A real sister, the kind you read about, the kind who knows you inside and out, would have offered to kill Brad. To publicly humiliate him. She would wrap her arms around me and fiercely promise to take care of me, reassure me that I wouldn’t be alone. She’d move in and sleep over for a month, and we’d drink wine and cry and laugh.
She was still waiting for an answer.
A thought occurred to me. “You know what? Take the job, planning their wedding. Be my spy.”
She winced. “Oh. Um . . . I’m not sure I can do that.”
“Okay. I understand. Great chat.” I stood up. “Gotta go.”
“Dylan came over this morning,” she said. “To say goodbye. I gave him some money. I hope that’s okay.”
“Of course it is. You’re his aunt.”
“I’ll . . . I’ll be around, Lillie. If you need . . . well. Someone to talk to.”
“Thanks.”
She walked me to the door. “You know what?” she said. “I’ll do it. I’ll be your spy. I can’t tank their wedding, but yeah, I can give you some details and stuff.” She paused. “That is, if Brad wants me to handle this second wedding. He might not agree.”
“Oh, I think he’ll do whatever she wants,” I said. “And thanks, Hannah.”
“Of course.”
She was a very nice stranger, my sister. We almost hugged, then drew back simultaneously. “See you around,” I said.
“You bet.”
With that, I got in my car and headed to the ocean side of town. To home, where I’d wait for my son to come home, wait for tomorrow, the last day our little family would ever be together.
CHAPTER 7
Lillie
The night before my son left for college, I cooked his favorite meal and favorite dessert. Then, after my son went to bed and my asshole husband went downstairs to text his bride-to-be, I fantasized that I would get a fatal disease, and that would teach them, those two males who were leaving me. Boy, would they feel horrible! Oh, yes! Imagine the guilt trip there! Plus, I wouldn’t have to deal with anything, would I? I’d just die （peacefully, looking out over Herring Pond） in a blissful morphine fog and leave them to roil in guilt.
Or I’d move. I’d sell my house and move to Montana, not too far from Missoula, become a cook on a cattle ranch, learn how to ride horses and fall in love with a rugged cowboy who looked exactly like Idris Elba.
I didn’t sleep at all that night. At 6:00 a.m., I got out of bed and made pancakes for Dylan, my tears hissing in the cast-iron pan.
Months ago, my son had asked that we not fly out to the University of Montana with him. “It’ll be hard enough as it is, Mom,” he’d said. “Plus, football camp starts the same day we move in, so I’d have to ditch you an hour after I got there.”
I’d offered to do it anyway, saying I could make up his bed and unpack his stuff, hang his posters, all that. He’d kindly rejected the offer. Brad （who’d still been pretending to love me） held me as I cried that night in our bedroom. “Honey, I know it’s hard,” he said. “But it’s a great sign that he’s independent enough to do this himself.”
Another punishment for having done a good job raising my son.
Today, Dylan’s room was packed, and we’d already shipped four boxes of stuff to Montana. I’d bought every over-the-counter medicine, vitamin and supplement I could find in case of cold, flu, stomach bug, muscle aches, wound, infection, fever. Every comfort—heating pad, hot-water bottle, special neck pillow. Tons of Cape Cod reminders: a Wellfleet sign, a tunnel permit sticker （there was no tunnel; we just liked to torture the tourists as they sat in bridge traffic）。 A great white shark T-shirt, an oyster shell key chain in silver. I even sneaked in his favorite little stuffed animal from when he was tiny—Lambie, a Beanie Baby Dylan had slept with from birth to age thirteen. A soft throw blanket in manly gray with a maroon pillow to match the Montana Grizzlies colors. I bought a rug for his room, a cool lamp, some posters. A photo of my dad, Dylan and me on the beach; a photo of the view from our house in the fall; a picture of Milo, who had slept on Dyllie’s bed all those years.
I wanted him to be surrounded by things he loved, things that would make him feel not so far away, things that would help him if he needed it. Things that would remind him how loved he was.
Dylan was quiet at breakfast. “Thanks for making these, Mom,” he said, and I heard the nervousness in his voice.
“You’re welcome, baby,” I said.