This is What Goodbye Looks Like

by Olivia Rivers

  “Perfect. Post some on the campaign site pronto. And leave a little explanation of each picture and also some sort of reminder asking people to share the page on social media after they donate.”

  “Okay. Do you have any other ideas?”

  “No. I studied this crowdfunding stuff for four weeks in a high school course. It’s not like I actually know what the hell I’m doing. But let’s start there and cross our fingers it helps. If not... I don’t know. Maddie might have more ideas, but she’s beyond pissed at you, so I wouldn’t be surprised if she quits helping.”

  “I’m sorry,” I reply, unable to help myself. And I wish I could somehow send Camille the same message. Our campaign needs to go smoothly if it’s going to work, and already it’s starting to crumble.

  “Whatever,” Brie replies. “Now go post those pictures so I can stop talking to you.”

  “Okay. But thank you, Brie. Really. I can’t say that enough.”

  She doesn’t bother with another response.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  I follow Brie’s directions and put up three pictures on the blog portion of the campaign site—one of Camille at the beach creating a sand-angel, one of her performing at a gymnastics competition, and one collage of half a dozen more pictures pushed together into a single frame. I took the pictures with different settings, lighting, backgrounds, you name it. The only thing that’s the same in every single image is Camille’s dazzling, contagious smile.

  The pictures don’t have much affect the first day, but they work their magic overnight. When I check the site the next morning, the donation amount has risen to $2,720, and about twenty comments have been posted on the images. They come from people all over the country, and a couple aren’t even written in English, but the gist of things is the same: A girl with that much passion for life shouldn’t have to face death.

  Before I can lose my nerve, I scoop up my laptop and carry it down the hall, heading for Dad’s home office. It’s time to show him the campaign. He’s going to be furious, and I know it, but I also want to be the one to break the news to him about it. I don’t want him to stumble across it on his own.

  I knock on his office door, something I never used to do. But it doesn’t feel right anymore to just walk in, so I wait until I hear a mumbled, “Come in,” and then push open the door.

  All the blinds are pulled down, but the overhead lights illuminate the room, gleaming a sickly white off the stuffed bookcases.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, pausing in the doorway. Dad hasn’t bothered to ask me that question since I got home, but I can’t stop myself from saying the words to him. The bags under his eyes are even darker, and his face is pale and gaunt.

  “I got an email from your Uncle Jack this morning,” he says, his tone a raspy mixture of anger and pain. “He linked me to your campaign site.”

  I cringe as I watch his eyes cast away. “I don’t want to hurt you,” I murmur, because it seems like the only truth that can’t do more damage. “That’s not the point of this.”

  He lets out a sigh, and I don’t know how such a small sound can hold so much defeat. “I know, Lea,” he says. “But what you’re doing isn’t right.”

  “I disagree,” I say. “And Uncle Jack does, too. He donated a hundred dollars this morning, and he emailed and said he’d give more when he gets his paycheck this Friday.”

  “Jack just feels guilty,” Dad says, his words slow as he struggles to form a response. “He still blames himself for getting in that argument with your mom. He thinks she never would have left the reunion so upset if he had just held his tongue.”

  Sometimes it seems like there isn’t a single person who doesn’t blame themselves for some part of the accident. And I think everyone’s probably right—we did screw up by not stopping Mom. But even if it was a failure, it was a failure we never should have had to face, because Mom never should have put us in that situation.

  I did something cowardly for not trying harder to stop her. But I was never responsible for the accident.

  The realization hits me like a sledgehammer, and I open my mouth to explain it to Dad, but all that comes out is a hoarse whisper of air. I try again, but don’t even get out a single syllable before I close my mouth.

  Maybe this is a comfort to me—maybe I should have admitted to myself a long time ago that the accident isn’t my responsibility. But that won’t be any reassurance to Dad, because as far as he’s concerned, Camille’s already gone. Realizations might explain tragedies, but they don’t bring back the dead.

  “Uncle Jack donated because he’s trying to do what he thinks is best,” I say, my voice hoarse. “That’s all we can do at this point.”

  Dad swallows hard and stares down at nothing. “You’re not helping anyone, Lea,” he says. “You need to stop this. You’re just making everything worse.”

  “I’m helping Camille.”

  “She’s already gone.”

  “You don’t know that. Not for sure.”

  “Dammit, Lea!” The words explode out of his him, but he immediately crumples and presses his fist against his forehead, his eyes squeezed shut. “Why can’t you just let her go? She’s gone. What don’t you get about that?”

  “I get that she’s my sister, and I can’t just give up on her.”

  “And you’re willing to ruin the rest of your family because of that? Let her suffer for longer because of that? Because of some far-fetched, delusional hope that maybe someday she might wake up?”

  “I can’t ruin a family if it doesn’t exist,” I murmur. “And without Camille, it doesn’t.”

  Dad shoots me a harsh look. “I want you to shut down that campaign. Now. There is no way in hell you’re actually going to get forty thousand dollars from strangers. All it’s doing is dragging us right back into a storm of public criticism.”

  “No.”

  “It’s not going to work!” he snaps, wildly slashing his hand through the air, as if he’s trying to smack the campaign right out of existence. “Lea, I swear to god, if you don’t stop this nonsense, I’ll—”

  “What?” I demand, cutting him off. I meet his eyes for only a second before he casts them away. “You’ll do what? Go ahead, threaten me. It’s not going to do any good. There is absolutely nothing I care about more than Camille, and that leaves you with no leverage.”

  He grits his teeth, his jaw slowly working back and forth. I’m not sure if he’s pissed about my rebellious behavior or about how absolutely true my words are.

  “There’s nothing I can do to change your mind,” he finally says. “Is there?”

  “No.”

  He shakes his head and curses again. “I should be furious at you. Hell, I am furious at you.” He lets out a choked laugh. “But I guess I can’t completely blame you, can I? I was the idiot who taught you to stick to your guns.”

  “Yeah,” I admit. “That was you.” I clear my throat. “Look, like I said, I don’t want to hurt you. But I also don’t want to see you make another mistake you’ll regret.”

  He flinches and looks toward the window, frowning when he realizes the view is blocked by the shades. “The only mistake I’ll regret is letting Camille suffer for longer than she needs to.”

  We both go quiet, silently recognizing that we’re at stalemate. Then Dad stands up and heads for the door, his movements stiff with anger and grief as he brushes past me. He hesitates in the doorway.

  “Lea, there is no way you’ll be able to raise that much money. But even if you do, you’re not going to change my mind. I know Camille isn’t going to wake up.”

  I nod slowly. “I don’t have to change your mind. I just have to change what you do.”

  Chapter Forty

  By Tuesday morning, the campaign only has $4,245 in donations. I’ve been posting pictures every day, but already the donation rate to the campaign is falling again, and it’s getting nowhere near the amount it needs. At this pace, I’ll reach my $40,000 goal around the end of July.


  I spend half the day working to promote the crowdfunding campaign and the other half trying to convince myself not to fling my laptop across the room in frustration. Promoting the webpage requires either media contacts, a previously-established audience, or a shit-ton of money. And I have none of those.

  Over the past couple of days, I’ve sent about a hundred messages out to news sites, bloggers, vloggers, website owners, and forums, trying to get them to feature the campaign page. Some of the smaller sites are helpful, but the news sites are useless. The media had been so interested in Camille’s story when there was a juicy trial they could use to improve their ratings. But now they have no interest in talking about Camille. Most don’t reply, and those that do all have the same message—thanks for contacting us, sorry you’re dealing with this, but the accident is too old to bother writing about.

  The page gets only half a dozen small donations throughout the day. I post more pictures in the afternoon, but when I check on them a couple hours later, there are only two new comments. I click on them, only to find they’re both spam messages.

  Frustration roars through me, and I slam my palm against the desk, rattling a cup of pens and knocking a few papers off. Dammit. Just damn this whole thing.

  I pick up the cup of pens, wanting to throw something. But as my hand closes around it, my pinky twinges from its old injury, startling me with a jolt of pain.

  It suddenly hits me which cup I’m holding—it’s a tiny mug that’s marked with a criss-cross pattern and sloppily painted in various shades of blue. Camille made it for me in her fourth-grade art class. It was her present to me for graduating middle school.

  I quickly set the mug down and rub at my face, trying to wipe away the anger and exhaustion clouding my head. I still have ten days. It might be enough time to get the remaining $35,000, so I can’t give up hope yet.

  A text pops up on my phone, and I hurriedly flick open my messaging app when I see it’s from Brie. But my stomach drops as soon as I read her message:

  “The campaign isn’t doing good.”

  I bite at my lip to keep in a curse. Yeah. Like I didn’t already notice.

  “I’m getting less donations and messages,” I text back. “It’s like everyone’s just lost interest.”

  “Yeah, I think they have. People need a reason to keep focusing on the page and spreading it. Give them one.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “And whatever you’re doing obviously isn’t working. Try something else.”

  “Like what?”

  “Have you tried reaching out to local news stations?”

  “The media stopped caring as soon as the trial was over. I think they’re done with Camille’s story.”

  “Then change their minds,” Brie replies. “At this point, I think the only way you’re going to raise that much money that fast is if you get a legit news source to spread the word about the campaign.”

  “How the hell do I change their minds?”

  “I have no idea. But you seem pretty damn good at manipulating people, so I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”

  Brie doesn’t send another message after that, and I don’t reply. I take a deep breath and try to sort out my thoughts, but a loud growling breaks my concentration. It takes me a moment to realize it’s my stomach. Shit. I forgot to eat today.

  I stand up, wincing at the throbbing in my knee. I haven’t exercised it in nearly a week, and the pain is starting to come back with a vengeance. I limp out of my room, heading for the kitchen, but as I pass by the door to Dad’s office, I hesitate.

  His office door is cracked open just the tiniest bit, and I knock on it. There’s a long pause, and then I hear Dad say, “Come on in, Lea.”

  Pushing open the door, I find the blinds are still drawn, and Dad looks even more haggard than he did before. He tries to give me a small smile from behind his desk, but it quickly turns lopsided and then fades.

  “How did you know it was me at the door?” I ask, because it seems like a harmless question, and I want to say something harmless for once.

  “Your steps sound different.” He shrugs, like he’s trying to be nonchalant about this, but I see him wince as he glances toward my leg.

  I clear my throat. “I need to see Camille.”

  Dad sighs and shuffles a few papers, sorting them into neat piles in front of him. He doesn’t seem to notice that half of them are upside down.

  “Lea. Sweetheart. I’m not going to let you spend the next week camped out by her bed. Every doctor I’ve spoken to agrees that sort of behavior is harmful.”

  “I won’t spend too long with her.”

  Dad shakes his head a little and picks at a staple in the corner of one of the pages. “I know you want to see her before the life support is terminated, and I’ll make sure you do. But let’s not do it right now.”

  “You didn’t hear me right. I didn’t say I want to see her. I said I need to see her.”

  He abruptly drops the papers. “Why? So you can give yourself false hope and hurt yourself even more?”

  “No. So I can say goodbye.”

  Dad freezes, and it’s a long moment before he can rally with a reply. “I... I thought you were still working on that campaign.”

  “I am. But I’m not going to risk losing my chance to say goodbye to her, if it comes to that.”

  Dad nods slowly, but I don’t miss the tears in his eyes. As angry as he got about the campaign, I don’t think this is what he wanted to hear from me. Part of him was holding out hope as long as I held out hope. And now my determination is waning, and his grief is growing.

  “The hospital’s visiting hours already ended for tonight,” he says, his voice hoarse and quiet. “But we can go first thing in the morning.”

  Without another word, he turns back to the computer on his desk. But his hand doesn’t touch the mouse, and his fingers don’t tap on the keyboard, and for a horrible second, he looks just as still as Parker’s corpse.

  Chapter Forty-One

  I’d almost forgotten how uncomfortable hospitals are. Almost. As soon as I walk in the front doors, it all comes flooding back. Chilled, stale air clogs my nose, and the sickly smell of lemon cleaner and vomit makes me gag a little. The coma ward is just as eerie as I remember it, just room after room of people lying in bed, unmoving, floating somewhere between life and death. Some of the patients even open their eyes, their lids blinking but their minds frozen.

  I feel the worst for the families of those people. At least Camille always looks at peace.

  The fluorescent lights and tense quiet in here make it feel like a dream world, although I gave up a long time ago trying to convince myself this nightmare isn’t real. Dad stays in the lobby to give me privacy, but I make my way to Camille’s room, passing her day-nurse in the hall. She’s a small, elderly woman who always wears bright-pink scrubs and a frazzled look. A flicker of a smile forms on her thin lips when she recognizes me. All the workers around here seem to have mastered that expression, the one that says, “I’m glad to see you,” even as it says, “I’m so sorry you have to be here.”

  I nod my thanks to her, not trusting my voice enough to speak. Then I just stand in front of Camille’s room for a minute, forcing in deep breaths and trying not to choke on that sickening hospital smell. I stay there until my knee aches too much to keep standing, and then I finally work up the nerve to shove open the door to her room.

  It’s like stepping into a time capsule. Everything looks exactly the same as when I was last here, from the stark white paint of the walls, to the the gleaming linoleum floor, to the bed in the corner of the room.

  The curtains are pulled back, letting sunshine fall onto my sister’s unmoving form. She looks like a doll, so tiny and frail, yet still beautiful. Her chest moves up and down, up and down, the life support machines sighing along with it.

  My stomach clenches as I focus on the tube that snakes into her mouth and threads through her airway. If it wasn’t for that, I co
uld almost convince myself the accident never happened. All the bruises are gone, her casts have been taken off, and the cuts from the shattered windshield have healed into shiny scars.

  She has one smallish scar that runs along her right jaw. Camille would like it, I think. If she was awake, she’d probably call it a battle wound and then strike some ridiculous warrior pose just to make me laugh.

  But there’s no laughter in this room. Just beeps and hisses and hums, all the tiny noises melding into a symphony of horror.

  It takes me a long minute to unfreeze myself and walk into her room. But as soon as I start toward her, I can’t stop, and I nearly stumble into the side of her bed before I manage to stop. I grab a chair and set it right next to her bed.

  They cut her hair again. My hand shakes as I reach out and stroke the soft blond locks. They’re trimmed into a short bob that Camille would never allow if she was awake. I know the style makes it easier for her nurses to manage it, but it still makes me sick to see her gorgeous hair butchered like this.

  “I missed you,” I murmur, pressing my palm to her cheek. It’s clammy and lacking that rosy tint it always used to have, as if someone’s erased the color right out of her.

  I stare at her for a long moment, desperately searching for any sign of life. Last time I saw her, she looked so alive, like she was just sleeping and about to wake up any second. It was impossible to believe she might never regain consciousness. But now...

  Now the only way I know she’s alive is because of the monitor beside her with its little line that bobs up and down with her pulse.

  “I’m trying to stop them, you know,” I say, brushing my fingers over her too-cold cheek. “I’m doing everything I can to keep you safe.”

  My stomach sinks at her lack of response. Even after so many months of this, the sterile silence of the room kills a little part of me.

  Maybe Dad’s right. I hate the thought as soon as it creeps into my head, but as I stare down at her withered body, I can’t keep it away. Her hair is too dry, and her eyelids are too dark, and her skin sags from all the muscle that’s wasted away. She looks more like a corpse than she ever has before.