This is What Goodbye Looks Like

by Olivia Rivers

  We manage to get to our house walk inside. For a split second, I actually expect to hear Camille’s voice calling out a hello, her cheerful tone echoing off the hardwood flooring of our entranceway. But there’s only silence to greet me.

  Technically, I guess not much has changed. The bold colors still say, “fashionable,” the elegant vases say, “tasteful,” the hardwood floor says, “wealth.” But nothing manages to break through the stale silence and say, “welcome home.”

  Dad comes out of his home office and stoops to give me a hug. He looks like he’s aged ten years since the accident, still tall and slim, but now with more gray creeping into his blond hair and bags under his eyes. We bumble through an awkward greeting, and then he walks outside to get my bags from the car.

  It’s an SUV, just like the one ruined in the accident, but it’s also a slightly older model. Maybe Dad thought that if he replaced the smashed car with something from before the accident, he could pretend we never needed to buy a replacement. Or maybe his law business is starting to crumble along with his home life, and he couldn’t afford something brand new.

  I don’t know which it is. I think I should care, but I don’t.

  I sleep. Somehow I manage to make it into my room, and then I just stop trying to keep my eyes open and let darkness wash over every part of me. Time is only marked by the calls from Jeremy I keep sending to voicemail, and after I turn off my phone, it seems to disappear all together.

  The world is broken, frozen. Some part of me whispers that I shouldn’t be wasting time in bed, that I should be up and trying to help Camille. But the rest of my exhausted body disagrees, and I can’t get myself to move off my mattress.

  Every time I wake up, I’m on the verge of screaming, my chest growing hotter and hotter as the sound stays trapped there. I can’t let it out, because that means breaking the silence permeating my house. Right now, that silence is the only thing keeping me from completely losing it. If I concentrate hard enough, I can almost convince myself that I died in Parker’s place, and Mom and Dad are in the kitchen sipping their morning coffee, and Jeremy’s in the living room watching TV, and Camille’s just down the hall dancing around her room, and everything’s right with the world.

  It’s Friday when Mom finally drags me out of bed. The only reason I know is because she puts a newspaper in my hands, steers me over to the kitchen table, and tells me to do the crossword puzzle with Dad. We used to do this every single Friday morning, but the decade-long tradition just feels wrong. If the blank stare Dad gives the paper is anything to judge by, he thinks the same.

  The only part of the paper that interests me is the date in the corner. March sixteenth. Fifteen days before Camille’s taken off life support. Fifteen days to work a miracle and stop it. I was an idiot to spend so long in bed, but now that I’m up, everything still seems just as hopeless.

  Dad and I manage to solve three of the problems, and then he mumbles some excuse and leaves to get ready for work. Mom gives a half-hearted apology for him, but I’m too busy shrugging it off and retreating back to my room to really notice what she says.

  As I close the door behind me, I turn on my phone, figuring I’d better answer Jeremy’s messages before I start working on Camille’s campaign. But as my phone powers on, a bunch of new email notifications pop up on my screen. If I’m reading them right, I have almost forty new emails, all of them forwarded from the crowdfunding site. For a moment, I’m completely confused. But then I remember that I gave Maddie my email address to set up the crowdfunding account with, so that must be how I’m getting the messages.

  I flick open my email app and tap on the first message, opening the whole thing. It’s from some guy named Colin Hoyt, and all it says is, “happy 2 back this. good luck.” I scroll to the next message, which is from a lady named Julia Wu. Hers says, “I’m glad for the opportunity to donate. Can I get your permission to write about this in my church’s bulletin? Spreading the word seems like the key here.”

  I blink a few times, not believing what I’m reading. Maddie set up a draft version of the crowdfunding webpage, but I haven’t made it accessible to the public yet. Some of the details and pages are still blank. Unless...

  With shaky fingers, I scramble to open the email Maddie sent me a couple days ago, the one with the account link. I tap on it. Earlier this week, most of this page had been blank. Now it’s titled, “Help Save Camille Alessio,” and the top of the page displays the grinning picture of Camille that circulated around the media when the accident first happened. In the description box under the image, it says, “Last year on May 4th, Camille Alessio suffered a traumatic brain injury in a car accident. Her chances of surviving her coma are nonexistent without your help.”

  I blink a few times, re-reading the description. I didn’t write that, so who did? My breath catches as I see the donation stats in the corner. “$735 Dollars Raised of $40,000 Goal.”

  Holy shit. Just... holy shit. How in the hell...?

  I refresh the page, waiting for the numbers to disappear, because it’s obviously a glitch. Instead, the donation amount changes to $750.

  Oh my god. This is real. Someone back at Harting must be managing the page, and they’re obviously doing some serious social media mojo, because there’s no other way it could have gotten so many donations this fast.

  I take a shuddering breath, waiting for tears to take over my vision. But they’re not there. I think somehow my body knows that I can’t give into any weakness right now. This is Camille’s last chance, and if I’m going to make anything happen in only fifteen days, I need to get to work.

  I click through the site, examining the mission statement that’s been posted—it gives a bunch of details about the accident and Camille’s coma and encourages people to donate towards the medical costs of keeping Camille on life support. Whoever is running the page has also posted lots of links to news articles about the accident and trial, making it easy for people online to familiarize themselves with the events.

  I set down my phone and boot up my laptop, logging into the campaign’s account from there, and then I start sifting through the other messages. So far, 42 people have donated, and 16 of them left messages to go along with their donations. I try to make my replies as personal as possible for each one, although my spinning mind makes it hard to focus on the details. The basic message is pretty simple, though: Thank you. Thank you for caring about my sister. Thank you for giving her the fighting chance she deserves.

  I’ve just finished the replies when there’s a knock at my door. It’s tentative and soft, and even though it’s quieter than how it used to sound, I recognize Mom’s knock right away.

  “Come in,” I call, quickly clicking open a new internet tab so Mom can’t see the campaign page. I have no idea how she’s going to react to it, but now isn’t the time to find out. I’ll have to tell her about it soon, but I want to wait until I get a few more donations and the campaign grows large enough to make it impossible to simply pull down.

  Mom opens the door slowly and hesitates in my doorway.

  I raise an eyebrow. “Did you need something?”

  Mom clasps her hands behind her back and straightens her shoulders, the position Jeremy used to jokingly call her “doctor pose.” But it’s different now. Back when we were little, it was a pose of authority, the sort that told us we were in deep shit and had better listen to every word she said. Now it looks like she’s just trying to keep herself from collapsing.

  “I want to talk to you,” she says.

  I turn so I’m actually facing her. “So talk.”

  “It’s about your school.”

  Not exactly what I was expecting, I’ll admit. I was waiting for some serious conversation about Camille.

  Mom sighs and walks over to my bed. I can’t help but watch her steps, slow and labored, but perfectly balanced. They’re doctor’s footsteps, just as calculated and steady as her doctor’s hands have always been. I cross my arms and grip my elbows, des
perately trying to keep myself from chucking something at her feet. I want to trip her, to give her a taste of what it feels like to not have control of her own legs.

  Mom seems to somehow know what I’m thinking, because she suddenly averts her gaze. I realize I’m glaring at her, but I don’t bother to reign in the expression.

  She sits on the edge of my bed and smooths the sheets, tracing the soft creases with her palm. “We need to figure out what you’re doing for school for the rest of the semester.”

  “I just figured I’d do home studying,” I say, turning back to my laptop. “Or maybe just get my GED and be done with it. I don’t know. Either would work.”

  Mom stands up and starts making my bed, folding the sheets into their proper place. “It’s not going to look good on your school transcript,” she says. “Jumping around schools so much, I mean. I really think you should consider going back and finishing your semester at Harting.”

  “No,” I say. “I’m done with that school.”

  She raises an eyebrow, silently requesting an explanation.

  “It’s a tough school,” I say. “Harder than I was expecting. It’s just not what I need right now, and besides, my grades are good enough to make up for a few rough spots on my transcript.”

  She gives her throat a dainty clear, and I can’t help but wonder if that’s where I picked the habit up from. “I’ve done some very stupid things, Lea,” she says. “But that doesn’t make me a complete idiot.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I’d bet anything you didn’t leave because it was too hard or you were homesick. Something obviously went wrong there. So what was it?”

  “What does it matter?”

  She lets out a long breath. “You’re my daughter. If something happened to you, I need to know.”

  I stare at her for a long minute, and the sincerity in her expression makes my gut twist. She’s telling the truth—she wants to know. But the thing is, she can’t know. Because sitting behind the protectiveness in her gaze is a web of cracks, the sort of fault lines threatening to crumble at any moment. She’s already shattered; it wouldn’t take much to disintegrate what’s left of her into dust.

  “I was stupid,” I say, knowing she’s not going to let me just drop the topic. “I started dating a guy. It didn’t work out.”

  Understatement of the year. But it seems to appease Mom, because now instead of looking suspicious, she just looks pitying. Before I know what’s happening, she’s at my side and swooping me into a tight hug.

  “Oh, sweetie,” she says quietly. “I’m so sorry. Breakups are always rough.”

  “Thanks,” I choke out, trying not to sound too dismayed.

  I expected her to disbelieve me at least a little, to try to coax a more complete answer out of me. Doesn’t she remember who I am? Not the sort of girl to fall apart because of a simple, mundane breakup, that’s for sure.

  I open my mouth, tempted to tell her just how complex the whole situation is. But I slowly close my mouth and force myself to return her hug. There’s a reason she’s falling for my heavily edited version of the truth—on some unconscious level, I think she knows she can’t handle anything more serious.

  Mom pulls away from the hug and then hesitantly asks, “Do you... want to talk about it?”

  Yes. If there’s anything I want, it’s to spill my guts. I want to confess how badly I screwed up, tell her I wish I could take it all back. I want to admit that as much as I’m desperate to redo everything, I don’t regret the moments I spent with Seth. That I can’t bring myself to.

  I swallow hard. “I need some more time to think about it. Maybe later?”

  She lets out a small sigh, although I can’t tell if it’s from frustration that I won’t talk or relief that she doesn’t have to.

  “Of course, sweetie. Whenever you want to discuss it, I’ll be here.” Mom goes back to making the bed, fluffing one of my pillows and setting it carefully on top of the now-folded sheets. “But are you really so dead-set on home studying? I don’t know if it’d be good for you to be cooped up at the house for the rest of the semester.”

  “I think I can decide for myself what’s good for me.”

  She doesn’t argue.

  “I’ll call my old home study counselor tomorrow,” I say in a slightly gentler tone. “It shouldn’t be too hard to get enrolled again.”

  Mom shakes her head. “No. Let me do it. I’m the parent, I should call.”

  I almost argue, but then I stop myself. She needs this. I can see it in her desperate gaze. For once, she needs to feel like she’s taking care of me.

  So I just say, “Yeah. Sure.”

  She nods, gives my sheets one more tug to straighten them, and then comes over to offer me another awkward hug. “I’m glad we talked.”

  “Me, too,” I lie.

  She strides out of my room faster than necessary, and the door closing sounds louder than usual. More final. My eyes feel grainy all of the sudden, like my tears tried to escape but froze before they could get out.

  Ever since the accident, I’ve been shoving Mom back, desperate for space from her. I’ve told myself I was the one keeping her away.

  It never fully dawned on me that I couldn’t have Mom back, even if I wanted her.

  Her footsteps retreat down the hall, leaving me alone in my too-silent room. I turn back to my laptop and refresh the campaign page one more time.

  It’s only then that I see the message. It sits at the very bottom of my inbox, obviously sent well before the others. My breath freezes when I see Seth’s name, and my fingers tremble as I click the email open. His message is simple, so unlike everything else between us:

  “No one deserves to lose someone they love.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  I wake up the next morning after getting barely five hours of sleep, and the first thing I do is check the campaign page. I don’t even have to haul myself over to my desk first—after spending the whole day answering and sending messages for Camille’s campaign, I fell asleep with my laptop resting on my stomach.

  As my laptop reboots, I have a mild panic attack as I wonder if I’d dreamed everything that happened yesterday. Maybe it was just wishful thinking and jet lag that created the events. But as I click open my internet browser, I find Camille’s page is still there.

  $1,270 has been raised so far. It’s $200 more than it was last night, but it’s a bittersweet victory. The rate of donations has been slowing since yesterday afternoon, and it looks like it’s gotten even worse while I was sleeping.

  Shit.

  I take out my phone and stare at it for a long minute, debating whether or not to try contacting anyone at Harting. I have a feeling I know exactly who is working on the campaign, and I heave in a deep breath to steel myself before I send Brie a text message.

  “Are you the one updating Camille’s campaign page?”

  I half expect her to not respond, but then a message pops up on my screen.

  “Yeah. Seth asked me to. And I’ll talk to you only because I want to help your sister.”

  “I understand.”

  “I don’t. What the hell did you want from Seth anyway? Haven’t you already hurt him enough?”

  “I seriously messed up.”

  “Damn right you did.”

  I cringe and wrack my brain for something to say, anything that might make this conversation even slightly less screwed up.

  “Thank you for still helping Camille. And for being a good friend to me, even though I never deserved it.”

  “What we were wasn’t friends. I was friends with Lea Holder, the fictional character, not Leandra Alessio, the bitch who broke Seth’s heart in about twenty ways.”

  “Is he okay?” I hesitate and then quickly send another message. “And did he get the photos I emailed him for Parker’s project?”

  There’s a long pause before her reply comes.

  “He made me promise only two things. The first w
as that I’d still help out your little sister, because he doesn’t want her to die. And the second was that I’d never speak about him to you ever again. So don’t ask any more questions about him if you want my help.”

  I didn’t expect anything less, and I know I deserve every ounce of his anger, but it’s still a punch in the gut. I gulp in a lungful of air, trying to breathe past the pain.

  “I screwed up so bad. I know it’d be idiotic to ask for anyone’s forgiveness, but I just hope you know I’ll never forgive myself either.”

  “That makes me feel surprisingly better. But I still think you’re a total bitch. So let’s talk about Camille’s campaign so I don’t just spend the next twenty minutes calling you a bitch. Her webpage isn’t getting as many donations today as it was yesterday. We need solutions.”

  My fingers hover over my keyboard, and I consider giving a full apology along with a more in-depth explanation. But that’s clearly not the conversation Brie wants to have, so I go along with her switch in topic.

  “Obviously you’ve been doing something right, because $1200 is amazing. But I’ve got no clue why it’s slowing down or what to do. You?”

  “It’s slowing down because the internet is incredibly ADHD. Things hold people’s attentions for half a second. Camille’s page has been up for two days and not much about it has changed. That’s why not as many people are visiting it now.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “Make it seem new again. Put up new content in the blog and picture section of the site. Maddie and I found enough material to fill in the blanks and get the site running, but we just had media articles to go off. We need personal stuff posted on there. And I mean real personal stuff. None of this hit-her-head-cheerleading shit. People are going to be a thousand times more likely to support a girl they feel like they actually know.”

  “How about pictures from before the accident? I have about 10 million of them.”