Chapter 22
Mick returns to the porch and drops into the chair across from me. He runs his hands through his hair, then leans back, eyes flicking over my face. “Wow,” he says.
“I know,” I say, still reeling, while also wondering why custody of Phoebe never occurred to me before now. Maybe I just couldn’t see past the funeral.
“Did Erin ever mention anything to you?” Mick asks. “About her wishes?”
“No. Never,” I say, thinking that Erin was an eternal optimist who never prepared for the worst. “Do you think she meant joint custody? Or an either/or type thing?”
“No idea,” Mick says.
It crosses my mind that Joan could be mistaken. But it seems far more likely she’d forget an instruction than invent one.
We stare at each other for a beat.
“Is custody something you can even entertain?” he asks.
“I’ll do whatever is best for Phoebe,” I say. “But I think she needs to stay put. In Wisconsin.”
“Definitely.”
Another stretch of silence.
“I don’t suppose you could move back?” he finally asks.
I hesitate, thinking of Dean, how I’d feel if the tables were turned. “I can talk to my fiancé about it—”
“Never mind,” he says, a shadow of disappointment in his eyes. “I can do it.”
I look at him in surprise. “Alone?”
“Of course,” he says. “I’ve had plenty of practice with Maeve.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, my thoughts spinning.
“Let’s put a pin in this for now,” Mick says. “Why don’t you go talk to Phoebe?”
“Will you come with me?”
“Only if you want me to.”
“I want you to,” I say.
—
It’s been ages since I was last upstairs at Joan’s house, but I could still find my way to Erin’s room blindfolded.
I lead Mick through the foyer, up the stairs, and down the dimly lit hallway with its beige walls and brown carpet.
When I reach Erin’s door, I hesitate, transported back to our Polly Pockets and Beanie Babies era.
Then to middle school, the two of us braiding each other’s hair, reading racy articles in Joan’s Cosmopolitan magazines, laughing under the covers.
And finally, our teenage era, primping for dances, blasting music, dreaming about the future.
I think of all our late-night conversations—how many of them were about Mick. It feels impossible that he and I are grown-ups here together, standing shoulder to shoulder outside the door I used to fling open without a second thought.
I take a deep breath and gently knock.
Silence.
“She must be sleeping,” I whisper.
Mick frowns, then gives the door a firmer knock.
I hear the faint creak of a mattress, then Phoebe’s voice, groggy. “Gram?”
“It’s Mick. And Billie. Can we come in?”
There’s a rustle of covers and another small creak. “Yes.”
Mick opens the door to a room that feels like a nineties time capsule.
A purple lava lamp glows on the nightstand, casting a nostalgic light.
The dresser is draped with dried corsages.
The walls are taped with photos of our childhood, along with bumper stickers of that era: Got Milk?
, Just Do It, and an ironic Cross the Border from Taco Bell.
Even the air carries a faint trace of Erin’s old perfume—Elizabeth Arden Sunflowers.
In the middle of it all sits Phoebe, cross-legged on her mom’s old bed with its familiar pink floral sheets and light blue throw pillow. She rubs the ear of Ellie, Erin’s beloved stuffed elephant.
“Hiya, Feebs,” Mick says, both of us still in the doorway.
“Hi,” Phoebe says.
She tries to stifle a yawn, losing the fight.
“Mind if we sit down and talk for a minute?” he asks.
“Yeah.” She nods, then frowns. “I mean no. I don’t mind.”
Mick walks into the room, pulling out Erin’s desk chair, then sitting on it backward—like he used to do in the cafeteria.
I cross to the bed, perching at the foot, facing Phoebe.
“You’ve been up here a long time,” Mick says.
She shrugs. “Yeah. I kinda wanted to be alone.”
“I get that,” Mick says. “We won’t stay long.”
“It’s okay with you guys. I just don’t want to talk to random people.”
I nod, knowing this is the moment I should tell her how sorry I am. But the words lodge in my throat.
“The service was really nice,” I say instead. “Your mom would’ve loved it.”
“I liked your speech,” she says. “Especially the funny parts.”
“Your mom was so funny.”
“I know,” she says. “She made me laugh even when I didn’t want to.”
“She did the same to me,” I say. “Whenever we bickered, she’d crack me up, and it would just be over.”
“Did you like the flowers on Mom’s casket?” Phoebe asks—words a child should never have to say.
My heart stutters. “They were gorgeous,” I say.
“Gram let me pick them out. I chose Mom’s favorite colors. Pink and purple.”
“I’m glad you did that. White flowers would have felt too sterile.”
Phoebe nods, sitting up a bit straighter. “Mom used to say white flowers were a waste.”
I smile.
“Hey, Feebs,” Mick says. “Are you hungry? Can we bring you a plate of food?”
“I’m not really in the mood for casseroles.”
“What are you in the mood for?” Mick asks.
Phoebe cracks a tiny smile and says, “You already know. The usual.”
Mick grins back at her.
“What’s the usual?” I ask.
“The best burgers in town,” Mick says as Phoebe’s smile widens.
“Culver’s?” I guess.
“Nope. The ones that come off my Weber Genesis.”
“Your grill?”
“You already know,” Mick says, pushing up from the chair with purpose. “C’mon. Let’s hit the road.”
Phoebe looks at me, hopeful. “Are you coming, Billie?”
“If I’m invited.”
“Of course you’re invited,” Mick says.
“Okay then. I’m in.”