Man, I miss her.

Sometimes, just before I get to the front door of the house, I’ll forget that she’s not here anymore, and as I turn the knob and push it open, it’s like nothing ever happened. Like everything is back to the way it was, all warm and yellow, Mom in her chair by the kitchen window, her hair pinned up on top of her head, rummaging through a cookbook for dinner ideas. She used to look up as soon as I’d come in from school and her whole face would break into a smile. “There’s my guy!” she’d say. “What can I get you before you climb up into that tree of yours?”

And then I see her chair.

And the empty spot by the window.

And it’s just like what I felt at that stupid ice-cream place, drinking the same exact milk shake I used to order every time she took us shopping for school clothes. Like the inside of my stomach has dropped out. Like everything around me has stopped. And then shuddered.

Usually when that happens, I turn back around, head out to the tree house, and pound nails into the wood until my arm feels like it’s going to fall off. Today though, I’m not anywhere near the tree house. So instead, I’m going to do what Dad keeps doing and push through it.

I hold Pippa’s hand tight as I lead her over to the girls’ section at Murphy’s. She’s a little shaken up from the ice-cream place too, which makes me feel terrible since it was my idea, so I make a big deal of pointing out how nice everything looks on the racks. I even pull out some outfits, which is what Mom used to do, and try to get her interested.

“Remember, Dad said whatever you want.” I hold up a peach blouse with white ruffles down the front. It’s a nice color, but it looks gigantic next to her. The tag around the collar says 14/16. “Actually, this looks too big,” I say, putting it back on the rack. “Do you know what size stuff you wear now?”

Pippa shakes her head no and stares dumbly at the clothes. She’s still holding my other hand. I don’t have the heart to shake her off. I just hope no one I know walks in here and sees us. “Lemme look at the back of your T-shirt,” I say, yanking the neck part of her shirt out so I can check the size. “See, I was right. This says 8/10. Let’s go over here to the smaller sizes.”

There is a silver rounder in the corner with smaller-looking girls’ clothes. I pull out a pant-and-shirt combo that says size 10. “How about this one?” It’s pink with little blue flowers on the front. A tiny bow in the middle. “The pants match, and they’re nice and soft,” I say encouragingly. “They’ll be real easy to pull on.”

Pippa stares at it again and then nods slowly. I almost shout I’m so relieved. Maybe this won’t be so terrible after all. The remembering or the shopping.

We go through the same routine—me holding the clothes up, Pippa nodding or shaking her head—until she has approved at least six new outfits.

“All right,” I say finally. “I think that’s probably good for now, unless you see something else you like. Do you want to go downstairs to the dressing rooms and try everything on?”

Pippa shakes her head.

I hesitate, wondering if I should force her, and then change my mind. Trying on clothes every year when we went school shopping with Mom was the absolute worst part of the whole trip. All that off and on and rolling up of hems and adjusting of socks and underwear drove me up the wall. “Okay,” I tell her instead. “I think it’ll be fine.”

“Hon?” Out of nowhere, a large woman with a blonde beehive appears. She has a mole on her chin and purple eyeglasses that are attached to a silver chain. My heart sinks. It’s Mrs. Murphy, the owner of the store. “Oh, Jack!” she says. “I didn’t recognize you, dear. You’ve gotten so tall!” She raises an eyebrow. “And your hair is so long!”

I have to force myself not to roll my eyes. Or turn and run in the opposite direction. Even Mom, who never said a bad thing about anyone, told Dad once that Mrs. Murphy was the biggest busybody she’d ever met in her life. “That woman could make a full-time career out of gossiping,” she’d say, “and still have time left over to talk about something else.”

“And this cannot be our little Pippa,” Mrs. Murphy coos. “My Lord, sweetheart, you’re practically a lady!”

Pippa looks at her shoes. I’m not sure she remembers Mrs. Murphy.

“How’re both of you doing?” Mrs. Murphy’s voice is overloaded with concern now, probably because she hasn’t seen us much since the funeral.

“We’re fine.” I take a few steps back, pulling Pippa along with me. The last thing I want to do is get into a conversation with Mrs. Murphy about Mom. Or Dad. Or anything having to do with our family. “We’re just looking for some stuff for school. Thanks.”

“You look awfully weighted down with all those clothes,” Mrs. Murphy says, holding out her chubby arms. “Can I put them in a fitting room for you while you keep looking?”

“Oh no, she doesn’t have to try anything on.” I shift Pippa’s clothes to my other arm, discreetly pushing her behind me. “I’m pretty sure we got the right sizes. We just have to get some shoes. And I have to get a couple of things, too. You know, jeans and stuff.”

A look of concern crosses Mrs. Murphy’s face as she glances around the store. “Is your father around?”

“No.”

“No?” The eyebrow goes up again. “You’re here all by yourself?”

“I have a credit card, okay?” I don’t mean to sound as rude as I do, but the look that flits over Mrs. Murphy’s face indicates that I’ve already crossed that line. Next to me, Pippa reaches out and grabs one of the belt loops along the back of my shorts. I take a deep breath and reach into my back pocket. “I mean, my dad gave me his credit card. He said I could use it so that Pippa and I could get some school clothes, and that if there were any problems, you could call him at the car lot. Is that all right?”

“Oh.” Mrs. Murphy blinks again, as if something has suddenly come into focus. “Well of course dear, that’s just fine.” She reaches out for Pippa’s clothes again. “Why don’t you let me hold these outfits behind the counter for you while you look for your things?”

I hand over the clothes, relieved that she’s not annoyed with me. “Thanks,” I say. “We’re almost done.”

“Jack, do you want any help?” Mrs. Murphy sounds slightly desperate for some reason.

“No, really. We’re good.” I hope I sound more polite. “But thanks for asking.”

“All right then. The boys’ section is on the other side of the store, and all the shoes are downstairs. Take your time. I’ll be right over here when you’re finished.”

Pippa and I head downstairs where we each find a pair of sneakers and a pair of good boots. Almost finished, I think to myself as we traipse up the steps again and head over to the boys’ department. Pippa is still as close to me as she can be without actually holding my hand, but I don’t say anything. Ten more minutes, and we’ll be done.

I head over toward a stack of neatly folded polo shirts near the back and grab four of them. Two navy, two hunter green. Perfect. Now I need a couple pairs of jeans, maybe a pair of khakis, and we’re out of here.

“Y’all need any help?” A voice, soft as a flower, floats over the top of the polo shirts. I look up and feel my stomach do its second belly flop of the day.

It’s the girl from the dock.