The Good Goodbye

by Carla Buckley

  Arden had surprised me by coming home for her birthday. I had been speechless with emotion. I had thought, She’s here. I had meant it in every sense of the word. My daughter had come home and everything would be the way it once had been. But that’s not what happened. Arden had changed; she was more subdued, with a tattoo she’d gotten only just that morning. Arden had come home, but that was it. She hadn’t really been there.

  “…his whole life ahead of him,” Phil is saying. “He wasn’t sure what he wanted to do, but we knew he’d figure it out. That’s the way he was with baseball, too. He’d tried a couple sports, but nothing clicked until he picked up a bat. And then nothing could keep him back. That’s just the way he was. When he set his mind to something, he wouldn’t let go until he got there.”

  Like Rory? What has Detective Gallagher learned about Hunter? What terrible things has he been firing at the man and woman standing bravely in front of all of us, working to say goodbye to their son?

  “Hunter was a good boy. He was a sensitive boy.” Janet sobs and turns into her husband’s arms. Another man steps forward and clears his throat. “I was Hunter’s coach. From the very first practice, I knew…”

  After a while, the swaying crowd moves and breaks apart, and people start to disperse. An invisible signal’s been given. Hunter’s parents are talking to some of the kids, a few adults.

  “It rained so hard that night,” someone says beside me. “It was like the skies were crying.” A woman in her thirties, exotically beautiful, with dark winged eyebrows, creamy skin, and a cascade of black curls that gleam beneath the streetlight. “Did you know Hunter?”

  “He was my daughter’s friend.”

  She nods. “He was one of my students, but I didn’t really know him, either. It’s a large class and early in the semester.” She wears a white blouse with neatly folded cuffs and a dark narrow skirt. She smells of some light floral fragrance. I am aware of how grubby I am, how for days I’ve done little more than brush my hair. “How’s your daughter doing?”

  It startles me, and then I realize of course she doesn’t know who my daughter is. “I’m Natalie Falcone. Arden’s mother,” I say, extending my hand, the one not holding the candle. Her expression immediately softens and she takes my hand in both of hers. “Oh, Mrs. Falcone. How is she doing? How’s Rory?”

  “The same.” I’m so tired of this question. “Please call me Natalie.”

  “Natalie, of course. I’m Chelsea Lee. Arden’s in my Intro class. So was Rory. They all were.” She looks away, then back to me. “I stopped by the hospital, but they told me the girls couldn’t have visitors.”

  I don’t know who’s come to visit, who’s called or stopped by. I’ve been trapped inside my daughter’s room, a fly buzzing from wall to wall. “Arden loves your class.” I’m thinking I might double major in art and art history, Arden had said. She’d sounded happy and I had thought, Maybe EMU’s a blessing after all.

  “She’s a bright girl, a hard worker. She’s really into Giotto, which is amazing, truthfully. Not many beginning art history students are able to grasp just how important his contribution was, but she just lights up talking about him.” She smiles. “I told her to wait until we got to Vermeer.”

  I doubt Arden will be back in school this semester, and this realization floods me with sadness. Chelsea Lee is regarding me. “It must be so hard,” she says. “It must be impossible.”

  This teacher, who smiles when talking about my daughter, who had inspired Arden. “Everything’s just so wrong,” I blurt out. “Arden’s been accused of cheating.” I take in a breath, ready to unfurl the entire story, when Chelsea Lee says simply, “Yes,” and I am stopped. This bald acceptance of what can’t be true. I look at her. “You know?”

  “Yes, I do. I’m sorry.”

  Does the whole faculty know? Everyone’s talking about Arden, rummaging through her life. “You don’t understand. Arden’s a good student. She’s always been a good student. She’s not a cheater.”

  “I do understand.” She hesitates, choosing her words carefully. “Arden’s very smart. It’s a shame what happened.”

  “How do you know about it?” And then I understand. “You?”

  “I shouldn’t have said anything. I really can’t talk about it.”

  “You have to talk about it. You have to tell me.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  I’m crying, to my horror. Arden’s not here to defend herself and I need to set things straight. I need to make things right for her. Gabrielle’s accusations beat hard in my ears. Chelsea looks at me with such sympathy. I need her to stop. I don’t want any kindness from this woman. I don’t know her. She hurt Arden. She threw Arden into the worst possible light. “You have no right. You should be ashamed of yourself.” I need a tissue. I know I have one in my pocket because the boys are always needing one, and for some reason that only makes me cry harder. “You’ve made a mistake,” I sob.

  “I like Arden, Mrs. Falcone. I really do. I can’t explain why she’d feel the need to steal someone else’s work, but it’s a difficult class. I expect a lot from my students. She must have felt overwhelmed.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding! It’s art history. Not molecular biology.”

  She sucks in a breath and steps back. At least she’s dropped her arms. A firmness has settled on her features. This I can deal with. I know this. I’ve dealt with a thousand people, a hundred thousand people demanding something from me. It’s better when we get it all out in front of us and I can see what needs to be done. I need this woman on my side. I need her on Arden’s side. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. But we can’t have these accusations hanging over her. The police are thinking terrible things. You have to tell them it’s not true.”

  “But it is true, Mrs. Falcone. I’m so sorry. I truly am.” She looks up at the dark and empty building. “She must have felt so desperate.”

  I stand there, holding on to a tiny flame in a paper cup. I want to fling it at this beautiful woman and wipe that knowing expression off her face. For the first time, I understand how something like this could happen.

  Arden

  A MUFFLED CREAK, the feel of air moving across my lips. “There you are,” Uncle Vince says. “I brought you something to eat.”

  Can I eat? When was the last time I ate anything? I don’t feel hungry. I’m dulled and thick. Everything hurts. I can’t move my arms or legs.

  You were in a fire. Do you remember?

  “I’m not hungry,” Aunt Gabrielle says.

  “It’s here if you want it,” he says.

  I smell roasted meat. It makes me gag. I haven’t had meat in ages. When D.D. had asked why I wasn’t eating, I snatched at the first answer: I’m thinking about going vegetarian. It was the right thing to say. Her face relaxed immediately. But now I’m stuck. I can’t even sneak fruit snacks. D.D. says they have gelatin in them, and she’s got her spies.

  Uncle Vince clears his throat. “I ran into Detective Gallagher on the way back just now.”

  Detective, like the police?

  “Does he have news?”

  “Not that I know of. We talked about you, as a matter of fact.”

  “Me? How odd.”

  “He asked me what you were doing on campus Friday night. He wanted to know why you hadn’t mentioned it to anyone.”

  Aunt Gabrielle’s always on campus. Rory says she should just get her own damn dorm room and move in.

  “Gabby?”

  “I should have mentioned it, I know. But I wasn’t thinking. I was worried about Rory.”

  “You should have said something.”

  “Why are you talking to me like this? What are you implying?”

  All of a sudden, I can see. My eyes are open, just a tiny bit, but enough to see the darkness everywhere and the faint whiteness of the sheet covering me. I try to move my head, signal with my fingers.

  “I’m not implying anything. I’m telling you. He had a lot of questions.
Some of them I couldn’t answer.”

  Look at me look at me look at me

  “I’ll talk to him, then. I’ll answer his questions. I’ll explain. I was with a client.”

  “At nine o’clock at night?”

  A knock on the door. “May I come in?” A cheerful voice. A nurse.

  —

  A knock on the door makes me look up.

  It’s Hunter, backpack slung over his shoulder. I put my hands up to smooth my hair, and stop myself. Stupid, stupid. “Hey,” he says. “Know where Rory is? She’s not answering her texts.”

  “Sorry.” Rory’s gone into one of her solitary phases. It usually happens after Aunt Gabrielle’s done something to upset her. I can’t blame her. It had been horrible in the coffee shop. For once, I was glad not to be Rory.

  “She was going to help me with calculus.” Hunter leans against the doorframe. “I guess she forgot.”

  The only times Rory forgets about plans she’s made with a guy are the times she’s trying to make a point. I surprise myself. I say, “I could help you.”

  —

  I have three favorite photographs of Rory. The oldest one’s from when we were babies propped side by side on the sofa, cushions supporting us. Rory looked like a fat-cheeked caterpillar next to little me, but by the time we started third grade, Rory was taller and much skinnier. By the time we were in seventh grade, we were both the same height, but she was the one everyone wanted to be friends with. I’ve slid that photograph out of the album and stuck it in my mirror at home. I like to know there was a time when I was the prettier one.

  The second photograph is from when Rory was five and I was four and a half—when you’re that little, four months count. I don’t remember when this one was taken, either. I’ve tried to pull this memory out of my brain, but if there’s anything there, it stays firmly lodged behind something else, like when a boy named Mark ate two glue sticks and threw up in the kindergarten sandbox, or when I won the second-grade reading competition and got to take home a big trophy with my name on it. The story is that Rory had burned herself, just a little burn, but it hurt, and Rory had to go to the ER and get it looked at. So no big deal, other than the ugly scar it left on Rory’s arm, but Rory was upset and so she ended up staying at our house for a few days. That’s what my mom told me when I asked about it later, when I was going through the photo albums, looking for a picture of me to take in for my sixth-grade Get to Know Me poster, and came across one of me and Rory standing in front of a metal fence. In the background, I could see playground equipment, a wooden bridge suspended between two purple towers. I remembered that thing. I was so scared of it, the way it swayed beneath me when I tried to walk across it. I was so proud the day I was able to cross it without holding on to the rope. Wait, I’d asked, Rory went to Mount Hebron, too? How could I not remember that? Just for a week or so, my mom answered. She was busy studying recipes and her voice was totally casual. I asked Rory about it the next day after school and I could hear her shrug on the phone. No offense, Arden, she’d said. But that was a pretty lame school. She just didn’t want to admit that there was a time when she needed me more than I needed her.

  But I definitely remember when the third picture was taken. This one’s on my phone, locked in and bolted. It’s the selfie from when Rory and I sat on the swings and talked, trying to figure it out, until Rory finally said she didn’t want to talk about it anymore.

  —

  “What’s up with her?” Hunter says. We’re walking back from the library, where I was supposed to be reading King Lear and writing a French essay, but I’d spent the whole time drawing caricatures of the people sitting around us and giggling as Hunter wrote the captions. Help! I’m being held prisoner by the fashion police! for the guy with dreadlocks and an orange beanie. Are you talking to me? for the girl who kept looking up to throw us annoyed looks. Let’s dance for the guy listening to his iPod and tapping his pencil.

  After the librarian came by for the second time to tell us to be quiet, he closed his textbook. Let’s get out of here, he’d said, and so we had. It’s after ten, everything muted by darkness—the music coming through an opened window, the scent of damp earth and leaves, the whir of bicycle wheels as someone pedals past and whizzes around the corner. It’s like we’re alone, but of course we’re not. Rory’s here, even when she’s not.

  “Look,” I say. “She gets this way sometimes. She just needs to be alone.”

  “Where? Where is she being alone?” He throws his arms wide. “It’s like she’s disappeared. Or maybe she’s with someone else. You’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”

  “Sure.” Though I’m not sure I would. I’m not sure I could.

  “Man, I know I’m being played. Just when I give up and think it’s all over, she shows up like nothing’s the matter. I can’t figure her out.”

  “Rory’s complicated.” Like I haven’t heard this a million times before. Blake had been this way, too, back when Rory got pissed at him for talking to some chick at a party and gave him the cold shoulder right before prom. Right before she was supposed to put out.

  “I’ve never met anybody like her.”

  I’m silent. I’m so done talking about Rory and how amazing she is, how she can make the whole world light up and just as dramatically turn it all black again.

  “Sorry. I don’t mean to keep talking about her. It’s just that you’re so easy to talk to. I feel like I can tell you anything.”

  “I feel the same way.” All my shy words unstumble themselves and spill out. I was kind of a geek in high school. I love my mom, but…

  Hunter puts his arm around me and squeezes. It feels so right, so perfect. He’s just tall enough so that my shoulders fit into his embrace. He nods. He answers. He says all the right things. One by one, all the hurdles topple over. “You’re a good friend, you know that?”

  Take risks. Before I can stop myself, I say, “I wish I were more.” My words fall into a little shocked pool of silence. All I hear is the slap of our shoes on the pavement. Is he going to say anything? Now it’s all out there. Now there’s nowhere for me to hide.

  He drops his arm, which says it all. “Dude.”

  My cheeks flame. I can’t look at him. “Whatever.”

  “No, wait.” He reaches out and grabs my arm, pulls me back to him. The branches throw his face into shadow. I can’t see his eyes.

  “I shouldn’t have said anything. Let’s pretend I never did.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  No, of course he can’t. My words are skyscrapers, too tall to climb over.

  He looks away and shakes his head. “I wish I’d met you first.”

  “What does that even mean? Like you’re her prisoner? Rory doesn’t own you, you know. You’re not hers.” I put my palms against his chest and give him a little push. He doesn’t answer. He just looks down at me. I feel the warmth of his skin beneath the cotton of his shirt. I feel his heart pounding just as hard as mine. I clutch his shirt, wrap my fingers in the cloth, and pull him close. I’m tingling all over. I’m on fire. His face is thrown in shadow. I can’t read his expression. I don’t know what he’s thinking.

  I rise on my toes and bring my lips to his. Soft, soft, soft. He doesn’t stop me.

  Doesn’t he know? I’m not Rory.

  —

  “…seeing a better oxygen rate by now,” a woman says. Her voice is clear and confident, in charge. I’ve heard it before. It’s the doctor. I feel her leaning over me. A brief flash of light.

  “What does that mean? Vince?” Aunt Gabrielle’s voice sounds high, frightened.

  “There’s a treatment I’d like to try called ECMO, extracorporeal membrane oxygenation, which is essentially an artificial lung.” The doctor moves away. “It’ll take over oxygenating her blood until her lungs can do it themselves. It’s shown great results in otherwise healthy patients and I’m hopeful it will work for Rory.”

  She’s talking about me. She thinks I’m Rory. I’m Arden!
Someone tell her. Someone look at me and see.

  “How risky is it?” Uncle Vince asks.

  “Well, of course there are risks with any procedure. There’s a slight possibility of perforation during cannulation, and any time you have open sites to the body, you run into the possibility of infection. But the thing we need to be most concerned about is bleeding. We’ll be closely monitoring her platelet counts.”

  “Okay,” Uncle Vince says.

  “There’s a small chance she could develop a thromboembolism.”

  “What is that?” Aunt Gabrielle says. “I don’t understand any of this.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Falcone. I realize I’m throwing a lot at you. A thromboembolism is a blood clot.”

  “A blood clot? Is that dangerous?”

  “Depending on size and location…”

  “What you’re saying is it could kill her.”

  Panic rears up and clamps down hard. I don’t want to die. Not like this. Not now. I want my mom. I want my dad. I want them in here, talking to the doctor and taking care of me.

  “We’ll have her on heparin as a preventative measure. And thromboembolisms really are rarer in the form of ECMO that we’ll be putting her on.”

  “We haven’t decided to go ahead with this,” Aunt Gabrielle says.

  “I understand. I can give you some literature…”

  “I’d like a second opinion.”

  “I can arrange for that. But I do urge you to decide quickly. It’s your decision, of course, but I do believe the benefits greatly outweigh the risks.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Morris,” Uncle Vince says.

  “I’ll have my nurse get you some literature, and I’ll set up a consultation for you with another doctor.”

  She’s leaving. Please don’t go! She looked right at me. Right at me and through me. I want her to look again, to tell Uncle Vince to look, too. Get my mom and dad. I don’t want Aunt Gabrielle making any decisions for me.

  Quiet gathers around me. I don’t know where anyone is. Am I alone? Then I hear muffled weeping, and Uncle Vince saying, “It’s all right, sweetheart.”