Love You More(48)

A moment later, he’s at the door.

I burst into tears, the composure I’ve been holding together finally letting go.

“It’s going to be okay,” he says, giving me a quick, careful hug before stepping into the kitchen.

I lean against the counter, the afternoon light slanting across the room.

“I’m sorry,” I say, wiping my eyes.

“Don’t be,” he says. “I’ve had my moments, too.”

“It just feels wrong. Going through her things like this.”

“I know,” he says. “But we’re doing it for Phoebe.”

I nod, anchored by the reminder.

“I’m making piles of clothes to donate,” I say, gesturing down the hall. “I’m worried I might give away something Phoebe would want. But having her go through it all feels too much.”

“Yeah. Just make the best call you can. It’ll be okay.”

I nod.

Mick straightens his shoulders and glances up at the cabinets. “Should we call Eliot and Anna? Maybe they could bring packing supplies. We need boxes, bubble wrap, and packing tape.”

I nod, sending them a text on a new thread.

They both reply within seconds, saying they’ll be right over. I wipe my palms on my jeans and head back down the hall to finish Erin’s dresser.

In the bottom drawer is a collection of silk nightgowns and lacy lingerie. I run my fingers across a white negligee, then lift it from the drawer. Beneath it is a pink leather book that looks like a journal. I hesitate, then open it. Taped to the first page is an ultrasound photo, Phoebe’s first snapshot—a bean-shaped outline, a blur of shadows and light.

I remember Erin texting me this photo, asking if I could determine the gender.

I’d laughed. “You don’t have to go to med school to know that’s a ridiculous question!”

“C’mon, Billie,” she whined. “If you had to guess?”

It was one of her favorite lines.

Every time, I’d think the same thing: But I don’t have to guess.

Eventually she’d wear me down, and I’d say whatever it was she wanted to hear.

I did on that day, too: “If I had to guess, I’d say it’s a girl.”

“Really?” she said, her voice eager.

“Yes.”

Below the photo is a caption in Erin’s tiny cursive—the only thing of hers ever neater than mine. My breath catches.

I close the book, then lay it gently on the keep pile.



* * *



—

When Eliot and Anna arrive with packing supplies, we split up the remaining to-do list. Eliot goes to Phoebe’s room; Anna starts on Erin’s bathroom; Mick continues in the kitchen; and I tackle her desk in the living room.

As I sit down, my pulse ticks up like I’m about to open an exam I haven’t studied for. The surface is chaos—cherry lip balm welded to a Post-it, gummy bear wrappers, earbuds knotted like nerves.

I clear a landing strip and pry up the blotter calendar, the pages glued to the laminate by a spill. I scan the month of routine appointments, my eyes landing on SPELLING BEE, all caps and circled in pink. Underneath, a note in pencil: Invite Billie.

My eyes fill with tears.

I blink until the letters stop swimming, then open the top, middle drawer. Everyday remnants spill through my fingers: personalized stationery, crumpled receipts, expired coupons, and Phoebe’s last report card: straight As.

The left drawer holds tabbed files—medical, dental, insurance, utilities. The right drawer is filled with photos and greeting cards. I recognize several from me, including one I sent last Mother’s Day. I put everything to be saved in a box, fold the flaps, and pull the tape across with a clean, decisive rip. Staring down at the sealed box, I wonder if this is part of honoring someone: sorting and saving the proof of their life.

After the last box is packed, Eliot and Anna fill their cars with bags to drop off at Goodwill. Mick and I head back to Joan’s with Phoebe’s things and a few of the boxes we’re keeping. The rest can wait for another day.



* * *



— As we walk back into the house, Phoebe and Joan are hunched over the dining room table, playing Monopoly.

“Gram’s about to go bankrupt!” Phoebe says, gleefully fanning her rainbow of bills like a little loan shark.

I exchange an amused look with Mick and can tell he’s thinking the same thing: Only in this house would “family fun” mean foreclosing on someone with dementia.

“I hate this game,” Joan mutters, squinting down at the board. “It never ends.”

I laugh—because I hate it, too—remembering how I used to let Erin win just so it would be over.

“Where’s my iron?” Joan asks.

“Here, Gram,” Phoebe says, pointing to her game piece. “Remember: You own two orange properties and all of the light blues.”

After Phoebe drives Joan into bankruptcy—sweeping up her last few bills with a triumphant whoop—I call a cease-fire and pass around plates for the pizza and salad Mick ordered.

Once we’re finished, it’s time for Phoebe and Joan to go to bed. I guide them upstairs, help them both into pajamas, and tuck them in.

When I’m sure they’re both asleep, I creep downstairs, finding Mick on the sofa.