Love You More(45)

“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.