She thought she saw a trace of sorrow flit across Bridget’s face, but just as soon as she’d spotted it, it disappeared again.
“She taught me everything I know,” Bridget said, shifting her focus back to the road ahead. “Everything.”
Somehow Amy didn’t doubt that. After all, her mother had also been the one to shape everything about the woman Amy had become. Would she be proud of her now? Or had grief already turned Amy into a massive disappointment?
She’d never know. That was the hardest part of everything.
She could remember the past. She could speculate on the present, but her mother could never be a part of her future.
Still, Amy wanted to find a way to make her proud—even if it was all only hypothetical. It was better than nothing, better than admitting that she didn’t have any family left to care about what became of her.
Chapter 3
The interment didn’t take up too much of their afternoon. The pastor recited a quick blessing; then everyone in attendance waited in line to place a brightly colored flower onto the casket.
“Birds of paradise,” Bridget explained to those who had gathered in the normally sleepy cemetery. “They were always her favorite.”
Amy simply nodded and did as she was instructed. She’d covered her mother’s grave with the traditional white lilies. Might that have been the wrong choice? Then again, were there really any right choices in these situations?
Who even knew anymore?
The Moore family funeral had proven an interesting experience, and it wasn’t even over yet. Once the burial was finished, everyone proceeded to Bridget’s father’s house for the after-party. Bright Mylar balloons were tied all around, and a large, catered buffet took up the better part of both the kitchen and the dining room.
Amy had never been here before. Bridget had always hosted the friends in her small apartment downtown, but this cozy quad-level home of her childhood felt exactly how Amy would have expected it to feel.
Like warmth and love and Bridget.
“Come with me,” Bridget said, once the friends had all stuffed themselves to contentment. She guided them upstairs to one of the bedrooms and motioned for them to head inside. Amy, for one, was grateful to be free of the older relatives and family friends who mistook her for kin as they tearfully shared their favorite memories of the deceased.
This new room was tiny but comfortable. The walls had been painted bright sunshine yellow. Various posters of previously popular musicians and actors covered one wall in its entirely, showcasing a messy homemade collage.
“Let me guess,” Nichole muttered, walking straight up to one of the posters and running a finger along its subject’s jawline. “This was your room growing up.”
Bridget plopped down onto the unmade twin bed that sat along the opposite wall. “How’d you know?” she asked with a giggle.
Hazel, who was a successful interior designer, glanced around longer than the rest of them before declaring, “Nice high ceilings. This room has good bones. If not the best artwork.” She sat beside Bridget and wrapped an arm around her with a smile.
“Why’d you bring us up here?” Amy asked in a way she hoped would come across as tender and not judgmental.
“To help me with a project,” Bridget answered, shaking loose from Hazel’s arm and trotting toward the closet.
They all waited while she rummaged through the messy stacks of clothes and boxes until she finally found the one she wanted.
Bridget removed the lid to reveal a giant stack of glossy photos. “Some of these are the originals, but most I had printed at the pharmacy earlier this week.” She pushed the box toward Amy, then returned to the closet.
Amy glanced down at the messy collection in her hands. She recognized the bad hair and loud patterns of the eighties—an era before Bridget or even Amy had been born—but she also saw photos of an adorable, chubby-faced baby girl toddling after her big brothers and pictures of Bridget’s mother before the cancer had ravaged her body. Such a strange mix of memories, especially seeing them all overlapping like this.
A knock sounded on the door, drawing everyone’s focus as they waited for Bridget to offer permission to enter her inner sanctum.
“Come in!” she cried over her shoulder.
Hazel’s boyfriend, Keith, let himself into the room, a giant, floofy puff held tightly to his chest with one arm. “Sorry to interrupt, but this guy really, really wanted in.”
The brown Pomeranian in his arms panted with excitement, his long pink tongue lolling from the side of his mouth.
“Oh, Teddy,” Bridget scolded, abandoning the search of the closet to scoop the dog into her arms. “You really can’t live without me for one second?”
Teddy whined happily and licked her face as if it were the tastiest treat in the whole entire world.
Bridget relented with a laugh. “Fine, you can stay. You, on the other hand . . .” She shoved Keith back toward the door with her free arm, causing a lock of his sandy blond hair to shuffle loose and fall onto his forehead. “You need to go. It’s nothing personal. It’s just I’d rather it be only us girls for this.”
Hazel rose and gave her boyfriend a quick peck on the cheek. “I’ll catch up with you after girl time, okay?” she promised.
“It’s fine. Do what you need to do,” he said good-naturedly before disappearing again.
Bridget handed Teddy off to Hazel. “Can you hold him for me? I don’t want him getting his noseprint all over these pictures. Or worse, trying to eat my scrapbooking supplies.”
“Is that what we’re doing?” Nichole asked. Her arms were folded across her chest as she regarded the messy closet with poorly concealed impatience.
“Yup,” Bridget answered pertly. “We’re going to craft the big book of Mom.”
“And share the stories related to each photo?” Amy asked. That seemed like a nice way to commemorate Mrs. Moore. Now the idea of an after-party at least made a little more sense.
“Nope,” Bridget said, shaking her head. “No talking, just cutting, pasting, and bedazzling. It’s the best way to keep everything together for anyone who wants to look at them in the future.”
Amy wanted to argue, but what was the point? If this was how Bridget wanted to remember her mom, then she would be there to support her.
“Can we at least have some music?” Nichole suggested.
“Good idea,” Bridget said before dropping her phone into the Bluetooth speaker on her nightstand. A playlist of hits from Bridget’s high school days began to play on full blast, eliciting a groan from Nichole.
“Oh, joy,” she mumbled. “Now I get to look at him and listen to him at the same time.” She shot the wall of posters a dirty look, which caused Bridget to giggle again.
“You know you love it,” Bridget said as she transferred the last of her crafting supplies from the closet into the center of the room. “Now, everyone take a seat and decide what your job will be.”
A short while later, Amy, Nichole, and Bridget had formed a scrapbooking assembly line. Amy’s job was to cut the photos into fun shapes. Bridget then applied glue, and Nichole stuck them onto the pages of the previously blank book. It didn’t escape Amy’s notice that Bridget had volunteered herself for the one job that didn’t involve looking at the pictures, but she chose not to mention it and ruin her friend’s good mood.