Chapter 27
Erin’s condo complex is quiet, the kind of Saturday stillness that feels lonely even under the best of circumstances. I tap her key fob at the gate and find a guest spot. I’ve only been here a couple times before, but I’ve mailed enough cards and gifts to know her unit number by heart.
Inside the lobby, the air smells of synthetic carpet and takeout.
I step into the elevator, grateful not to have company.
I glance around at the walls, plastered with motivational quotes and flyers for “Wine-Down Wednesdays.” I press the button for the third floor and watch the numbers glow one, two, three. There’s no going back now.
My breath catches as the key turns. I step inside, feeling like I’m trespassing on sacred ground.
I move into the kitchen and flip on the lights.
Everything looks ordinary, as if Erin just stepped out and might return any second.
I glance at the fridge, covered with magnets and photos curled at the corners.
My eyes catch on one of Erin, Phoebe, and me from last Thanksgiving. I quickly look away.
On the counter sits a pile of unopened mail. I glance through it: a J. Crew catalog, an electric bill, three pieces of junk mail. A denim jacket slouches over a counter stool. A wineglass sits by the sink, crimson residue clinging to the curve like watercolor, a pink lipstick mark on the side.
I picture her standing right here, scrunching her curls, finishing her glass of wine before going downstairs to meet Russ. I reach out to touch the glass, then pull my hand back, reluctant to disturb her last trace.
I can’t think like that—not if I want to make it through the next few hours. I pick it up and give it a rinse. Her lipstick clings stubbornly to the glass. I load it into the half-filled dishwasher, then carefully wipe down the counters.
Baby steps, I think. One small surface at a time.
On the way down the hall, I glance into Phoebe’s room, taking note of the stuffed animals lined up on her bed. Then I square my shoulders and face Erin’s bedroom.
I open her door and inhale her scent—grown-up Erin this time. Jasmine and vanilla, a hint of neroli.
Her comforter is rumpled—like she pulled it up in a hurry—and covered with a pile of clothes.
I peel back the layers: a pale green slip dress, a sequined top, a garment bag from Rent the Runway.
The pair of Ugg slippers I gave her last Christmas sits next to the bed.
Two empty water bottles rest on the nightstand.
I walk over to her dresser. Jewelry overflows from ceramic trays and shallow dishes—a mass of gold bangles, stud earrings for her triple piercings, and several necklaces, including one I gave her when Phoebe was born.
I touch the P charm, then run my finger along the knotted chain. Erin’s necklaces were always tangled.
“Can you fix this?” she’d say when we were younger, handing it to me as she moved on to the next thing.
I’d get a safety pin and tease the tight knots apart. She was about the big picture, while I focused on the details. It’s time for details now.
I open Erin’s closet, reminded of what a pack rat she was. She kept clothes forever because “what if they come back in style?” I spot a blue Ikea bag crumpled in the corner and start filling it.
One by one, I make a decision—save or donate—the hangers squeaking as I go.
It’s hard to know what might be sentimental to Phoebe, but I do my best, saving Erin’s most-worn pieces.
A vintage Packers sweatshirt. A floaty chiffon dress.
A chambray shirt. Her go-to leather jacket.
The pink robe she wore in the hospital after Phoebe was born.
From there, I move on to her shoes, saving only the cowboy boots she bought on a bachelorette weekend in Nashville and a pair of strappy silver sandals that look brand new. I start to sort her bags, then decide to keep them all—because what little girl doesn’t love purses?
Erin’s T-shirts are harder, each one telling a story. About halfway through, Mick calls me again.
“Hi. I’m downstairs. Can you let me in?”
“Yes,” I say, pushing the buzzer.
A moment later, he’s at the door.
I burst into tears, the composure I’ve been holding together finally letting go.
“It’s going to be okay,” he says, giving me a quick, careful hug before stepping into the kitchen.
I lean against the counter, the afternoon light slanting across the room.
“I’m sorry,” I say, wiping my eyes.
“Don’t be,” he says. “I’ve had my moments, too.”
“It just feels wrong. Going through her things like this.”
“I know,” he says. “But we’re doing it for Phoebe.”
I nod, anchored by the reminder.
“I’m making piles of clothes to donate,” I say, gesturing down the hall. “I’m worried I might give away something Phoebe would want. But having her go through it all feels too much.”
“Yeah. Just make the best call you can. It’ll be okay.”
I nod.
Mick straightens his shoulders and glances up at the cabinets. “Should we call Eliot and Anna? Maybe they could bring packing supplies. We need boxes, bubble wrap, and packing tape.”
I nod, sending them a text on a new thread.
They both reply within seconds, saying they’ll be right over. I wipe my palms on my jeans and head back down the hall to finish Erin’s dresser.
In the bottom drawer is a collection of silk nightgowns and lacy lingerie.
I run my fingers across a white negligee, then lift it from the drawer.
Beneath it is a pink leather book that looks like a journal.
I hesitate, then open it. Taped to the first page is an ultrasound photo, Phoebe’s first snapshot—a bean-shaped outline, a blur of shadows and light.
I remember Erin texting me this photo, asking if I could determine the gender.
I’d laughed. “You don’t have to go to med school to know that’s a ridiculous question!”
“C’mon, Billie,” she whined. “If you had to guess?”
It was one of her favorite lines.
Every time, I’d think the same thing: But I don’t have to guess.
Eventually she’d wear me down, and I’d say whatever it was she wanted to hear.
I did on that day, too: “If I had to guess, I’d say it’s a girl.”
“Really?” she said, her voice eager.
“Yes.”
Below the photo is a caption in Erin’s tiny cursive—the only thing of hers ever neater than mine. My breath catches.
I close the book, then lay it gently on the keep pile.
—
When Eliot and Anna arrive with packing supplies, we split up the remaining to-do list. Eliot goes to Phoebe’s room; Anna starts on Erin’s bathroom; Mick continues in the kitchen; and I tackle her desk in the living room.
As I sit down, my pulse ticks up like I’m about to open an exam I haven’t studied for. The surface is chaos—cherry lip balm welded to a Post-it, gummy bear wrappers, earbuds knotted like nerves.
I clear a landing strip and pry up the blotter calendar, the pages glued to the laminate by a spill. I scan the month of routine appointments, my eyes landing on SPELLING BEE, all caps and circled in pink. Underneath, a note in pencil: Invite Billie.
My eyes fill with tears.
I blink until the letters stop swimming, then open the top, middle drawer. Everyday remnants spill through my fingers: personalized stationery, crumpled receipts, expired coupons, and Phoebe’s last report card: straight As.
The left drawer holds tabbed files—medical, dental, insurance, utilities.
The right drawer is filled with photos and greeting cards.
I recognize several from me, including one I sent last Mother’s Day.
I put everything to be saved in a box, fold the flaps, and pull the tape across with a clean, decisive rip.
Staring down at the sealed box, I wonder if this is part of honoring someone: sorting and saving the proof of their life.
After the last box is packed, Eliot and Anna fill their cars with bags to drop off at Goodwill. Mick and I head back to Joan’s with Phoebe’s things and a few of the boxes we’re keeping. The rest can wait for another day.
—
As we walk back into the house, Phoebe and Joan are hunched over the dining room table, playing Monopoly.
“Gram’s about to go bankrupt!” Phoebe says, gleefully fanning her rainbow of bills like a little loan shark.
I exchange an amused look with Mick and can tell he’s thinking the same thing: Only in this house would “family fun” mean foreclosing on someone with dementia.
“I hate this game,” Joan mutters, squinting down at the board. “It never ends.”
I laugh—because I hate it, too—remembering how I used to let Erin win just so it would be over.
“Where’s my iron?” Joan asks.
“Here, Gram,” Phoebe says, pointing to her game piece. “Remember: You own two orange properties and all of the light blues.”
After Phoebe drives Joan into bankruptcy—sweeping up her last few bills with a triumphant whoop—I call a cease-fire and pass around plates for the pizza and salad Mick ordered.
Once we’re finished, it’s time for Phoebe and Joan to go to bed. I guide them upstairs, help them both into pajamas, and tuck them in.
When I’m sure they’re both asleep, I creep downstairs, finding Mick on the sofa.
“They really shouldn’t be here alone,” I say.
“I know,” he says.
“It’s like two kids living together.”
Mick swallows. “I’m going to move into the guest room. Starting tomorrow.”
I feel a rush of relief. “Thank you.”
“It’s a temporary fix—until we sort out custody,” he says. “I’ll call a lawyer next week to figure out next steps.”
I nod. “And I’ll talk to Dean as soon as I get back.”
“There’s no immediate rush, but we do need to get this settled.”
“I know,” I say. “I’m coming back for Phoebe’s spelling bee. That’s two weeks away. I’ll have a decision by then.”
“That works,” he says.
We sit in silence for a beat before Mick clears his throat. “There’s something else, too.”
I stare at him, waiting.
“I wanted to apologize,” he says. “Last night in your parents’ driveway…I was out of line.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “We’re both wrung out.”
“It wasn’t okay—and it wasn’t fair. You never led me on. You were always clear about what you wanted.”
I bite the inside of my cheek.
“It was just hard—being left behind.”
I look at him, hardly believing we are finally having this conversation. “I left Wisconsin,” I say. “Not you.”
He takes a deep breath. “Well, you left me, too. But you left for something important. Something that mattered. And anyway,” he says, quieter, “I could’ve moved to New York.”
“But Maeve—”
“She would have been fine.”
“That’s hindsight.”
“No. I think that deep down, I knew it then. On some level, I used her as an excuse. Her—and the orchard.”
“Why?”
“The truth?” He pauses. “I was afraid.”
It’s a reframing of the past I didn’t expect—not an accusation, but an apology. “Afraid of what?” I ask.
“Afraid of not fitting into your life. Of holding you back. Of not being enough for you.”
“I never felt that way,” I say. “Not once.”
“Maybe you didn’t.” He pauses. “But I did.”
I stare into his eyes, letting the words sink in.
His expression turns sad. “I was chickenshit. And blaming you was easier than admitting I was scared. I’m sorry for that. And I’m sorry for that day in the café.”
I blink, remembering that table by the window, how much I wanted to reach out and touch him. To make him mine again.
“I went there thinking I could do it,” he continues. “Be friends again. Then I saw you…looking like you belonged to a whole other world.” His voice trails off.
“I didn’t belong to that world,” I say. “Not yet.”
“Maybe not. But it still felt like you had outgrown me.”
“I never outgrew you. We just wanted different things.”
“Yeah,” he says, taking a long breath. “Anyway. I just want you to know that if you can’t do this—I won’t hold it against you.”
I look at him—really look at him—and suddenly, he’s no longer the boy I once loved, but a man I’m just getting to know.