Chapter 35
The next morning, I wake to a soft, persistent whine. When I open my eyes, Hank is sitting beside the bed, tail thumping against the carpet.
“Hi, you,” I say, patting his head before rolling over to find the other side of the bed empty.
My conversation with Dean drifts back, a pit settling in my stomach.
I slide out of bed and find him downstairs on the sofa, already dressed.
“Good morning,” I say.
“Good morning,” he says, his expression gentle.
“Did Hank already go out?”
“Yes. And I fed him.”
“Thank you.” I sit on the sofa beside him, close enough to touch. But I don’t.
“I’m sorry about last night,” he says.
“Me too,” I say.
“I don’t want to make any excuses,” he says. “I didn’t handle things in the best way. I was feeling insecure.”
His vulnerability lands differently than it did last night. I lean into him.
“It’s okay,” I say. “This is an incredibly stressful situation. I know you’re doing the best you can.”
He kisses the top of my head. “I changed my flight. I’m leaving today.”
I look at him, startled.
“I just think it’ll be easier for you to sort things out without me here.”
I nod, knowing that’s probably true. “Will you be able to make the wedding?”
He shakes his head. “No. But it’s okay. I need to catch up on some work anyway.”
“I’m sorry you’re missing it—and it ended up being like this.”
“It wasn’t for nothing,” he says. “I got to meet Phoebe and be here for her big win. That was special.”
“Thank you for saying that.”
“I mean it.”
“What time is your flight?” I ask
“Two. I’m keeping my appointment at Froedtert Hospital, too.”
“You are?”
“Yes. I’m still very serious about moving here, if that’s what you decide.”
“Thank you.”
Dean hesitates. “Can you just do me one favor?”
I nod again.
“Can you just…keep an open mind about New York?” he asks.
I take a slow breath. “Okay. Maybe a change of scenery would be good for her,” I say, thinking of how her face lit up when Dean mentioned New York—like someone had opened a window.
“Only if it feels right to you,” he says.
I nod, promising I’ll give it real thought and discuss it more with Phoebe.
“Thank you,” he says. “That means a lot.”
We sit there a moment longer, my head on his shoulder, staring at the blank TV.
After breakfast, Dean’s Uber pulls into the driveway. I follow him to the door.
He hugs me, then kisses my forehead. “Bye for now,” he says. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
I nod. “Let me know how Froedtert goes.”
“I’ll call as soon as I’m finished.”
I kiss him once more before he’s out the door. His suitcase wheels click down the front walk.
I stay rooted in the doorway, watching as the car backs out and disappears down the street. Hank presses against my leg, as if sensing my worry. I reach down and scratch between his ears, then step back inside, closing the door behind me.
I head into the kitchen, realizing it’s been years since I’ve been alone in this house. The coffeepot sits half-full on the counter. I rinse the mugs and slide them into the dishwasher.
My frustration toward Dean has evaporated. What’s left is the simple truth: He’s trying to do the right thing while still wanting a future he can picture.
Hank noses my hand, nudging me forward.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Let’s go.”
I clip on his leash and lead him out the front door, toward Joan’s house.
When I arrive, Mick is sitting at the kitchen table with a yellow legal pad.
He looks up at me and says, “Russ was charged.”
“Thank God,” I say, feeling a rush of relief so intense I nearly cry. “What was the charge?”
“Homicide by intoxicated use of a vehicle. His blood alcohol content was 0.12.”
I sit across from him.
After a pause, he says, “I’m sorry for letting things get tense last night.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” I say, walking a fine line between honesty and disloyalty. “None of this is easy.”
“No,” he says. “It isn’t.”
I sigh. “So I guess I’ll start looking for that paperwork.”
“You want a hand?”
“No, thanks,” I say. “You need a break from this place.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah. I haven’t been to the gym in two weeks.”
“Go,” I say, shooing him.
He stands, grabs his keys, then pauses. “Call me if you find anything.”
—
After Mick is gone, I go upstairs to check on Joan and Phoebe.
The bedroom curtains are open a crack, the light slanting across the carpet in pale gold stripes.
Joan is on her side, Phoebe curled against her, hair tangled, cheek pressed into the pillow, her small hand tucked beneath her chin. They are both sound asleep.
I turn and head back downstairs, straight into the garage. The smell washes over me—a faint mildew stench, the chemical tang of old plastic bins, and the cold scent of oil-stained concrete.
I stare at the stacks of boxes and find the one labeled “Erin’s desk files.”
I crouch down and rip open the tape. For the next hour, I go through every page of every file folder—methodical, exhaustive—looking for keywords: Legal. Important. In Case of Emergency.
But there’s nothing. Just page after page of mundane details and ordinary responsibility.
I look again anyway, the dust and ink turning my fingers black.
Finally, I sit back on my heels and let out a long breath. It’s time to stop pretending. There’s no will. No tidy document to guide us. No clear instruction from the past.
I push up slowly, brushing off my jeans.
Then I spot it again—Erin’s pink pregnancy journal, wedged between two folders. It’s probably just filled with mood swings and baby names—but if she wrote anything about what she wanted for Phoebe, I need to know.
I carry it inside.
—
Back in the kitchen, I slide into a chair and rest my fingers on the spine of the book, tracing the ridge.
A beat later, Phoebe rounds the corner, rubbing her eyes.
“Good morning,” I say.
“Good morning,” she says.
She walks over to my chair, leaning onto me, her arms hooked around my neck.
“What’s that?” she asks, tilting her head toward the book.
“Your mom’s old journal,” I say. “I think she wrote in it when she was pregnant with you.”
“Oh,” she says.
I hesitate, then open the cover, showing her the sonogram photo.
“That’s you,” I say. “Your mom’s first ultrasound.”
“I look like a gummy bear.”
I laugh. “Yeah, I can see it!”
“Does she talk about me in it?”
“I’m sure she does,” I say, closing the book. “I haven’t read it.”
“Are you going to?”
“I don’t know.” I pause. “How would you feel if I did?”
“Journals are private. But maybe it’s okay now?”
The question breaks my heart.
“Maybe so,” I say.
The doorbell rings, slicing through the silence.
I head to the foyer and open the front door. Anna and Eliot sweep in.
“Did you get my text?” Eliot asks.
I shake my head. “No. What did you send?”
“Mick told us about last night, and we thought you could use a hand with Joan today,” he says.
“We could take her to brunch and tour a couple care facilities. I made some calls,” Anna says.
“Oh, that would be a huge help,” I say. “Let me see if she’s awake.”
Anna glances past me. “Where’s Dean?”
“He’s meeting with people at Froedtert Hospital.”
“That’s exciting!” she says.
“So this is really happening?” Eliot asks.
“I think so,” I say.
“Wow,” he says. “It would be amazing to have you back.”
I smile, then tell them Phoebe’s in the kitchen.
A moment later, I find Joan in her bathroom, already dressed in slacks and a striped blouse, combing her hair. She smells powdery, the scent reminding me of childhood.
When I tell her Eliot and Anna are here to take her out, her face brightens.
“How nice,” she says.
—
When we get downstairs, Eliot hugs Joan and says, “The woman of the hour!”
Joan smiles.
“We’re taking you to brunch,” Anna says.
“Do I need to change?”
“No, you’re perfect,” I say.
As Eliot and Anna usher her out the side door, Phoebe laughs and says, “Don’t get in too much trouble, Gram!”
The instant the door clicks shut, Phoebe says, “Can we make chocolate-chip cookies?”
I laugh. “Sure,” I say. “Do we have all the ingredients?”
She nods, opening the cupboard. “Mick and I made some last week. We have chocolate chips left over.”
“Let’s do it,” I say, feeling a pang of guilt—this is their thing, and I’m not just stepping into it, I might take her from him.
We move around each other in the familiar choreography of small kitchens—the clink of measuring cups, the hum of the mixer. Vanilla fills the air. Phoebe cracks eggs with surgical focus. Flour dusts the counter like chalk.
When she thinks I’m not looking, she swipes her finger through batter and licks it clean.
“You know you can get salmonella from raw eggs,” I say.
She shrugs. “Mick said that risk is very low.”
“Oh, he did?” I smile. “I didn’t realize Mick has a medical degree.”
She grins.
I take a deep breath. “Hey, Feebs. I have a question for you—no right or wrong answer.”
She looks up at me.
“Remember when you and Dean were talking about New York last night?”
She nods.
“How did you feel when he mentioned that?”
“I was happy.”
I’m caught off guard by how simple and sure her answer is.
“So you think that’s something you might want to do?”
“Yes. But what about Gram? She needs help.”
“She does. But the adults will make sure she has it. You don’t have to worry about Gram.”
Her face clears, like a window wiped clean. “Well then, I want to move to New York with you.”
“Can you tell me why?” I ask.
She studies the counter, thinking. “Because it’s fun there. And exciting.” She pauses. “And because you remind me of Mom. You talk to me like she did. And you think the same stuff is funny.” Her voice trembles. “I feel like she’d want me with you.”
A bittersweet ache spreads through my chest.
“You remind me of her, too,” I say. “But we could be together here. Dean and I could move to Wisconsin.”
“Yeah,” she says. “But New York sounds way more fun.”
The thought settles uneasily.
“So can I go with you?”
“I don’t know yet. It’s complicated—and we have to talk it all through with Mick.”
She frowns. “Is he going to be upset with me?”
“No. Nobody’s going to be upset with you.”
She nods, rolling the dough into perfect spheres—worry reshaped into something she can control.
A beat later, the back door swings open.
“Hi, ladies,” Mick says, bright and breathless.
“That was a quick workout!” I smile.
“I forgot my laptop,” he says. “Left it on the porch.”
He steps into the kitchen, his gaze sweeping across the counter. “Making cookies, are we?”
“Yeah,” I say. “We’re trying to make them as good as yours.”
“You got your work cut out for you,” he says with a laugh.
“Hey, Mick,” Phoebe says. “I might move to New York.”
“Oh, yeah?” He rakes a hand through his hair as his eyes flick to mine.
“We were just talking about it,” I say. “But I told Phoebe we needed to discuss it with you.”
Mick nods, his jaw working once.
Phoebe looks at him, her brow furrowed. “Are you mad?”
“I told her you wouldn’t be,” I say.
“I’m not mad, honey,” Mick says. He meets my eyes. “I just didn’t see that coming.”
As I turn toward the counter, my elbow clips a metal measuring cup, and it clatters to the tile floor. Hank startles, tail tucked. Mick bends to pick it up, setting it carefully back on the counter.
I take a breath. “Why don’t we get these cookies in the oven and sit down and talk about it? The three of us.”
“Sure,” Mick says, his voice low. “I’m going to grab my laptop. Meet you on the porch.”
“We’ll be right out,” I say, trying to sound steadier than I feel.