The Good Goodbye

by Carla Buckley

  “There’s nothing to work out.”

  “You can’t just cut people out of your life like that.”

  “My mother did.”

  She gives me a look. “That’s the source of all of this, your mother? You know, you’re a grown woman, Rory. You need to stand on your own two feet.”

  Is that the way she sees me? “My mother’s the source of nothing, and I’m pretty sure I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

  She laughs. “Fair enough. Just think about it, okay? I’m going to be working late tonight.” She pushes papers into her worn leather briefcase. It’s not Coach, but it still looks ruggedly cool. “I have to get through these essays.”

  “On a Friday?” So she won’t be at the pep rally tonight. I’m disappointed, although I don’t know what I expected. It’s not like we could sit together and hold hands. Not yet, at least.

  “On a Friday.” She comes up close. Her arms are bare, the collar of her blouse open to show the tan skin of her neck, the hollow of her throat. We are the same height, eye to eye. She is beautiful, warm and distant at the same time. “Let’s go to Paris,” I say.

  “Sounds like a dream.” She kisses me, the lightest pressure against my lips, teasing. I’ve kissed a girl before, but that was high school. That was pretend, just being silly. This is different. This isn’t silly at all. Is this who I really am? I feel my legs quiver, but she moves away. “Talk to Arden. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? We can go to the shore or something. Get out of this town.”

  “Your name is like poetry.”

  “You can’t really think that’s my name.” She shoos me out the front door, then turns and locks it securely behind us.

  Natalie

  DR. MORRIS STANDS beside Arden while a short, stout woman with a cap of brown hair and red oblong glasses fiddles with the dials on the machine. She’s the respiratory therapist. She doesn’t smile as she watches the monitor. She and Dr. Morris are talking to each other briefly and in code. I can’t access any of it. I don’t know what’s going on.

  Turning, Dr. Morris spies us in the doorway and comes over. “Arden’s pupils aren’t dilating. I sent her for a CT scan. Unfortunately, it looks like the edema is worsening.”

  Unfortunately. Unfortunately. A mouthful of syllables. I can’t hear them. I can’t assemble them into sense. I look past her to Arden, but too many people stand between us. “I thought the surgery was supposed to fix that,” I hear Theo say.

  “We hoped it would. It did alleviate some of the pressure, but not all. Fluid is still building up.”

  She’s talking so slowly, in such measured tones. Her brown eyes are clear, her face smooth. She is complete and whole, and I am cracking into pieces. I want to shake her. “Can’t you drain it off?”

  “We’re trying to. What you need to understand is that there are some things we are helpless to control.”

  “She just came out of surgery. Everything looked fine.” A last-ditch measure and Arden had sailed through. Things had looked stable. I had left my daughter’s bedside and gone down to hold my sons. I had gone shopping with them and smiled at their chattering. I had put food in my mouth and chewed.

  “I know. These things can happen very suddenly.”

  “What things?” Theo says.

  “The scan also showed signs of herniation.”

  This is a new word, another assault against which I am defenseless. I glance to Theo and he’s frowning with confusion. “We don’t know what that means.” My voice is high and querulous.

  “Arden’s brain stem is expanding outside her skull into her spine.”

  There’s a buzzing in my ears. I feel Theo’s arm go around my shoulders.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Falcone, Mr. Falcone, but Arden’s prognosis is not good. We’re going to continue sedation and continue draining fluids from the catheter. We’ll give her an increased hypertonic saline through her IV in case…”

  “…then what?” Theo’s voice is far away.

  I push my way to Arden. She lies propped against the pillow with her eyes closed. A plastic tube is taped between her lips, forcing oxygen into her lungs. I want to unwrap the gauze from around her head. I want to peel the bandages from her arms and torso. I want to crawl onto her bed and pull her into my arms, let my heart do the beating for hers, let my lungs breathe for hers. “Arden?” I whisper.

  I had glimpsed reprieve. I had cupped hope in my palms.

  —

  Arden was five years old when I miscarried my second pregnancy. It happened very quickly. I woke up cramping, saw the blood, and rushed to the hospital. By dinnertime, I was back home again, woozy with grief. I had been far enough along that we had made the announcement to our families and so the announcement had to be unmade. I was careful not to let Arden see me cry. I was careful to be cheerful, but still, one day a few months later, Arden started sobbing in the backseat while we were out running errands. If Baby can die, doesn’t that mean you can, too? And Daddy?

  She was inconsolable. I searched for something for her to hold on to, a conviction, a way of seeing the world that made sense, but I’d never been religious and neither had Theo. We were out of our depth. It was Gabrielle who suggested we take Arden to talk to the pastor at Gabrielle’s church. So one spring afternoon Arden and I wandered through the church gardens with a slim, pleasant-faced woman who told us to call her by her first name. I can’t recall what her name was, not anymore, but I remember her taking Arden’s hand and traipsing along the stone path between pink and yellow flowers as I trailed behind, letting them talk. She explained to Arden that our bodies are like caterpillars. We are tangible and very real, but when we die, we transform into something else, something just as real. We become butterflies.

  —

  At seven-thirty, the medical team arrives for morning rounds. Theo and I stand there, stiff with fear. Christine has arrived and is beside me, listening and watching. Nurses have been in and out of Arden’s room all night. Nothing’s changed. Nothing.

  The resident gives the summary in a quiet voice. I strain to parse out a few phrases. “Patient has fixed pupils and no gag reflex…”

  “How do you know that?” Theo interrupts to ask, and the resident nods. Together they go over to Arden and the resident wiggles the tube in Arden’s mouth. Christine squeezes my hand. She has talked to Dr. Morris. She has gone over Arden’s records. She hasn’t smiled once.

  “…riding the vent.”

  The resident turns the dial on the ventilator and everyone turns to watch my daughter.

  I am holding my own breath. Breathe, Arden. Breathe.

  But she doesn’t. The red line on the screen flattens.

  “…recommend discontinuing sedation.”

  I look to Christine. She has her lips pressed together. She glances to me and shakes her head. I am standing bolstered between my sister and my husband, and it is not enough. I have my arms wrapped around myself, trying to stay upright. I can’t seem to get enough air.

  The room empties and Dr. Morris comes over to us. “We’ve discontinued sedation.”

  “What does that mean? Have you given up?” Theo asks.

  “Not at all. We’re going to see what happens over the next twenty-four hours. If nothing changes, we’ll do an electroencephalogram to check for brain activity.”

  “So there’s still hope?” I ask.

  Dr. Morris puts her hand on my arm. “There’s always hope.”

  “There’s always hope,” Christine repeats later, after everyone’s out of the room and it’s just us, Arden, Vince, and Gabrielle. Vince and Theo have been talking quietly by the ventilator while Gabrielle stands at the foot of our daughter’s bed. The nurses are debriding Rory’s burns. The ventilator is still working. The room is still shrouded in darkness. The only thing that’s changed is the IV is no longer dripping medication into Arden’s bloodstream.

  “But,” I say dully.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”

  Christine’s explained
that tomorrow morning the doctors will conduct an apnea test. It will take about thirty minutes and Theo and I will have to leave the room. I can’t bear to think what will happen during that time, and why we can’t be there to witness it. The point of the test is to determine, once and for all, brain death. There will be no more hope after that. “Dr. Morris is going to come in and talk to you,” she says. We’re sitting side by side and she’s got my hand clasped in hers. “About organ donation.”

  I yank my hand free. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

  “I know.” Christine has pale blue eyes. They stay steady on mine. “I know you don’t.”

  “Not now. Not…” I glance to Arden’s bedside. What if she’s listening?

  “She can’t hear you. I’m sorry, Nat, but she can’t.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  “Take your time. You don’t have to decide anything now. But I wanted you to be prepared.”

  “Arden’s an organ donor,” Theo says. Vince stands beside him. I am looking up at their faces, both carefully holding the same expression, and I realize they have already talked about this, maybe in the hall, maybe in the cafeteria getting coffee. “I took her for her driver’s license. I know.”

  “She’s eighteen. She’s still a minor.”

  “She’s an adult,” Theo says.

  Christine looks to him, then to me. “Nat, Theo and I’ve been talking. If we can’t get Arden back…”

  Why are they all looking at me like this? Even Gabrielle’s come up to join the circle. “We can.”

  “Maybe.” Christine nods. “But if we can’t…”

  “I think we should save Rory.” Theo crouches in front of me, puts his palms on my knees. “Honey, think about it. We could save Rory.”

  My cheeks are wet. “You can’t give up on Arden!”

  “No one’s giving up on her.”

  I’m gasping for air, shuddering. I push his hands off my knees and stand. I go to Arden’s bedside and grab on to the railing. I look down at my trusting child.

  Banky, mimi, ’ghetti, Dada, Mama, ’nana, rainbow, juice.

  Her small world, the things she loves, safe.

  “I’m not giving up. I’m not,” I promise her. “You keep on fighting.”

  —

  Hours later, in the hall, I stand stiffly beside Theo, not touching, and tell Vince and Gabrielle that I will agree to donate Arden’s lungs to Rory if the apnea test confirms brain death. Gabrielle leans against Vince, her hands to her face, sobbing. “Thank you, Natalie. Thank you.” My sister’s given me a pill to swallow. I’ve taken it without question, spilling the water in my haste to get the pill down.

  I want to see my boys. They’re with my mother in the family waiting room down the hall. Theo and I are trying to decide if we should let them in to see Arden one last time. I think it’s a good idea, Christine’s told us. My mother had turned Arden’s bandaged hand over and over in hers, as though pressing life back into it, her face collapsed and uncertain. She looked old and frail, not the sturdy woman who’s been running after six-year-old twins for a week. Theo’s parents are on their way. Their plane should be landing at D.C. National within hours, and they are renting a car and driving up.

  These are all the people who were there to welcome Arden into the world, and they will all be there to see her leave it.

  Arden

  “YOU WANTED to see me?”

  Professor Lee looks up from her desk. The window blinds are slanted half open to show the bright green grass and blue sky behind her. “Yes. Come in, please, Arden, and close the door.” She doesn’t smile. “Have a seat.”

  I sit in a creaky wooden chair, set my backpack on the floor at my feet.

  “I’ve been looking over your essay.” She’s got her laptop open and she turns it around so I can see the screen. “This is yours, right?”

  I look to see if it’s got my name on it, not Rory’s. “Yes.”

  Professor Lee leans back. Her long, curly black hair is pulled into a ponytail and the sleeves of her blouse are folded to her elbows. She looks so competent, so certain. “Some of it looks familiar.”

  I’d been in a hurry. “What can you say about Giotto that hasn’t already been said a million times?”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about, Arden, and you know it.”

  “Well, then I guess I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But I do. I do know.

  Professor Lee tilts the screen of her laptop toward her and begins to read. “Giotto’s use of light is transcendently the first example of what filtered to Vermeer and then, hundreds of years later, became the Impressionist movement.” She looks at me. “Did you write that?”

  I rub my palms against my jeans.

  “And not…” She looked at her laptop again, then up at me. “Guy de Passari? Because that quote is famously attributed to him.”

  I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. All the words are gone. I’m empty, helpless.

  “I’ve gone carefully through your entire essay. You’ve copied from several sources. Is any of this your work?”

  My dealer, Toby, had sent me the link. Foolproof, he’d texted. 2 obscure to be discovered. I can’t even answer. I’ve never once done anything like this. I’ve never even come close. I called my dad to tell him what I’d done so that he could try to help me fix it, but he didn’t pick up. I didn’t leave a message. I guess I knew what he would tell me to do. “Could you give me another chance? Please? I can redo it. I can fix it.”

  “I wish I could. I do. But this is a serious breach of ethics that I’m bound by just as much as you are. You plagiarized, Arden. I have no choice.”

  “You do have a choice. I’ll rewrite it. You can fail me if you want. But please, please. Don’t report me.” I know what happens to girls who get reported for cheating. They get kicked out of school. No one ever hears from them again.

  “It’s too late. I’m sorry. I’ve already emailed the chair of the committee on academic misconduct.” She presses the lid of her laptop closed and that’s when I see it, the gold ring on her finger. “Someone will be contacting you to set up a hearing.”

  I look down at the chunky signet ring on my own hand. It’s identical to the one Professor Lee is wearing—that thick band and flattened domed top. I had gotten silver because it was cheaper. Rory had gotten gold. When was the last time I saw Rory wearing her ring?

  “Arden,” she says, patiently. “Is there anything else?”

  I’m thinking, hard. “Could you email them to say you changed your mind?”

  “Absolutely not. You thought you could take a shortcut. You thought I wouldn’t find out.”

  “I’ll tell,” I blurt out.

  She tips her head to the side and regards me. She looks genuinely curious. “Tell what? That you didn’t know what you’d done? Arden, this is practically a word-for-word transcription.”

  My heart beats fast with daring. I’ve never been so brave. “I’ll tell them about you and Rory.”

  Her face goes still. So it’s true. Rory’s been spending all her time with Chelsea—Professor Lee, our professor, who’s so pretty, with her dark eyebrows and wide mouth. Does Rory love her? Does she love Rory? She’s looking right back at me, trying to see inside to what I know and what I’m guessing.

  “Do not threaten me.” She rises. She looks so tall, all her features arranged in a mask.

  “I just want another chance,” I whisper.

  —

  “We have a second chance.” Is that Aunt Gabrielle, standing over me? I smell her rose perfume. I hear the soft jingle of the charms on her bracelet. I keep my eyes shut. I try not to clench them. I try not to peek to see if she’s staring down at me.

  “I know, I know,” Uncle Vince says. “Thank God.” His voice is thick, choked. I wonder what they’re talking about. “But Arden,” he says. “Arden.”

  “Maybe it’s fair, Vince.”

  “I can’t think like that. How can you be so hard?”<
br />
  “My heart is broken, Vince. I just don’t put it on display for everyone to see.”

  —

  I’m in the art studio trying to fit together the pieces of the frame. I don’t know why I’m even trying. The painting’s due Monday. The building’s empty, everyone getting ready for the pep rally, striping their faces with paint and filling flasks with mandarin vodka or Jameson. I was supposed to go, too. Rah.

  I hear Hunter’s voice in the hall and my heart beats butterfly fast. He’ll listen and tell me what to do. He’ll help me figure out a plan. I can’t be kicked out of college. I can’t. And then I remember. “Where’s the painting studio?” he’s asking someone.

  “First door on your right.”

  “Thanks.”

  Hunter comes into the room, but I keep my head down. My face is swollen with crying. The framing nails are tiny and headless. They go everywhere but where I want them to. I tap the end of one and it splinters the wood. I tug it out with thick fumbling fingers and try again.

  He comes up behind me. I feel him looking over my shoulder at my painting but I don’t turn around. “That’s pretty good. It looks just like her.”

  “It’s a self-portrait,” I say, between my teeth.

  “Oh. Sorry.” He tries again. “I’ve been calling you. I thought you’d gone home or something. I even talked to your little brother.”

  He’s trying to make me smile. I shrug.

  “That’s it? Seriously? You’re both going to pretend I’m dead?”

  I clear my throat. “Sorry,” I say, in a most ordinary voice. “I guess we use the same playbook.”

  “Yeah. I guess so.”

  I’m lining up the narrow lengths of wood to meet and make the corners. If I get the outside right, maybe I can fix the middle. The middle’s all broken. Somehow, everything has fallen apart in my hands. Hot tears prick my eyes. I blink them hard away.