Chapter 17
It’s hard to believe Phoebe came into the world more than eleven years ago—and that it’s been even longer since Mick and I broke up.
I dread calling him back, worried about what that conversation might stir.
But as I make my way down Broadway, the morning air sharp in my lungs, I know that isn’t the real reason. Good news sleeps in. Bad news doesn’t wait for daylight.
I stop at my usual bodega, the bells on the door jangling.
I push inside, a blast of heat hitting my face.
I grab a Perrier from the fridge, then veer toward the hot case instead of my standard Greek yogurt and berry parfait.
I grab a foil-wrapped bacon-egg-and-cheese and bring everything to the counter.
“Switching it up?” the cashier deadpans as he scans the sandwich.
I smile and nod.
“Have a good one,” he says.
“You too,” I say, tucking the bag under my arm.
I step back into the cold, inhaling the scent of diesel. A delivery truck lurches past, hazard lights blinking.
At the corner, I catch the walk light and take the stairs underground.
On the platform, a familiar busker is there, guitar case open at his feet, singing Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.” His voice is rough and a little off-key, but there’s something about the way he leans into the chorus that I love.
It gets me every time. I swallow, swipe my card, and keep moving.
A train roars in, screeching to a halt. I board a crowded car and brace my foot against a pole. The doors close. The ground lurches.
I get out on 79th Street, quickly ascending the stairs before walking east, crossing Amsterdam, then Columbus.
I reach our clinic—Hope Fertility—just off Central Park West. Always the first to arrive, I unlock the front door and step into the reception area, an oasis that feels more like a meditation center than a medical facility.
I pause, inhaling the scent of eucalyptus and fresh linen.
A small fountain whispers in the corner.
Lesli and I thought the water feature was overkill—a bit too polished and way too expensive—but Greer insisted.
I’m glad she did. It adds peace to a waiting room where anxiety is the overriding emotion for our patients.
I walk down the hall to my office. I power on my computer, set my sandwich on my desk, and open the bottle of Perrier, taking a long sip.
My phone stays in my bag.
I take a long breath, glancing up at my framed diplomas, then the photos on my bookshelves: one with my parents and brother, all of us bundled up in Green Bay Packers gear at Lambeau Field; another of Erin, Phoebe, and me, taken in the city when they visited me two years ago; and a selfie of Dean and me in Vail, snow swirling behind us.
I turn toward my monitor, checking the time. 7:15. Forty-five minutes until my first patient.
No more stalling. I reach under my desk, pull my phone from my bag, and go to my missed calls. I take a deep breath and tap Mick’s number.
It rings once.
Then: “Hi, Billie.”
“Hi, Mick.”
A short pause, then a sharp inhale. “Thank you for calling me back.”
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
“No,” he says, his voice low. “I’m afraid not. Erin was in a car accident.”
“Oh my God,” I whisper. “Is she okay?”
Another pause. I grip the edge of my desk, my stomach tightening.
“She didn’t make it, Billie,” he says. “I’m so sorry.”
My mind rejects the words. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out—not even breath.
“Are you sure? How do you know?”
“It’s in the news. Cara posted the link on Facebook this morning.”
“A link to what?”
“The TMJ4 news clip. I didn’t want you to see it that way.”
My mind fills with questions that don’t matter. I ask them anyway.
“When?”
“Last evening. Around six.”
“Was she driving?”
“No. Russ was.”
“Where were they?”
“Leaving Rosa’s. On Atwood. He crossed a lane and struck a telephone pole.”
“Was he drunk?”
“Toxicology is pending.”
“So he made it?” I ask, heat rushing in where the numbness had been.
“Yes,” Mick says. “But he’s in the ICU.”
“How do you know?”
“I talked to Cara.”
I close my eyes, anger tangling with a sharp, useless guilt—I’d never told Erin how I really felt about Russ.
“Have you talked to Joan?” I ask, thinking of that call, a couple years ago, when Erin told me her mom had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s—the soft confusion, the missing words. How much worse it had gotten.
“Not yet,” he says. “I’m going over there today.”
“Is Phoebe with her?” I ask, the implications crashing in.
Eleven years old. Her only parent gone.
“Yes.”
“Is that safe—given Joan’s condition?”
“Cara is staying there for now. I told her I’d call you.” A pause. “Do you want to call your crew, or do you want me to?”
“Would you do it, please?”
“Of course.”
“And my parents?” I say. “I can’t—”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, Mick.”
“No problem,” he says. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I hear about funeral arrangements.”
“Thank you,” I say again.
We sit in silence for a few seconds, then say goodbye.
Too shocked to cry, I turn and look out my window, watching pedestrians pass by as if nothing has changed.
Yet everything has. Erin is no longer in the world. We’ll never have another conversation. I’ll never hear her voice again. Her laugh. Her opinions on everything. It is incomprehensible.
My mind races, trying to remember the last time I saw her in person.
Thanksgiving. Over four months ago. Thank God for our FaceTime the night Dean and I got engaged.
I’d called her after dinner, and she’d appeared in a sports bra and sweatpants, grinning even before I told her the news.
When I held up my ring, she’d shrieked, “Oh my God! No way! It’s massive! You did good, Dean!”
“I can’t wait for you two to meet in person,” I said. “You’re going to love him.”
“I already love him! Let me talk to him!”
Dean crowded in next to me, and within seconds, they were talking like old friends. It was Erin’s way with people.
A few days later, I called her to pop my own question: “Will you be my maid of honor?”
“Oh, hell yes!” she said. “God—I know this is so third grade, but I was worried you’d pick Lesli.”
“Please,” I said, smiling.
“I’ll start planning your bachelorette party the second we hang up,” she said. “Milwaukee dive bars, plastic tiara, penis straws—the full cheesy package.”
I laughed.
“Warn your fancy friends.”
“Lesli isn’t fancy.”
“Greer is.”
“Don’t hold it against her.”
“Too late.”
We laughed, and then a quiet settled between us.
“I’m really happy for you, Billie,” she said, her voice going calm. “I remember when you were getting ready to move to New York. It was hard to see you go, but it always felt like exactly what you were meant to do. And now look at you. Big job. A guy who’s wild about you. You deserve all of it.”
“Thank you, Erin. That means a lot,” I said. “You’ve been there for every version of me.”
“I know there were moments when I got a little salty about you leaving.”
“A little?” I said, thinking of Lucy’s wedding.
“I know I can be bratty. But watching you build this life has been one of the best parts of mine.”
“Thank you, Erin,” I said quietly. “I’m just as proud of you—the way you’re raising Phoebe on your own. She’s an incredible kid.”
“Aw, thanks,” she said. “We’re doing okay, aren’t we?”
“Way better than okay,” I said.
—
At eight o’clock sharp, there’s a knock on my door.
“Come in,” I call out.
Our nurse practitioner, Alex, introduces me to Sophie Cohen, my oncology referral.
I stand and say, “Hi, Sophie. I’m Billie. Come in.”
“Thank you.” She walks in, looking composed, almost stoic.
We shake hands. I offer to take her coat.
“No, thank you,” she says, her posture perfect, her expression unreadable.
We sit. I ask gentle questions. She tells me her story. Mammogram. Biopsy. Diagnosis. Treatment plan. Her desire to preserve her fertility.
When she finishes, I say, “I’m so sorry, Sophie. For all you’re going through.”
“Thank you.” She blinks back tears. “Am I crazy for thinking about fertility at a time like this?”
“Not at all. This is your life. Thinking about your future is exactly where your mind should be.”
She exhales, her shoulders dropping. “Thank you. I really needed to hear that.”
“Hope can be a lifeline,” I say. “It matters.”
Her eyes fill again. “I just want to be a mother. More than anything.”
I think of Erin. And Phoebe—the center of her entire world.
I will myself to refocus on Sophie. We discuss next steps. Logistics. Time lines.
When the appointment is over, and we are both standing at my door, I have a sudden urge to hug her. Instead, I close the door and sit back down. The tears finally come.