Chapter 26
Back inside, Phoebe pads into the kitchen, wearing blue leggings and a knockoff Lululemon belt bag across an oversize pink sweatshirt. Her hair is wet, and she scrunches her curls with both hands, just the way Erin used to.
“There she is,” I say, hearing my dad in my own voice.
Phoebe smiles, then sits by the back door, putting on a pair of worn-out Nikes. I make a mental note that she needs new sneakers.
She gets to her feet and moves over to the table, where Joan is now going through sympathy cards.
“Bye, Gram,” she says, kissing Joan’s cheek. “We’ll be back soon!”
“Do you need anything while we’re out?” I ask.
Joan shakes her head.
Phoebe hesitates, then says, “I love you, Gram.”
“I love you, too, sweetie,” Joan says, patting Phoebe’s arm.
Her voice is calm, but her eyes have that faraway look again, like a fogged window.
“Can I borrow your car, Joan?” I ask.
“Yes, honey.”
“Do you know where the keys are?”
She stares up at me, her brow furrowed, lips parting like the answer is just out of reach.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “We’ll find them.”
Phoebe gives me a look, then whispers, “I think she keeps them in the car.”
I nod, and the two of us make our way to the garage.
Sure enough, the keys are sitting on the front seat—not the best place to keep them.
We get in and buckle up. As I turn on the ignition, the dashboard lights up: fuel tank empty.
“Well, first stop is the gas station,” I say.
“After that, can we go to Sephora?”
“Sure,” I say, remembering Erin telling me how obsessed Phoebe, and preteens generally, have become with that store. She’d laughed that kids don’t go through an ugly phase anymore.
“Yay!” Phoebe says, patting her bag. “I have a gift card from my birthday.”
“Perfect. What’s on your list?”
“Do you know Glossier?”
I nod, picturing the pink storefront in SoHo. “Is their stuff any good?”
“It’s amazing,” she says. “My favorite is the Futuredew drops.”
“Sounds like a serum?”
“Yes. It gives you a natural glow.”
I smile. “You sound like a commercial.”
“You should try them.”
“I’d love to.”
She hesitates, then says, “Mom and I shared our products.”
I nod, my fingers gripping the steering wheel. “You’ll have to teach me all your beauty secrets. Just like your mom used to.”
“She did?”
“Yes. I was hopeless. She used to do my makeup for dances and dates.”
As Phoebe smiles, it occurs to me that resilience isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s a quiet decision to keep scrunching your curls and applying serums.
I flick on the radio. Joan has it set to 95.7—“Milwaukee’s best variety of the eighties and nineties.”
Sinéad O’Connor is crooning “Nothing Compares 2 U.”
Way too sad. I turn it off.
A moment later, we pull into the gas station. I fill the tank and get back in the car.
“So. Where’s the closest Sephora?” I ask.
“Waukesha Moreland. Inside Kohl’s.”
“Got it.”
I try the radio again—Madonna singing “Vogue.” That’s more like it.
A beat later, Phoebe asks, “So, what did Mrs. Rogers want?”
I swallow, then say, “She offered to take you to her house today.”
Phoebe nods but says nothing.
“Do you like hanging out over there?” I ask.
“It’s okay. I think Mrs. Rogers wants me to live there.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because she told me.”
“Oh, really?” I say. “When did she tell you that?”
“The night before Mommy’s funeral.”
“How did that make you feel?” I ask, remembering my psych rotation: ask open, easy questions.
“I don’t want to live there. Ruby can be mean.”
“To you?”
“To everyone.” She falters. “She’s being nice to me now. Because she has to.”
“Well, it’s good you know how to read people.”
“Yeah. I don’t like their house. It’s too neat. It stresses me out. And Mrs. Rogers always takes Ruby’s side. Even when she lies.”
I nod. “There are two kinds of mothers: those who assume their kids are in the right—and those who assume they’re wrong.”
“What kind was Gram?” Phoebe asks.
“The second kind. So was my mom,” I say.
“When did you and my mom get in the most trouble?”
“One night we sneaked out of her house and slept in the backyard.”
Phoebe smiles. “What did your moms do?”
“They lectured us about safety, then grounded us from each other for a week.”
I remember that one week feeling like forever. Now I know what forever really means.
“Just so you know,” I add, “it was your mom’s idea. It was usually your mom’s ideas that got us in trouble.”
Phoebe smiles again.
A few seconds later, she says, “Mrs. Rogers says Gram can’t live alone for much longer. She has to go to a nursing home. Because of her Alzheimer’s.”
“Mrs. Rogers shouldn’t be talking to you about Gram.”
“Is that true?”
“Yes. She does need more care.”
“When that happens, where will I go?”
I take a deep breath. “Your mom told Gram that she wanted you to live with Mick or me.”
“So that’s going to happen?”
“Yes.”
“Do you promise?” she whispers.
I reach across the car and pat her leg. “I promise.”
She nods, then turns to look out her window.
A minute later, we pull into the shopping center.
“Okay,” I say, parking the car. “Let’s get those glow drops.”
She looks over at me and gives me the smallest of smiles. “Futuredew,” she says. “You’re going to love them.”
“I have no doubt,” I say with a smile.
—
As we enter Sephora, I’m bombarded by fragrance and the bass thump of Top 40 pop. Phoebe is in heaven, striding across the glossy black floor tiles. I grab a shopping basket and trail behind her.
“There it is,” she says, holding up the sample bottle of Glossier Futuredew like a trophy. She digs around on the shelf, then produces a box. “The last one!”
“Well done,” I say, holding out the basket.
She drops it in, then moves on to a row of lip glosses, swiping the sample tubes across the back of her hand, comparing shades.
“Get whatever you want,” I tell her.
She glances up. “My card’s only for thirty dollars.”
“My treat. Go wild.”
“Not too wild,” she says.
Four aisles and three items later, Phoebe looks up at me. “Is this too much?”
“Nope,” I say, shifting the basket to my hip. “Don’t you need shampoo for curly hair?”
She tilts her head. “Mom always said grocery store shampoo is just as good.”
“Well, we’re here now. Might as well save a trip.”
“Good point,” she says, striding down an aisle, then scooping up some Olaplex.
“Get a conditioner, too.”
She beams—a full, uninhibited grin that lights up her whole face. She looks so much like Erin. Not just in her features, but in the joy she radiates—even now. My chest aches.
As we head toward the checkout line, she glances up at me. “Thank you, Billie,” she says. “I’m glad Mom picked you to be her best friend.”
“Me too, Feebs,” I say.
—
Our next stop is the Pewaukee Public Library. Inside, the scent of dusty paper and cool air wraps around me like a memory. Erin and I spent summers here—biking over, sweating through our tank tops, cooling off amid stacks of books.
I trail my fingers along the spines, thinking I can’t remember the last time I read for pleasure. A Jodi Picoult novel—Mad Honey—catches my eye. Erin devoured Jodi’s books. I wonder if she read this one. I tuck it under my arm.
Phoebe reappears, holding two books.
“What’d you get?” I ask.
She holds up The Incredible Journey and How Dogs Love Us.
“Noticing a theme here,” I say.
She grins. “Yes. Can we stop by the Humane Society next?”
“Your wish is my command,” I say.
—
When we walk into PAWS of Pewaukee, a middle-aged woman with silver hair greets us. Her name tag reads Sarah.
“How can I help you?” Sarah asks.
“Could we visit the puppies, please?” Phoebe says.
“Of course,” Sarah says.
Phoebe knows the routine, surveying all the pups before selecting a few she’d like to hold.
Sarah brings them over one by one.
As Phoebe cuddles with them, she peppers Sarah with questions about each puppy’s history and personality.
At one point, Sarah crouches beside Phoebe. “I know you asked about puppies, but would you like to meet some of the adult dogs? We have some really sweet ones who’ve been waiting for homes.”
Phoebe nods. “Yes, please.”
We follow Sarah to a row of kennels where the dogs watch us, calmly and silently, like they’ve learned not to get their hopes up.
Phoebe says hello to every dog, but I can tell her heart is back with the puppies.
Then she meets Hank, a beagle mix with honey-colored fur and white spots on his back and paws.
“Oh my goodness. He’s so cute!” Phoebe says as Hank comes to the front of the kennel, staring up at her with alert, soulful eyes.
“Can I pet him?” she asks.
Sarah nods and opens the kennel door as Phoebe drops to her knees.
Hank rushes into her outstretched arms, licking her face as Phoebe giggles. Their connection is instant, the kind that reminds me of those reunion videos—soldiers coming home after months away and their dogs going nuts with joy.
“Oh, Hanky,” Phoebe says, her voice going high and tender. “You’re so perfect!”
Sarah smiles down at them. “He likes you.”
“Really?” Phoebe asks.
“Yes. He’s usually a bit shyer. He’s been through a lot.”
“What happened to him?” Phoebe asks as Hank rests his chin on her leg, still wagging his tail.
“His owner passed away,” Sarah says.
Phoebe freezes. Her eyes lift to mine, wide and glassy. She doesn’t have to say it. She thinks it’s fate.
“Do you think Gram would let me have him?” she whispers.
“Sweetie, I don’t think Gram can handle a dog.”
“What about Mick? Maybe he’d want a second dog. Can we call him?”
“You can ask him—just remember he might have to say no,” I say, pulling out my phone and tapping Mick’s name.
“Everything okay?” he asks without saying hello.
“Yes. Hi. Phoebe has a question for you,” I say, putting the phone on speaker.
“Hi, Mick,” Phoebe says. “We’re at PAWS. There’s this dog named Hank. He’s so cute, and he needs a home. Can we please get him?”
“I don’t know, Feebs,” Mick says. “We have a lot to figure out. This might not be the right time to adopt a dog.”
“Can you at least meet him? I know you’d love him.”
“I’ll try,” he says. “Billie, can we talk for a sec?”
I take the phone from Phoebe, step away, and say hi.
“You’re killing me,” he says with a laugh.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to sandbag you. I can break it to her gently—”
“It’s not out of the question,” he says. “But I think we need to tackle a bigger custody issue first.”
“I know,” I say. “I’ll tell her.”
I hang up and walk back over to Phoebe and Hank, bracing myself.
“What did he say?” she asks.
“He doesn’t think it’s a good idea right now, but we can check back—and if he still hasn’t been adopted, we can reconsider.”
She swallows, then presses a kiss to Hank’s head. “I hope I get to see you again,” she whispers. “Hang in there, little buddy.”
—
After Phoebe and I pick up lunch at Chick-fil-A, we return to the house and find Joan asleep on the sofa, HGTV blaring. The remote is still in her hand. I pull it free, mute the TV, then tuck a blanket around her legs.
Phoebe sets one of the chicken sandwiches and a bag of fries on the coffee table. She places a lemonade on a coaster, straw included.
“Should we wake her up to eat?” Phoebe whispers.
“Maybe we should let her sleep. She looks peaceful.”
“Yeah. She does better when she’s rested.”
Phoebe and I eat our lunch in the kitchen, chatting about her upcoming spelling bee.
When we’re done, I say, “How would you feel if I went over to your condo and started sorting some of your mom’s things?”
“What do you mean? Like how?”
“I thought we could donate some of her clothes to women who need them. Your mom loved to help people. What do you think?”
“I think that’s a good idea.”
I pause. “Do you want to come with me?”
“No, I think I should stay here with Gram.”
“You’re a good girl, Phoebe.”
As soon as the words are out, I regret them, remembering how often my mom told me the same—and the pressure that came with that. The weight of always being “good.”
I don’t want Phoebe to feel that. Especially now.
“Do you need anything from your room?”
“Could you get my stuffed animals?”
“You got it,” I say.