Chapter 20
Emerson
I wish I could say that once you’ve hit rock bottom, it’s smooth sailing from there.
Like, hey, you survived the worst, now kick back with a margarita and enjoy the rest of your life.
But no, life isn’t that easy. Winnie taught me that.
And honestly if she hadn’t, I’d be cursing the universe big time for handing me such a crappy set of cards.
I was angry, you know? Imagine this: car wreck, major burns, a year of recovery, dumped, no college scholarship, and to top it off, losing a friend who helped me through said crap.
Yeah, I was steaming mad. But here’s the deal—life just keeps throwing stuff at you.
It doesn’t matter where you are from, who you are, or what you do; good things, bad things, they keep coming.
Winnie’s lesson? You grab all the good stuff, hold it close, and keep moving forward anyway.
That’s how you ride off into the sunset.
I stood in front of my mirror, scrutinizing the dress I’d put on.
Dust and smudges marred the glass, distorting my reflection.
The dress itself was a riot of different colors, the neckline daring enough for me to don a bright beaded necklace.
It was all Winnie’s idea. She insisted we match for the poetry evening, but now I realized she had another event in mind for me to wear this outfit to.
“I know you don’t feel like the brightest person in the room, Emmy,” she had said.
“But the brightest person never feels that way, and yet they stride on in anyway. That’s what you do with these scars.
You walk into the room, and you show them off. ”
I’d obviously argued, complaining she didn’t understand, that she didn’t have visible ugly scars like mine.
She’d just shrugged and said she would be gone soon, and she wanted me to wear the damn dress anyway.
We’d laughed about it then and cried about it too.
That’s the thing you think about when you lose someone: How many times didn’t I answer their call?
How many times didn’t I go to lunch with them because I was busy doing something else?
If you had a magic mirror that would tell you exactly when all the people you loved would leave you, would you live your life differently?
There was a soft knock at the door, and it opened with a nudge. Wren stood on the other side.
“Your mom let me in,” she said softly, walking into the room.
“It’s a bit of a mess,” I said, gesturing to the piles of clothes.
Wren wasn’t paying attention to the mounds of my wardrobe littering the floor, but rather she was looking at all my gymnastics medals and trophies.
“Bit of a waste,” I said, nodding to them.
“Or,” she replied, “your story could make a good book.”
Wren finally took a good look at my dress. “Wow,” she said. “I didn’t realize there was a color theme for today.”
“Winnie didn’t want her funeral to be filled with doom and gloom, so she wanted me to wear this bright dress. Even though it shows these hideous scars; the pastor will probably douse me in holy water thinking some demonic monster has risen through his church floors.”
Wren looked at me blankly, as though I’d spoken in a different language.
“But you know, working on the old self-esteem,” I added, half laughing, half wanting to cry over how exposed this dress made me feel.
“You don’t have to wear this, Emerson,” she said.
“But I do,” I said. “This was the dress I was going to wear to the poetry evening. Winnie picked it out.”
“But if you’re not comfortable, you can wear something else. Something that feels more like you.”
“That’s the thing, this is something I would wear.
I just haven’t since the accident. Everyone kept telling me to just be myself, to just show off my scars, that they made me beautiful!
But Winnie was the first person who told me I was right, that I was allowed to be angry, that I did look different, that they were ugly, but that didn’t mean I was. ”
I sucked in all the air around me and my lungs felt heavy. This was some otherworldly kind of sadness I was feeling—what the fuck was I going to do without Winnie? What was I going to do without my friend?
“She just left me,” I said, as tears began stinging my eyes. “She left me, and I don’t feel fucking beautiful, and I don’t know who the fuck I am anymore.”
Wren wrapped an arm around me, pulling me into a tight hug as I began to sob in earnest. “I don’t really know who the fuck I am either,” she replied softly.
Up until then, I’d never heard Wren cuss.
She’d always been this quiet, mysterious person who blew into our group without saying much about herself.
But she was just…here for me. The sound of footsteps drew my attention, and Olivia appeared in the doorway.
Wren let go of me, and the two of them stood there, looking at each other for a moment.
There was this weird tension in the air, like they wanted to say something to each other, but didn’t know how.
I obviously cracked a joke. “Did one of you forget to pick up the urn?”
Nailed it.
Olivia blushed, and Wren’s lips curved into the faintest smile.
“How are you?” Olivia asked, and Wren answered by kissing her a soft hello.
“As Winnie would say: the boat still finds its way.”
“I never knew what that meant,” I replied. “She always had these random sayings.”
Wren turned to me and said, “The whole saying is: ‘Though the river may be rough,’ ” she looked pointedly at Olivia, “ ‘The boat still finds its way.’ It means that even if life is difficult, we can still navigate through it.”
“You’re, like, really deep,” I said.
She started picking up clothes from the floor and hanging them over my occasional chair. “It was my job to think very deeply about things once upon a time. Now I mostly just think about new paint and window trimmings.”
I wanted to ask her what she meant by “once upon a time”—if it had to do with whatever she did in New York—but my mom called up the stairs, interrupting the moment.
“We best get going, Emmy!” she yelled.
I sighed, the familiar tightness in my chest returning. “Do we have to?”
“And be late for Winnie’s party?” Olivia replied, raising an eyebrow. “Not worth the risk.”
Both Wren and Olivia extended their hands at the same time. I took them, one in each of mine, letting them guide me down the stairs.
It was kind of like poetry, you know? Having words to hold on to was just as important as having people to hold on to.
That’s what the grief group had shown me, and what I’d discovered through having these people in my life.
When it felt like I was drowning, someone extending a hand—giving me hope—was the thing that saved me.
As far as funerals go, I’ve only been to, like, two my whole life.
The first was for Mom’s great-uncle Ravi, and all I can recall is how insanely good the pie was.
The second was for my neighbor Katie, who was pretty young, and I just remember feeling super sad, because she’d always been really nice to me.
But Winnie’s funeral? Man, that was something else entirely.
Even though we were saying goodbye, it felt like we were saying hello.
The chapel was hushed, the scent of pine hanging in the air, birdsong drifting in through the open door.
Winnie’s picture at the altar was vibrant, decorated in dried flowers and winter greenery that Wren had carefully arranged from what remained in her garden.
We had the wake at Wren’s house, with the fire going, and we served chicken pot pie.
It was cozy, and honestly…kind of nice. She would have been very impressed.
When you’re missing someone, time just gets all messed up.
Whether it’s been five minutes or a whole week, it feels like they’ve been gone forever.
Everywhere I looked, it was like Winnie was there—our favorite books stacked on the shelf, photos of us plastered all over my mirror, even the birds outside reminded me of her.
It was like she was everywhere and nowhere all at once, and nowhere more so than at our next group gathering.
Henry clapped to get everyone’s attention, and I felt Wren jump beside me.
“I’m going to have to talk to him about his clapping,” she muttered under her breath.
I smirked. “He’s just very excited about the poetry evening,” I replied.
“Catering and decorations are organized,” Henry announced. “Olivia, you are still okay to do door tickets?”
Olivia nodded.
“And press?” he added, hopeful.
“Still working on that,” she replied, although Henry seemed to approve of this.
“And I’m going to emcee the event,” he said.
“What order is it going to go in?” Bobby asked. “Like, who is reading their poems and when?”
“Yes, I’d like to know this too,” Julian replied. “Who’s going first?”
“Should we draw it out of a hat?” Gill suggested.
Henry held up his hands. “One thing at a time,” he said, before gesturing to Wren.
Wren cleared her throat. “Okay, so, the order for the poetry evening,” she said, pulling a small notebook from her tote bag. “We’ve got Rita and Bobby starting with their joint poem. Then Julian, you’ll do your letter. And Gill, you will follow him. Then Henry is going to read, Emerson…”
I let out a groan in response, but Wren pointedly ignored me. “Then Olivia and then me. And then finally we will do a group reading of Winnie’s poem.”
I felt my chest become heavier.
Wren looked up at everyone briefly, squinting and blinking.
“Do you need glasses, Wren?” Julian joked.
“No, no,” she laughed nervously, “never needed glasses in my life.”
Strange, I thought.
She put the paper away, and Henry took over the conversation with Max, wanting to check in on everyone after last week.
“I’m not sure what to write,” I said quietly to Wren. “I can’t think very far beyond a couple of minutes at the moment, let alone to the night I actually have to read it out.”
“I’ll help you,” Wren reassured me.
“But what if I don’t know what to write?”
She patted my arm. “You will.”
I nodded, feeling a lump form in my throat at the mere thought of writing something about Winnie.
“We’ve got this, Emmy,” Wren said. “It’s going to be a wonderful evening.”
The library entrance bell rang, and we all glanced in its direction, surprised to see someone entering this late. A man suddenly emerged from the aisles, clutching a briefcase.
“Sorry to interrupt so late,” he said, his voice apologetic. “I’m Anders. I’m from Wilks all I could hear was my heartbeat thumping in my chest.
Winnie had instructed her house be left to the Everston community, specifically to be managed by Henry, as a poet’s retreat. She had asked Wren to manage the garden. She’d left various items for everyone, each referencing something specific they had shared with Winnie.
“And,” Anders said, fumbling in his bag before pulling out a small stack of papers, “just a bit of official business.”
I knew exactly what they were.
“Change of ownership,” he said, smiling gently. “The car’s officially yours now, Emerson.”
I pictured all the times I rode shotgun while Winnie hummed along to the radio or told me about weird dreams she had. It’s cruel, really, how the most ordinary things become the moments you miss the most. You never think a random afternoon drive will be the last one.
“Oh, hold on, one last thing,” Anders said, and he placed another bag on the table.
He unzipped it and pulled out the contents.
It was an urn, with a hummingbird etched into the side.
He looked at me. “Never easy,” he said, “but these are Ms. Langford’s ashes.
She has instructed in her will that they were to be given to you, Emerson.
She said you would know what to do with them.
” He promptly handed me the urn, and I just stared blankly at it.
Winnie assumed I would know what to do with them?
“Thanks, Anders,” Henry said, as Anders closed his briefcase. “Appreciate you coming so late.” We were all quiet as he left.
I was still clutching the urn when Gill piped up. “You know, we should name our group in Winnie’s honor,” he said. “Something she would have liked.”
Everyone thought for a moment.
“Misery Loves Company,” I finally said.
Henry snorted, which made Gill and Rita laugh, and Bobby and Julian too. Wren grinned at me, and Olivia nodded an approval.
“Then it’s settled,” Max said. “A poetry evening with Misery Loves Company.”