Chapter 15
Emerson
It had been two whole days since I’d heard from her.
I’d called multiple times. Her phone rang out.
I’d texted too—no reply. I mean, she was an old lady; she could do whatever she wanted.
Sometimes she’d get on these baking kicks, really take it seriously.
Or sometimes she went on long bird-watching expeditions.
And she still went camping sometimes. The woman was seventy-eight going on twenty.
But something felt strange, because Winnie always asked me to bake with her, and we always bird-watched together.
Maybe I’d done something wrong. Upset her in some way.
Which is why I found myself at Gill’s old place, the one Wren was fixing up.
She seemed surprised to see me when I walked up the cobblestone driveway.
I leaned my bike against the porch railing, careful not to knock over the small bundle of pine saplings Wren had stacked near the steps. Their roots were wrapped in burlap, waiting for the ground to soften in spring.
“Are you going to start a Christmas tree farm?” I asked, grinning.
She scowled. “They’re just trees.”
“Sure,” I teased. “That’s exactly what someone starting a Christmas tree farm would say.”
Wren rolled her eyes. “I can bet this place gets buried in snow during the winter. I’m just getting prepared to liven the yard up when it melts away.”
I looked up at the cloudy sky, the wind carrying that familiar sharp bite. “Usually yes,” I replied. “The most snow days we ever got in school was, like, seven. But the last couple of years have been low-key. There’ll be no burying this year.”
Not that I was a weather expert. But it was late November already, and we’d barely gotten a dusting of powder.
Wren seemed to breathe relief. “Are we supposed to be having a driving lesson?” she asked.
“I’d need to actually drive for it to be a lesson,” I replied.
“Yeah, it’s been a few weeks since we hatched that plan,” she replied, moving a box of tools off the swing on the porch. “I just thought maybe you weren’t ready.”
I sighed dramatically, watching my breath curl in the air.
“No, hey, listen,” Wren said, shifting toward me.
“You’ve come a long way just by sitting in the front passenger seat,” Wren said.
“Olivia thinks so too.” A nice sentiment.
I knew Olivia did genuinely want to help me, too, but I had a suspicion her enthusiasm about these so-called driving lessons had more to do with how hard she was crushing on Wren than anything else.
“Olivia would think that,” I said, with a smirk, “because she just wants an excuse to see you.”
Wren scrunched up her nose. She did this a lot when she was thinking about something intently. I could see why Olivia liked her; she was cute, for, like, a thirtysomething.
“How’s your mom?” Wren asked, throwing the conversation in the complete opposite direction. Deflection.
“She’s fine,” I replied. “She’s working.”
Wren sat on the swing and indicated for me to sit with her.
“I love this swing,” she murmured. “It’s my favorite part of the whole house.”
“Not the opossums?”
She grimaced. “Gill seems to love telling everyone about my war with the opossums.”
“I think he just loves talking about anything that reminds him of Edith,” I said.
There was a nest of swallows in the tree beside us, and I watched them for a while.
“Winnie loves birds,” I said. “We talk about them all the time. There’s something about them.
The way they just…go. Like the whole sky is theirs.
Winnie says they represent freedom. For me, maybe it’s the possibility.
Trying to figure out what’s next, where to go, how to get there—it’s like watching them makes me believe a second chance is out there somewhere. ”
Wren watched the birds for a moment too. “What’s your favorite bird?” she asked me.
“Ravens,” I replied. “And not because they are all dark and emo, but because ravens are actually super smart. Did you know that ravens can remember specific individuals and events? They can problem solve, too, and have even been known to use tools.”
Wren nodded. “Actually, I did know this; I quite like birds myself.”
I sat a little straighter on the bench. “You do? What are your favorites? Wait, let me guess, wrens?”
She smiled. “Actually, no, but those were Lucy’s favorite birds. If I had to pick, I would say bluebirds. You know they can spot a caterpillar from at least fifty yards away?”
“That’s impressive,” I said.
“Some people think that bluebirds connect the living to those who have passed away; they are supposed to be a symbol of joy and hope.”
I contemplated her words. “Ravens symbolize death,” I countered.
Wren smiled. “Yes, but also change and rebirth.”
“They also have one hundred different vocalizations, and can live up to, like, thirty years old, or more.”
“I hear they also collect shiny things.”
“Well,” I shrugged, “they have to impress the other ravens.”
Wren laughed, before shifting slightly on the swing. It moved gently, rocking backward and forward; I lifted my legs so they were off the ground. It reminded me of the afternoons Brady and I would spend at the park: he would see how high he could make me fly on the swing.
“Can I ask you something?” I said.
“Anything,” Wren replied.
“You loved Lucy, right, more than anything?”
“I did.”
“So how do you know if you could ever love anyone else? Like, is there more than more?”
She was quiet for a moment. “I don’t think there’s more than more,” she said. “There’s just different. I loved Lucy for all the things she was, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t love somebody else, for all the things they are.”
“I thought I was going to marry Brady and be with him forever,” I said. “But then the accident happened, and I’m not the same Emerson I was back then. I’m burned, inside and out. I am not sure anyone would love the new Emerson.”
“Perhaps you’re asking the wrong question,” Wren said. “You should start by asking yourself, why did you love him?”
I shrugged. “Well, he would always smile when I turned up to his practice, and he would always tell me how great I was for bringing extra snacks for him at lunch, or helping him do his homework. He was just really grateful for me.”
Wren looked at me curiously. “What did he do for you?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you have just listed all the nice things you did for Brady, but what did he do for you?”
I tried to think, but nothing came to mind.
Instead, all I could think about were all the times I’d begged him to watch a movie with me at my house and he would choose to go out with friends instead.
Or he would call me drunk and ask me to pick him up.
Or he would say football was the most important thing in his life, You understand, babe?
and then he wouldn’t even say he was joking.
“Nothing,” I said truthfully.
Wren folded her arms. The smell of honeysuckle wafted from somewhere in the garden. “Well, I think that’s a good place to start,” she said. “Someone needs to think of you, Emmy.”
“Winnie thinks of me,” I said. “Although she hasn’t been answering my messages.”
Wren stiffened, eyes narrowing as a spider scurried along the wall behind us, and scrunched her nose. “She was a little under the weather, wasn’t she?” she said. “Maybe she’s all bundled up on bed rest watching Real Housewives.”
I grinned. “Did she tell you about that?”
“Oh, it’s all she can talk about. I think she wants to be one of them.” Wren smirked. “Why don’t you bike over to her house? Go check on her yourself.”
“You’re right,” I replied. “And if she’s mad at me, better to talk about it, right? Life’s too short, as Henry always says.”
Wren nodded. “Yes,” she replied, her eyes glazing over, as though thinking of someone. “Life really is too short.”
I rang the doorbell, no answer. I rang again, still no answer.
I went fishing for the spare key in the pot of lavender Winnie had growing around the side of the house, but it wasn’t there.
I walked back to the front door and realized it was open, so I let myself inside.
The house was quiet. There was no scent of freshly baked cookies or pecan pie.
Instead, there was a damp, musky smell, as though the windows hadn’t been opened in a while.
I made my way through the living room, and even checked her back courtyard, looking for her.
The floorboards creaked beneath my feet.
The silence was unsettling, an eerie contrast to the afternoons we had spent baking, reading, and laughing.
I ventured into the kitchen, half expecting to find Winnie bent over the sink, scrubbing baking dishes with her headphones on.
But instead, I discover her untouched grocery list, its pages weirdly blank.
She wrote everything down. Everything. My eyes scanned the counter, and that’s when I found them.
At least three pill bottles. They had never been there before.
I immediately looked at the labels: doxorubicin, prednisone, cyclophosphamide.
I googled the names and my heart stopped.
Cancer medications? Lymphomas? But Winnie didn’t have cancer. What the fuck was going on?
I fumbled for my phone, my hands trembling as I called Winnie’s number for the hundredth time.
This time, instead of ringing into an empty void, I heard it inside the house.
A muffled chime came from down the hall.
I whipped around just as someone stepped out of Winnie’s bedroom; a scream strangled itself in my throat.
But it was Henry, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.
He froze at the sight of me, Winnie’s phone in his hand.
“What are you doing here?!” I demanded.
Henry looked flustered, caught off guard, his grip tightening around the strap of the bag. “Emmy, I—”
Without thinking, I grabbed one of the pill bottles and shoved it at him. “Do you know what this is?”