can live with you until your lease runs out. Then you can
move in with me. Or we could get a bigger place.”
I hesitate. “The thing is…I don’t think she should move here. I think
we’d have to move there. She needs stability—not more change.”
