Love You More(47)

“Should we wake her up to eat?” Phoebe whispers.

“Maybe we should let her sleep. She looks peaceful.”

“Yeah. She does better when she’s rested.”

Phoebe and I eat our lunch in the kitchen, chatting about her upcoming spelling bee.

When we’re done, I say, “How would you feel if I went over to your condo and started sorting some of your mom’s things?”

“What do you mean? Like how?”

“I thought we could donate some of her clothes to women who need them. Your mom loved to help people. What do you think?”

“I think that’s a good idea.”

I pause. “Do you want to come with me?”

“No, I think I should stay here with Gram.”

“You’re a good girl, Phoebe.”

As soon as the words are out, I regret them, remembering how often my mom told me the same—and the pressure that came with that. The weight of always being “good.”

I don’t want Phoebe to feel that. Especially now.

“Do you need anything from your room?”

“Could you get my stuffed animals?”

“You got it,” I say.





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.

When the doors open, I walk down a carpeted hallway, stopping at unit 303. A pastel Easter wreath hangs on Erin’s door. She always decorated for every holiday, even the minor ones. Any excuse to celebrate.

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 Tshirts 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.