I’m still not really sure what I said in reply. I meant to say sorry. I meant to say I loved her. But I think all that came out was silence.
I spend all evening frantically refreshing the campaign’s main page and watching the donation amount climb upward. Around ten o’clock, Jeremy calls, and I actually pick up this time. He immediately starts interrogating me, wanting to know when the new trial will start, if Mom has completely broken down yet, if I’m doing okay.
I tell him I don’t know.
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
Everything seems to have collapsed into chaos, and all I really know is that I want Seth’s arms around me, his heartbeat warm and steady against my cheek, his gentle voice whispering that he’s there for me.
But I can’t have any of that, and I don’t deserve it. So I figure the best thing to do is focus on Camille’s needs instead of mine.
The next morning, I leave Dad holed up in his office and call a taxi to take me to the hospital. I think Dad hears it pull up, but he’s either too tired or too angry to stop me, so I make it to the hospital without incident. I kind of expect for some alarm to go off as soon as I enter the coma ward, warning that a traitorous daughter is breaking every rule enforced by her parents. But all I get is a gentle smile from the nurse at reception.
“I’m here to see Camille,” I say hesitantly, even though I’ve encountered this nurse over a dozen times, and she knows exactly who I’m here for. What I’m not sure is whether she’ll let me in. Dad gave the ward strict orders not to let me see Camille without his supervision.
“Is your dad here today?” she asks.
“No,” I admit. “I came alone.”
“What about your mom?”
I shake my head. “She practically never leaves the house these days.”
The nurse raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Strange. Because I see her here at least three times a week visiting Camille.”
A fresh wave of guilt hits me. I’d assumed Mom stopped visiting Camille around the same time I did, but I’d never thought to ask her.
“I hear Camille’s life support is due to be terminated soon,” the nurse says.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “It is.”
The nurse crosses her arms. “You know, the nursing staff here is forbidden from giving advice on life support matters. Unless it’s an immediate medical situation needing our attention, it’s absolutely off limits for us to give advice.”
“I understand,” I say, although I’m not sure why she’s telling me this now.
“Good,” she says with a stiff nod. And then, “I donated fifty bucks.” She doesn’t say anything else before shoving the sign in clipboard for relatives at me. “Good thing you’re eighteen now, so you can sign in by yourself.”
She knows just as well as I do that I’m still months away from my eighteenth birthday, but she just wags a pen in front of my face and winks. I quickly scribble down my signature and head back to Camille’s room before the nurse can change her mind.
Camille looks just like she did when I last saw her, pale and gaunt and oblivious to the chaos going on because of her. I pull my laptop out of the backpack I brought and fire it up, opening Camille’s favorite sports news site. Last time I was here, I was too broken up to read to her. But it’s been months since I’ve given her updates about what’s going on in the gymnastics world, and it wouldn’t be right to visit twice in a row without reading her some articles.
I read a few stories out loud about the recent gymnastics competitions around the nation, making sure to find a detailed account of the local junior one held in San Diego. Camille has gone to that event every year since she was little, first as a spectator and then as a competitor as soon as she was old enough. The article says the local rival to Camille’s team took home gold, but I skip reading that part out loud.
After I read through a few articles, I log onto the campaign’s page, which I’ve been putting off doing since Mom was arrested. I press the back of my hand against my mouth to stifle my shock. The donation amount is up to $18,000. Over a hundred donations have appeared since last night, which means the news story of Camille’s life support and Mom’s re-opened case must be spreading like wildfire.
My inbox is packed with new messages, and I work on responding to them over the next couple of hours. The hospital noises blur into a monotonous soundtrack of beeps and hums and murmuring voices, making time flow by slowly.
Around one o’clock, a huge rush of new donations hits the page, filling me with a mixture of excitement and dread. I’ve been avoiding looking up Mom’s case, but something is causing the sudden uptick in activity, and I have little doubt it’s some sort of official announcement from the authorities.
When I finally look up the local news, my breath freezes in my throat. I’ve always thought it’d be neat to see my photography featured on a news site, but this is definitely not how I ever imagined it happening.
On the front page of the site is a still shot of the video I handed over to the police. I shakily click on the headline—”Local Manslaughter Case Returning to Courtroom”—and scan over the article it leads to.
There are a few still-shot images from the video throughout the article, all showing scenes from right before and after the impact. I guess the video is just too gruesome to release as a whole—Parker’s family has suffered enough without having to deal with strangers watching their son’s death. But the still-shots are enough to give readers a clear understanding of why the case is being re-opened, and the article includes a statement from the prosecutor handling the case:
“At present, we are declining to state the source of this new video evidence. But we’re glad for the chance to re-open this case, and we’re grateful to our source for coming forward. The Ashbury family has also expressed gratitude that the case will be re-investigated.”
Already the lies are starting up again. Surely the Ashbury family is grateful, but I highly doubt they’re grateful to me, like the statement suggests. The police have already assured me that they wouldn’t be pressing any charges against me, but I almost wish I didn’t have the legal immunity. If I got an official punishment for all my lies, it’d be a hell of a lot easier to deal with compared to the guilt gnawing at me constantly.
I figured that guilt would go away as soon as I handed over the video, but if anything, it’s gotten even worse. All I can think of is Seth’s family having to read these articles, having to come back to California for another trial, having to once again deal with the uncertainty of the courts. I’m sure they’re going through hell right now, and all I want is to call up Seth and ask what I can do to help.
But I already know the answer—I need to give him space, to stay away from him and his family.
I read the entirety of the article, scanning the details I already know by heart and memorizing the newer ones: Mom is officially being charged again with first degree vehicular manslaughter. The date of the trial hasn’t been decided, and the prosecutors are also trying to figure out if they should send the case to another county, since it’s received so much media attention here. A lot of the details are unclear, but if the angry reader-comments at the bottom of the news page are anything to judge by, the video has already convinced the public of Mom’s guilt.
A knock at the door startles me from my thoughts, and Camille’s nurse pokes her head in the room. “Camille has a friend here to see her,” she says.
I frown as I mentally run through Camille’s list of friends, wondering who would have come. Camille was always popular, but it’s been months since she’s had a visitor outside our family.
“Who is it?” I ask.
The nurse glances through her bifocals and reads off the chart in her hand. “She signed in as Brianna Myers.”
Shock courses through me, and I open and close my mouth a couple times, struggling for words. “Brie?”
“Brianna Myers,” the nurse repeats. “Tall girl with blond hair. Do you know her?”
>
I nod and somehow manage to choke out an answer. “Yeah.”
“Well?” the nurse says, raising an eyebrow. “Do you want her to come back and visit Camille?
“Yes,” I say. “Definitely.”
“Then I’ll send her right back,” the nurse says, heading out to fetch her.
I focus on trying not to hyperventilate as I wait. What in the world is Brie doing here? If she’s back in California, she must have a reason for taking time off school and coming here. Surely that reason isn’t me, but what about Bailey? Is he sick again? Is he okay? And am I going to be okay, or is Brie going to walk in here and slap me across the face? I honestly wouldn’t blame her.
My heart pounds so loudly, I almost don’t hear the delicate patter of her footsteps coming down the hall. A second later, there’s a knock.
It takes me two tries to strangle out a response. “Come in.” I don’t know what else to say. Saying a simple “sorry” would just be pathetic. I guess I could also get on my knees and beg for her forgiveness, but I wouldn’t really deserve it. So I just stay quiet as she enters the room.
Brie’s clearly exhausted, her eyes red and her face pinched, but she looks just as put-together as always. I can’t hold back the little sigh of relief that escapes me. If something bad had happened to Bailey, not even Brie would be able to look so presentable.
“Hey,” she murmurs, taking a single step inside the room.
I swallow hard. “Hey.”
She shuffles her feet and picks at the strap of her purse. “Um, Bailey had a follow-up appointment today. So, yeah. I came home to visit him and go with him to the appointment. His doctor says he’s recovering perfectly.”
“I’m really glad.”
Brie bites her lip for a moment, and then her words start tumbling out fast. “So, um, yeah, I knew this was the same hospital Camille was at, but I wasn’t going to bother visiting, but then when I went to leave, I just couldn’t, so I asked around, and I found the coma ward, and I thought you might be here, and... yeah.”
She trails off and stares at her feet. I sift through my muddled thoughts, trying to pull out a proper response. But all I manage is, “Thank you.”
And as soon as it’s out, I know it’s the right thing to say. Thank you for coming. Thank you for caring. Thank you for not abandoning me.
Brie gestures to the bed beside me, abruptly changing the topic. “So. This is Camille?”
I nod and wave her over. Brie hesitates a moment, and then sets her purse down on the small table in the corner and sits in the chair next to mine. I watch her as she takes in Camille, waiting for horror or pity to wash over her expression.
But all that’s there is a protective sort of concern, and her voice is soft as she says, “Hey, Camille. My name’s Brie. I’m one of your sister’s friends.” She reaches out and gives Camille’s hand a small squeeze. “I’ve heard a lot about you, but I guess Lea wasn’t totally honest with me.”
I cringe and open my mouth to start frantically apologizing. But then Brie just says, “I mean, you’re even more gorgeous than she said you were. You’ll have to set Lea straight about that when you wake up. She needs to start giving you full credit for how pretty you are.”
I look down and pretend to focus on my laptop, hoping Brie doesn’t notice the tears building in my eyes. But if she does, she doesn’t acknowledge them. Brie just keeps talking to Camille, her voice gentle and soft, her words melding together into a soothing lullaby.
She tells my sister about how she met me at Harting, and about our Friday night pizza dinners, and how she’s tried to convince me I can be both nerdy and fashionable, but it hasn’t worked. It’s almost like Brie’s met my sister before, because everything she says is perfect, just the sort of gossip Camille would be lapping up if she was awake. I guess it’s just intuition that tells Brie the exact right thing to say. A mother’s intuition.
But when Brie mentions Bailey, she still calls him her brother. It’s almost like she doesn’t want Camille to know the truth, like she’s still protecting her secret. Like she really, honestly believes Camille might be hovering near consciousness, listening to her every word and gaining comfort from them.
Brie talks with Camille for almost ten minutes, and I keep working on my laptop, letting the campaign page distract me. The donation amount has risen to $19,000, and that number just keeps growing.
“I’m glad the campaign is working,” Brie says. It takes me a moment to realize she’s talking to me now, and not Camille. I glance up and find her turned toward me, her foot bouncing up and down in an anxious beat.
“Yeah,” I say. “Thanks. Um, I’m glad, too.”
Brie nods. An awkward silence takes over, and then she lets out a small, choked laugh.
“What?” I ask hesitantly.
“It’s just, I mean...” She trails off and shrugs. “It’s just that it’s easier to talk to your sister in a coma than it is to talk to you. And I never thought it’d be like that between us. And I sort of hate it.”
The pain in her voice makes me cringe. “I’m sorry,” I murmur. “I know that fixes nothing, but it’s true. I’m so, so sorry.”
She swallows hard and looks away. “I trusted you. Seth did, too. Hell, everyone at Harting trusted you.”
“I never meant to hurt any of you, Brie. I swear.”
“But you did!” She winces at the sharpness of her own tone, but her fist clenches as she turns to glare at me. “You did hurt us. You lied to us over and over and over again. I feel like someone’s punched me in the gut every time I think about what you did. And Seth?” Brie shakes her head. “He’s completely messed up. Not eating, not sleeping, totally bombing his classes. He’s almost as bad as he was when Parker first died.”
I bite my lip and force myself to meet her gaze. All I want is to look away, to hide from the accusation in her eyes, but I won’t let myself do it.
“What can I do to make him better?” I ask, my voice quiet. “I know it’s too late to ever make up for all my lies. But is there anything I can do to make him feel at least a little better? Or you?”
“Just stay away from Seth,” Brie says. “He needs space from you. Permanently.”
“I understand,” I murmur. And I do, even if the understanding comes with a ragged sort of grief that cuts into me with every breath, every heartbeat.
Brie lets out a long sigh. “And as for what you can do for me...” She looks over to Camille, and her expression gentles again. “Just keep her alive. Don’t let this all be for nothing.”
“I won’t.” And then I hesitantly ask, “Did you see the news about my mom?”
Brie gives a sharp nod. “I’m not sure if you handing over that evidence makes me want to forgive you, or hate you even more for not turning it in sooner.” She grits her teeth. “Hell, I’m not sure about any of this. I don’t even know why I came.”
“But I’m glad you did,” I murmur.
Brie nods and stands, taking a single step toward the door. “Look, I’ve got to go now. I told my parents I’d meet them downstairs at two.”
“Thanks for coming.” I wish I had something less lame to say, but that would mean spilling my emotions, and I’m not sure I deserve to do that with Brie.
She stares down at me, her blue eyes wide and conflicted. She looks young all of the sudden, young and exhausted and so, so sad. Then, before I even know what’s happening, she bends over and sweeps me into a hug.
“I really want to hate you right now,” she says, her voice choked. “And I think I kind of do. But I also kind of love you, so I don’t know what the hell that means.”
I finally get my arms to work and hug her back, squeezing her in a tight embrace. I never want to let her go, never want her to pull away. I just want her to stay here forever, right by my side, where she can talk to Camille and talk to me and make me believe everything might turn out okay.
“It means love is really complicated,” I finally manage to whisper.
She le
ts out a sharp laugh and then pulls away a little so she can look me in the eye. “I’ve always wanted a sister, you know.”
I nod toward Camille. “Would you be willing to share one?”
Brie’s gaze flickers over to Camille, and a small, hesitant smile edges at her lips. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I would be.”
She leans down and gives me one more hug, then pulls away and moves back to Camille’s side. Reaching out, she brushes her hand over my little sister’s. “Bye, Camille,” she murmurs. “Stay strong, sweetie.”
Brie heads for the door, hesitating when she reaches it. “Lea?”
“Yeah?”
“I meant what I said. Stay away from Seth.”
“I will,” I say. “It’s the least I can do.” She doesn’t agree or disagree, so I clear my throat and ask, “Are you in San Diego for long?”
She shakes her head. “No. I’m heading back to Harting tomorrow.”
I nod, not knowing what else to say. Brie looks between Camille and me, her gaze flicking back and forth.
“Seth will get it eventually,” she suddenly blurts out. “I mean, right now he’s really pissed at you. Beyond pissed, actually. But I think he would have done the same thing for Parker, and he knows it.”
“Thank you,” I murmur.
She shrugs. “Don’t thank me. Seth’s just good like that.” Brie bites at the inside of her cheek, her face crinkling with pain. “You just had to pick him to hurt, didn’t you?”
I cringe and stay silent, knowing I have absolutely no argument against that. Brie seems to realize how harsh she sounded, because she rubs at her temples and shakes her head.
“Sorry, that just popped out,” she mutters. “I’m tired. I wasn’t thinking.”
“No, it’s true,” I say. “I hurt him, and believe me, I hate myself for it.”
Brie leans against the doorframe, half in and half out of the room. She lets out a tired sigh.
“A lot of people hate you right now, Lea. Don’t be one of them.” She nods to Camille. “If you really have to use up energy hating something, focus on hating the thought of Camille being hurt.”
She slips out the door then, not giving me a chance to think up a proper reply. So instead I just blurt out, “Why do you still believe me?”
This is What Goodbye Looks Like Page 31
