“I know you are, girl,” he said, reaching out to cover my hand with his. “Thank you for asking.”
His hand moved back to his side of the counter as my mother and Lucy walked into the kitchen.
“Hellooo, Clive,” my mom said. She was the only person I ever heard call Coach by his first name. Even Connie had called him Poppins—although I didn’t know why. I once asked Lucy the story behind the nickname, and she said she couldn’t remember it—which boggled my mind.
“Hello, Marie,” Coach said, kissing her cheek.
“How are you?” she said, making the same question sound about as different as possible from the one I’d just asked. Whereas mine had been tentative, hers was bold, borderline condescending, going right along with the Tupperware containers of soup I had spotted in the fridge, all labeled with her handwriting and descriptions, such as “Basil tomato to warm your heart” and “Cream of mushroom for cozy nights in front of the television.”
“Doing well. Hanging in there,” Coach said briskly. I could tell by his tone and body language that she got on his nerves, something I had observed for years. But I also knew he appreciated her loyalty, the fact that, unlike many, her love of him and his family wasn’t tied to winning football games.
“Well, I’ll be in my office,” he said to all of us. “If you need me.”
“Okay, Daddy,” Lucy said.
“How do you think he’s really doing?” my mom whispered after Coach had walked out of the room.
Lucy shrugged, frowned, and whispered back, “It’s hard to tell. He won’t talk about it.”
Two long, draining hours later we had gone through only a fraction of Mrs. Carr’s closet, sorting her clothes, scarves, belts, and purses into three piles: take to Goodwill, save in the attic, and transfer to Lucy’s closet. My mother and I sat cross-legged on the bedroom floor as we waited for Lucy to emerge with a fresh handful of items, at which point we’d discuss and help Lucy make her designation. It was excruciating, every item unearthing memories, sometimes from three different perspectives. It occurred to me that few things tell the story of a woman’s life like her closet, as we pieced together a whole chronology and biography, a composite of good days and bad, big occasions and quiet moments. In the end, the second pile was by far the largest, Lucy deeming item after item too sacred either to give away or to wear herself.
“Oh, Lucy, you should have this one,” my mom said, picking up one of Connie’s favorite jewel-toned Hermès scarves.
“I could never wear that,” Lucy said, rubbing it between her fingers, her upper lip quivering. “It’s just so … her.”
“But sweetie, it’s you, too,” my mom said—which really was the truth. As we got older, I could see Lucy dressing more and more like her mother. She had always been chic, but her look was becoming less trendy and more sophisticated, timeless. Even her shop was beginning to shift toward a slightly more mature demographic.
Lucy wrapped the silk scarf around her neck and whispered okay, moving on to a long-sleeved pink poplin blouse.
“Oh, that one brings back good memories,” my mom said.
Lucy frowned and said she didn’t remember ever seeing it.
“I was with your mom when she bought it. At Neiman’s. She wore it to her last garden club meeting. The one at Lynn Odom’s house. That was a good day.”
“Will you take it?” Lucy asked. “I hate the idea of anything going to strangers.”
Blinking back tears, my mother said, “Okay, sweetie. I’ll take it … I can’t promise that I can bring myself to wear it, but I’d love to just have it.” My mother removed a monogrammed handkerchief she kept in her purse, a practice she’d picked up from Connie.
Lucy motioned toward the Goodwill pile. “Anything else? Please?” she said, looking lost, her voice small and pitiful. Everything about her seemed fragile—in such contrast to her usual big personality. “I’d so much rather you have these things. Shea, you, too.”
I hesitated. I really didn’t feel right taking any of Connie’s things, but desperately wanted to comfort Lucy, the way she so often did for me.
My mother responded for us, stroking Lucy’s hair. “Listen, honey. How about I just take this whole Goodwill pile home with me for now? That way you could have some more time to decide … I will keep it safe for you. For now.”
“Thank you, Marie,” Lucy said, giving my mom a long hug. The two had always been close, perhaps closer than I had been to Connie because their personalities were more similar. But it was clear in the past few months that they were becoming even closer—and that my mother was a great source of comfort to Lucy. A maternal figure, but also a real friend.