Even when she was bruised and scabbed everywhere, the discolored skin and dried blood were proof that her body was fighting to heal itself, fighting to survive. Now it seems like the machines surrounding her bed are the only things keeping her alive, and not her own will.
“I came here to say goodbye, you know,” I whisper to her. “And I didn’t think I’d actually end up doing it. But I think I need to.”
I lace my shaking fingers through hers, and then use my other hand to press her palm closer. She used to always have tiny callouses on her hands from performing gymnastics, but now her skin is perfectly smooth. Too smooth. It reminds me of the skin I see on models in fashion magazines, the sort that’s obviously airbrushed and not real.
I press her hand to my cheek, trying to reassure myself that she’s still real, still here. But her skin is too cool, and it makes a shudder crawl painfully down my spine.
“They might be right,” I murmur, although I don’t know if I’m really talking to her or myself. “I think I might have to let you go.”
I rest my cheek on the blanket right next to her shoulder, keeping her hand clutched close. She doesn’t even smell the same anymore. She used to smell like apricot shampoo and the chalk dust she coated her hands with at gymnastics practice. Now it’s like she’s absorbed the sterile smell of the hospital.
I don’t know how long I stay there. Probably only an hour, but it feels like an eternity stuffed into a millisecond. Time is just as warped as my thoughts. My mind yells at me that this isn’t right, that I can’t let her go on like this, a ruined and unmoving shell. But every nerve in me screams that I couldn’t survive the pain of actually losing her.
I don’t realize I’m crying until I see the glistening tears that have fallen onto her hand. They gleam on her too-perfect skin, and as I quickly brush them off, Camille’s fingers curl up to meet mine.
I squeeze my eyes shut, vowing to keep the tears at bay and not disturb her anymore. She always used to always get so upset when she saw me cry.
Then it hits me.
She curled her fingers.
She reacted to my touch.
She moved.
I jolt up, shrieking with a mixture of shock and exhilaration. Then I whirl toward her heart monitor and slam the emergency-response button hanging there, although my scream has probably already drawn the attention of every doctor on this floor.
I snatch back Camille’s hand, clutching it tightly as I wait for it to move again. My eyes flicker anxiously between her arm and her face, knowing there’s life in there, that it’s going to wake up soon.
A nurse skids into the room with a crash cart, but he slows down when he peers at the monitors and sees normal activity. Behind him, Camille’s doctor bursts into the room, her white coat flapping open and closed with her frantic steps. Doctor Walsh’s eyes narrow in on the monitors for a split second, then move to me.
“What happened?” she demands, rushing to Camille’s side. She grabs my sister’s hand away from me and takes her pulse, as if the monitors aren’t trustworthy.
My mouth opens and closes a few times, and a giggling burst of laughter escapes me before I manage to speak.
“She moved! I touched her, and she moved. She tried to hold my hand!”
Dad races into the room just as I finish speaking. He’d promised to stay out in the lobby, but it’s not like I care that he’s breaking the promise. Hell, I’m glad he’s here. He needs to see that Camille’s waking up, that she’s beating the odds and getting better, no matter how improbable it might be.
He exchanges an excited glance with Doctor Walsh, who’s grinning a shocked smile. She’s been treating Camille since she was first transferred to the coma ward, and even though I hate her for suggesting we pull the plug, she almost redeems herself with the look of joy on her face.
“It doesn’t look like we’re going to need this,” the nurse says, nodding to the crash cart.
Walsh makes a shooing gesture. “No, definitely not. Can you take it out?” The nurse nods and offers me a congratulatory smile before heading back out to the hallway.
“What did she do exactly?” Walsh asks me breathlessly.
“She moved her hand,” I say. “I touched her hand, and her fingers moved toward mine. Like she could feel me and she was trying to grab my hand.”
Walsh’s smile suddenly dims as she peers closer at Camille’s monitors. A moment of silence passes, and then she says, “You’re sure she moved?”
“Why else would I be shrieking like a banshee?” Despite my harsh words, I’m giggling again, unable to stop.
Walsh exchanges another look with Dad, although this time her mouth is pulled into a tight line, and Dad’s frowning.
“What?” I demand, my elation suddenly fading.
Walsh turns to the heart monitor instead of answering me. Her fingers flick across the touch-screen, bringing up the activity from the past few minutes. She examines it closely, and the last of her excitement vanishes. She points to a part of the monitor that shows a spike in Camille’s heart rate.
“This short spike isn’t normal,” Walsh says. “If she’d moved because she was waking up, I’d expect this rise in heart rate to last a lot longer. This looks more like the sort of spike we see in patients when they just twitch in their sleep. Or when someone jostles them.” She gives me a suspicious frown. “You say she reacted to you? She moved when you touched her?”
I shake my head so hard, it hurts my neck. “No, don’t you dare think I’m making this up. She tried to grab my hand! I saw her! I touched her hand, and she tried to take mine!”
Walsh gently lays a hand on my shoulder. “Sweetie, sometimes when we really, really want to see something, we’ll see it even if it didn’t happen. If she’d moved by her own will, her heart rate probably would have spiked pretty drastically. And the chances of her moving at all are almost nonexistent. Like I’ve explained, patients just don’t make progress after being in a coma this long. You probably just accidentally jostled her and mistook it for her moving by herself.”
My mouth flops open, but all that comes out is a hoarse squeak. She’s got to be joking. Camille’s finally showing signs of improvement, and she’s not even going to do anything about it?
I turn towards Dad, waiting for him to argue with Walsh. But judging by the way he’s glaring at me, he’s not buying the doctor’s theory that I “accidentally” saw something that didn’t happen. No. He thinks I made this up on purpose.
“I swear to God, I saw it,” I say. “Dad, you have to believe me. She moved.”
“Thank you for looking at Camille, Doctor Walsh,” Dad says, his voice icy. “I apologize for Lea wasting your time like this.”
Walsh bites her lip. “I’ll order another EEG, just to make sure there’s no new brain activity.” She turns to me before she says the next part. “I hope you won’t get your hopes up, though. I’m not expecting to make any new findings.”
Dad nods curtly, and Walsh does a quick exam of Camille, shaking her head every couple of minutes and muttering about no changes. I hold my breath, waiting for Camille to react to the cold stethoscope or the press of Walsh’s fingers to her pulse, but she’s just as still as she was when I first came in the room.
Walsh jots some notes on Camille’s chart and makes another vague promise to run more tests. Then she walks out the door. I want to scream at her to come back, but all the breath has been knocked out of my chest.
I turn back toward Dad, and as I meet his glare, my dismay is quickly replaced with rage.
“Don’t,” I hiss. “Don’t you dare ignore this.”
“There is no ‘this,’” he snaps. He paces forward until he’s right in front of me, glowering down. “Did you really think I’d fall for a trick that simple? Christ, and here I was actually believing you wanted to say goodbye. This is just sick, you realize that? Getting her doctor’s hopes up? Getting my hopes up? You need to let go. Now. Before you pull any more obnoxious stunts like this.”
<
br /> “I’m telling the truth!”
He shakes his head. “No, you’re not. And the person you’re lying to the most is yourself.” He lunges forward suddenly and clamps his hands on my shoulders, his grip so firm it almost hurts. “She’s not going to wake up, Lea. You are not helping anyone. You need to accept that.”
I flinch away from the wild grief in his eyes, and he stumbles back, abruptly letting go of me. He stares at me for a long moment, then turns on his heel and stalks toward the door.
“We’re going now,” he says.
“I’m not just leaving her,” I snarl.
“Either get your ass down to the car and let me take you home, or I’ll have security drag you out of here, and you can walk home by yourself.”
I swallow hard as I realize he’s not joking. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this furious before, and the anger in his eyes makes me instinctively lean closer to Camille, wanting to shield her.
I reach out and give my sister’s hand one more squeeze. “I’ll be back,” I murmur, and I silently swear to myself that I won’t break that promise.
I don’t care what Walsh says, and I don’t care what Dad thinks. I saw her move. I know it happened, and I know there’s still life in her body.
And I’m not going to give up on it.
Chapter Forty-Two
Dad hasn’t said a word to me since we got back from the hospital, and Mom’s keeping her distance, too. I tried telling her about Camille, but she just gave me a blank look and repeated almost exactly what Doctor Walsh said—sometimes, if we want it bad enough, we’ll see things that don’t exist.
The next morning, I wake up with a splitting headache, but I drag myself out of bed anyway and limp to the kitchen to grab coffee. As I open the cabinet looking for grounds, I spot a box of Earl Grey tea sitting on the top shelf. I quickly shove it to the back, where I can’t see it, and then get the coffee maker started.
After gulping down two mugs, I return to my room and pull up the campaign page on my laptop. A hundred dollars came in during the night, bringing the donation total to $5,135.
Seeing Camille move yesterday has made me even more determined to get the donation amount to grow. But I’m not feeling the same fiery energy I started out with. This determination is gnawing and painful and desperate.
Two texts pop up on my phone sitting next to me on the desk. One is from Jeremy, just checking in on me. He hasn’t called since I started the campaign, and I just text him back a short message telling him I’m doing fine. I don’t have time for a longer conversation.
The other text is from Brie, telling me that she’s struggling to promote the campaign just as much as I am. My fingers shake a little as I type a response.
“We can’t give up. Camille moved yesterday.”
“What?!”
“Seriously. She held my hand.”
I can’t help smiling as I type that. After Dad’s reaction yesterday, I was so pissed off that I kind of forgot to celebrate.
“That’s amazing. Are your parents going to keep her on life support now? Since she’s improving?”
“No.”
“What the hell? Why?”
“They don’t believe it happened. I was the only one in the room when she moved, and they think I made it up just to try to stop them.”
There’s no response from Brie for a long minute, but I already know what’s going through her head, because I’m thinking the same thing: This is the sort of thing liars deserve. Finally, she gives a response, although there’s none of the bitterness in it that I was expecting.
“Do you think there’s any way to convince them it actually happened?”
“Her doctor is running another brain wave test. Hopefully, it’ll show something new. But if not, there’s no way my parents are changing their minds. At least not because of this.”
“So we still need the campaign to work?” she texts after a moment.
“Yeah.”
“Shit. Because it’s not working. Or at least not fast enough.”
I curse as I look back to my laptop’s screen. Five thousand dollars is a ton of money, but it’s still impossibly far away from forty thousand.
“I’m running out of ideas to get donations,” I text back. “How the hell do we get people interested in Camille?”
“I don’t know,” Brie texts. “In case you’ve forgotten, you were never exactly chatty about the accident. So you tell me. What angle have we not thought of that could get the media talking about Camille again? There has to be something.”
Her question makes me grit my teeth in frustration. But then it hits me—I’ve already told Brie exactly what could throw Camille’s campaign straight into the media spotlight. I quickly scroll back up to our conversation from the other day, trusting my typed words more than my whirling thoughts.
“The media stopped caring as soon as the trial was over.”
I’d said it out of bitterness, but it’s entirely true. Once Mom was no longer facing the threat of prison, things calmed down instantly. The media no longer had a high-stakes criminal trial to bait viewers with. The accident was just the sad story of a girl trapped in a coma and a dead boy, and it quickly fell out of the public’s eye.
I swivel my desk chair and stare at my nightstand for a long minute, just letting my gaze rest on the top drawer. It looks like it always has, light-colored wood and shiny silver handles, but it suddenly seems like the ugliest thing in my room.
My phone pings, alerting me to a new message from Brie, but I ignore it and limp over to my nightstand. With shaking hands, I yank open the little drawer at the top.
Everything seems to stop. My trembling, my breathing, time itself. All that exists is the small memory card staring up at me.
It was the first thing I unpacked when I got home. I shoved it in the very back of this drawer and swore to forget about it.
But I can’t forget it. Not anymore.
Another ping from my phone pierces the silence, and I don’t realize I’ve picked up the memory card until I instinctively clench my hand, hiding it in my palm. Brie’s words echo through my head: “There has to be something.”
There is something. And when it comes into the light, nothing will stop the media from stampeding back to the story of the accident.
Chapter Forty-Three
I don’t know how many new donations the campaign got in the past day. I don’t know if anyone else has sent new messages. I don’t know anything but the look of shock on Mom’s face when the officers showed up at our doorstep last evening.
I’d been planning on hiding away in my room when they came. It’d have made me a coward, but it seemed like the kindest option. Mom shouldn’t have had look at her traitorous daughter while she was being arrested.
But I ended up sneaking out of my room to go to the bathroom, and right then, the doorbell rang. I froze, tucked away in the corner of the hall so the cops couldn’t see me, but I could see them. Everyone seemed eerily calm, and their conversation sounded like something out of a stilted elementary school play:
“Can I help you, officers?”
“Good evening, ma’am. We have a warrant for your arrest.”
“Oh. I see.”
“We’d like to interview you at the station. You’ll come along willingly, won’t you?”
“Of course. But can I say goodbye to my daughter first?”
“No, ma’am, I’m afraid that’s not possible right now.”
Before they started leading her outside, I rushed forward, words struggling up my throat. Words saying the video file is a fake, that the emails and calls I exchanged with the police station yesterday were all lies, that nothing I’d reported could be trusted. But I cut off before even a single syllable left my mouth.
I think there are only three things keeping me sane right now. One is the thought of how much comfort this will bring Seth, how he’ll finally get the closure his whole family is desperate for. The second is the tingling on my palm where I
swear I can still feel Camille touching my hand. And the third is the soft, proud smile Mom gave me right as she was being led away, the smile that killed all my lies before they escaped.
Chapter Forty-Four
The campaign site explodes the next evening. At four o’clock, the donation amount is $5,980. By eight, when the evening news reports are done running, the number has ticked up to $9,430.
I’m too scared to look up what sort of articles are being reported about Mom’s manslaughter case, but if Dad’s mood is anything to judge by, they’re not flattering. Dad won’t stop talking, but he’s not talking to me. After he got home from the police station late last night, he walked straight into my room and just stared at me with a stricken look, his eyes wide despite being stained red with tears and exhaustion.
“What did you do?” he’d asked, his voice a hoarse whisper.
But he hadn’t waited for a response before walking out and holing up in his office down the hall, his tone stiffening into a monotone as he started calling his lawyer friends, asking for advice and help.
I don’t think he’s capable of responding any other way. All this time, he’s been fighting for Mom, and I think some small part of him has really believed that she wasn’t responsible for the accident. Now that I’ve turned over the video evidence, every last speck of hope in him is crushed, but he doesn’t let it stop his fight. Mom’s freedom is the only victory he has left in his life, and I think he’ll cling to it until the very end.
I haven’t seen Mom since the arrest, but she called me this morning and explained in an eerily calm voice that she’s been let out on bail, and she’ll be staying with Uncle Jack until the trial begins. The media knows where we live, and she doesn’t want them trying to find her at our house.
This is What Goodbye Looks Like Page 30
