“What does that mean?” Dad asks, and now there’s a hint of genuine fear in his tone.
“It means I’m going to support her,” Jeremy says. “And that means I’m going to trust her.”
He turns to me suddenly, and I can’t help but flinch a little at how intense his gaze is. He looks desperate, almost wild. I open my mouth to tell him he doesn’t have to do any of this for me, but the words won’t come out. Because I want him. Maybe I don’t need him—maybe I can keep taking care of things myself.
But I don’t want to.
“You really saw Camille move?” Jeremy asks, his voice a little softer now. “You really believe she might wake up?”
I don’t hesitate before answering.
“Yes.”
Jeremy gives a sharp nod and turns back to Dad. “You’re not taking Camille off life support,” he says.
Dad takes another step back, but he quickly says, “I am. It’s already been decided.”
“And that decision is changing,” Jeremy says. He comes back over to me, sitting on the edge of the bed and putting a protective arm around my shoulders.
“We’ll figure out a way,” he says, looking me straight in the eye. “We have to.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Jeremy looks nearly as sick as Camille when we get to the hospital in the late morning. We pulled his car out of the garage, where it’s been sitting unused for months, and drove the entire way here in silence.
It’s weird to have him back. In so many ways, he’s completely unchanged, just as gangly and geeky-looking as always. But his movements seems sharper than they used to be, more on edge. I wonder if I look the same to him—a little more hardened, a little less whole. Although I don’t know if he’d even notice if I did. My limp seems to be occupying most of his attention, and he won’t stop staring at my cane.
When we get to the coma ward, he’s actually shaking a little bit. The nurse at the check-in desk smiles and asks if Jeremy is a friend of Camille’s, and his face reddens as he mumbles that he’s her brother. I can tell he feels guilty for not being here more often, but he doesn’t apologize to me again, and I’m glad. Apologies will get us nowhere at this point.
I tell him I need to use the bathroom and leave him to go into Camille’s room alone. It’s going to be hard enough for him to see her again, and knowing my brother, having me hovering there will just make it worse for him. I wait ten minutes, hanging out in the lobby and giving him some privacy, and then head back to Camille’s room. Jeremy’s sitting in the chair next to her bed, his hand tightly grasping our little sister’s.
“She looks worse,” he murmurs.
I sit in the chair next to him and start unpacking my laptop. “But she’s going to get better.”
He nods, but I can sense his hesitation, and I know he’s not sure if I’m right. But at least he doesn’t protest.
“Your campaign is doing really well,” he says quietly. “I was looking at it while I was waiting at the airport.”
I click open the campaign page and scan over it. “It’s almost at thirty-two thousand now.”
Just a day ago, I would have been celebrating. But now the thousands of dollars still seem woefully inept.
Jeremy stares down at his own hand holding Camille’s and gives hers a little squeeze. “Maybe we could try increasing the goal,” he says. “I mean, you’re getting a ton of donations. Maybe it’d work if you changed the goal amount to one hundred and eighty thousand.”
We both cringe as he says the amount out loud, and I shake my head.
“No. The website doesn’t let you change the goal once the campaign goes live. So I’d have to start completely over. And we only have a week until Camille’s life support ends. It’s not enough time.”
Jeremy reaches down and strokes Camille’s shortened hair, wincing when he reaches the hastily cut ends. “There has to be a way to petition the insurance company,” he says. “Some way to change their minds so they’ll keep paying for Camille’s treatment.”
I shake my head, and his shoulders droop in defeat, but he doesn’t look at all surprised. I have a feeling he’s done nearly as much research on this as I have. He knows as well as I do that insurance isn’t going to pay for the life support as long as Camille’s doctors continue to recommend it be terminated.
I click through the new messages on the campaign page, going through my normal routine of replying with my thanks. But some of them I don’t respond to, because there’s a new sort of message starting to crop up. More and more people are sending in hate mail about Mom to go along with their donations. With every news article that gets published about Mom’s re-opened case, the public’s animosity toward her just seems to grow.
I tilt my laptop so Jeremy can see it and point toward the message on the screen.
“This mom shouldn’t be walking free, let alone making decisions for her poor little girl. Why is the hospital letting a murderer weigh in on life support decisions?”
Right below that message is another one that’s even more vicious:
“Poor Camille. Someone needs to give her mom a shitty parent of the year award. Hope the bitch gets the death penalty.”
“Everyone hates Mom now,” I murmur.
Jeremy takes his hand away from Camille and rests it on my shoulder. “It’s not your fault, Lea.”
I swallow hard. “Do you hate her, too?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “But I also love her.”
“Me, too,” I murmur. I give a choked laugh and rub at my temples. “You know, I actually thought it’d be easier once I managed to tell the truth. I thought everything would be less confusing this way.”
Jeremy lets out a slow sigh and shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s how it works,” he says quietly. “I think if everything seems perfectly black and white, that’s how you know someone’s lying. Being truly honest means letting people do whatever they want with the truth you hand them. It means letting someone understand things fully and form their own opinions. And everyone’s opinions are always going to be different.”
I lean into Jeremy’s shoulder. “I don’t think Mom’s a monster,” I murmur. “I really don’t.”
He gives my arm a comforting squeeze. “That’s your truth, and I hope you hold onto it. But it’s out of your hands now, Little Lee. It’s up to a jury now to go over the facts and decide what to do with her. And, no matter what happens, it’s not your fault.”
I nod and close my eyes, trying to focus on his words and not the guilt churning inside me. “When are you going back to Colorado?” I ask, suddenly desperate to change the subject.
He shrugs. “Whenever you don’t need me anymore.”
“You have a girlfriend now,” I say. He’s mentioned her a couple times in our previous conversations, but I’ve never had the guts to ask about her. I don’t want to hear that she’s pretty and perfect and everything our family’s not.
“Yeah, I have a girlfriend,” Jeremy says. “We’ve been dating since January. Her name’s Rose.” He glances over to me and hesitantly adds, “You’ll like her. When you meet her, I mean.”
I try not to show my surprise, but I guess I fail pretty badly, because Jeremy lets out a nervous laugh. “Yeah, I want you to meet her,” he says. “When things calm down a little, I mean. And she wants to meet you. She thinks you’re brave.”
I clear my throat, not really sure how to respond. “Thanks. I’m sure I’ll like her.”
Jeremy nods a couple times, then says, “So how about you? Did you go off and find yourself a guy while I was gone?”
He says it jokingly, and I know he figures dating has been the last thing on my mind. But my face must fall, because he instantly looks guilty, and he quickly adds, “Oh. Sorry. You don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to.”
“There was a guy in Vermont,” I admit. “It was doomed from the start. And, yeah, it didn’t end well.”
Jeremy’s quiet for a long moment. “Parker’s brot
her,” he finally says. “That’s who it was, wasn’t it?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Wow,” he murmurs. “You’d mentioned you got to know him, but I didn’t think... I mean, it’s just that I...”
I offer him a wry smile. “You didn’t think I’d do something that messed up?”
He carefully considers his response, his words slow and deliberate as he replies.
“I just wish I’d been there for you. No matter what happened, or how it went down. I just wish you’d had someone to lean on.”
I think of Brie, of how forgiving she’s been, and of everyone else at Harting who treated me better than I deserved.
“I had people to lean on,” I say. “Just not the ones I was expecting.”
Jeremy nods slowly. “It always seems to work out that way, doesn’t it?”
“Not always,” I say, nudging him gently in the side. “You came back.”
He shrugs, but my words seem to make him relax a little. “Yeah.” He looks back down at Camille, gently brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “How are we going to save her?” he asks, his voice a whisper. “We only have seven days left.”
I bite my lip. “I’m doing everything I can.”
“I know,” he says. “I’ve never questioned that. But maybe there’s some other way to get money... Maybe I could try to get a loan, or—”
I shake my head, cutting him off. “I’ve looked into it. There’s no way to get a loan for the amount we’d need. And even if we could, it’d take weeks to process all the paperwork for it, and we still wouldn’t have Dad’s approval to extend the life support, and...”
I trail off, realizing I probably shouldn’t be talking about this right in front of Camille. I open up the campaign page again, replying to a couple of new, non-angry messages and thanking people for their support. Part of me wants to add at the end of the messages, “But it’s still not enough,” even though I know it’s not their fault.
“Lea?” Jeremy says, his tone quiet and hesitant.
I glance up. “What?”
He nods to Camille. “No matter how any of this turns out, you were right. Camille’s worth fighting for.”
“I know,” I murmur.
A wobbly smile lifts his lips. “Of course you know,” he says softly. “You’ve always known.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
When we get back to the house that evening, Mom’s car is in the driveway. Jeremy won’t quit staring at it, his eyebrows drawn together in a pained expression. He nearly trips on the stairs leading up to the front door, and finally shakes his head and lets out a long sigh.
“Might as well get this over with,” he says, unlocking the door and pushing it open.
Our house smells like it always does, a mix of freshly-vacuumed carpet and potpourri. The scent seems strangely out of place as I walk inside, almost like it’s too normal. Dad’s waiting for us in the living room, looking just as haggard as he did this morning.
“Your mom is home,” he tells us, not bothering with a greeting. “She didn’t want to keep staying at Uncle Jack’s house. Says it’s too tense there.”
Jeremy crosses his arms and stays just outside the room. “Camille’s doing the same, thanks for asking,” he says, spitting out the words in a sarcastic growl.
Dad’s voice remains calm as he replies—I think he’s just too exhausted to take Jeremy’s bait. “I know she’s the same,” he says. “That’s why we’re terminating her life support. Because she’s not getting better, and because it’s not right to keep her on life support when she’ll never actually be alive again.”
“You’re wrong,” I say. “She moved.”
It must be the hundredth time I’ve insisted this, although I’m also too tired to put much anger into my words. All I want to do is go hide in my room, where I don’t have to worry about running into Mom. Although, chances are, she’s already locked herself in my parents’ bedroom, where she’s been spending most of her time since the accident.
Dad lets out a long sigh and scrubs a hand through his hair. “Lea, you need to take down that campaign. Now. It’s drawing unneeded anger toward your mom, and that’s the last thing she needs with her trial coming up.”
“Keep Camille on life support, and I’ll take it down,” I say.
Dad shakes his head. “You know I can’t do that, Lea.”
“You can!” I snap. “There has to be some way. Sell the house, take out a loan, do something. Just give her one more month on life support. Please. She moved, Dad, I swear. She’s close to waking up.”
“Lea, you and I both know she didn’t move,” Dad says. “You need to stop this.”
“No,” I growl.
“Do you think your mom isn’t seeing this?” Dad demands, suddenly raising his voice. “She’s reading every single comment people are leaving. Murderer. Bitch. Psycho. Those people on your campaign site are calling her all of those things!”
He waves at the stairs, gesturing vaguely toward their bedroom. “Her first court date is coming up soon, and I can barely even get her to say a word about it. This has completely put her over the edge!”
“Keep Camille on life support,” I say, growling the words as I repeat them, “and I’ll take it down. Otherwise, that campaign is staying up. Forty thousand might not be enough, but it’s a start, and I’m not just giving it up.”
Dad grits his jaw and heaves in a huge breath, but just as he’s about to let loose a pent-up lecture, my phone lets out a loud ping. I pull it out of my pocket and check its screen, because it gives me an excuse to not have to look at Dad’s reddened face.
There’s an alert from my school email account stating I have a new email. My breath catches as I see the name of the sender: Seth Ashbury.
It’s a forwarded email chain, and at first I think it must be a mistake that I received it, because it looks like a series of messages between Seth and his grandfather. But then I read the message at the very top, the one Seth addressed to me.
“I showed my grandpa your campaign for Camille. He’s been refusing to even acknowledge that your family exists since the trial, but seeing the amount of people supporting the campaign changed his mind. My family talked it over. All the paperwork you’ll need is attached here.”
I swallow hard, having no idea what to make of the message. There are about half a dozen PDF files attached to the email, and I hesitantly tap one open, cringing when I see it’s some sort of legal letter. Shit. The Ashburys must be trying to sue my family.
But as I scan over the letter, I realize it’s not talking about a lawsuit. Actually, it’s not talking about Mom at all.
I swallow hard and keep reading. My heart pounds in my chest and then stutters. I read it again. And again. And again. But not matter how many times I devour the words, they remain exactly the same.
Jeremy’s hand rests gently on my shoulder. “You okay, Lea?” His voice is soft and his eyes are wide with concern, and it’s not until then that I realize I’m shaking.
I nod my head, shake it, nod again, and finally give up on a logical response and shove my phone at him. Jeremy takes it like he thinks it might explode in his face, keeping the phone held at a distance as he squints at the tiny font of the email.
Dad lets out a frustrated sigh. “What’s happening?”
I clear my throat and sniff back the tears threatening to break loose. “It’s from Seth Ashbury,” I say, my voice so choked I can barely get the words out. “He emailed me.” It suddenly feels important to make that clear—that this email is intended for me, and not for either of my parents.
Dad lets out a loud curse. “He contacted you? Dammit, Lea, I told you nothing good could come from that campaign!”
His words confuse me for a moment, but then I remember that Dad has no idea I met Seth at Harting. Dad has zero clue about the photo project, or our relationship, or any of my confusing feelings. I open my mouth to explain and then slowly close it. What happened between Seth and me isn’t for
Dad to know.
“Parker Ashbury had a large trust fund set up by his grandpa,” I say, stating the only facts that matter right now. “It was supposed to be for his college and any grad school he decided to attend.”
Dad scowls. “Why would the Ashbury boy be emailing you about this?”
“Seth’s giving the money to us,” I explain. “His family decided it was the best thing to do with it. They want us to use it to continue paying for Camille’s life support for a few months.”
Dad’s eyes widen until they’re practically bulging. Jeremy just shakes his head in amazement, a grin spreading across his lips as he reads the letter and confirms what I said. I just stand there and watch them both, scared that I’ll completely break down if I let myself show the relief and elation slowly starting to punch through my shock.
“This is amazing,” Jeremy says. “Completely amazing.”
“It is,” I murmur, because I can’t think of any other response. It’s probably the most charitable thing I’ve ever heard of anyone doing, but it somehow seems fitting. If anyone was going to make this happen, of course it’d be Seth.
I want to kiss him for it. But that would require Seth letting me near him, which he’s made clear he doesn’t want. He’s doing this for my sister, not me.
“There’s one hundred and thirty thousand dollars in the account,” Jeremy says, jabbing an excited finger at the phone’s screen. “If we combine that with the money from the campaign—”
“—you still wouldn’t have the funds for one month of life support,” Dad snaps, cutting Jeremy off. “This is ridiculous. Lea, I don’t know why you’re in contact with that boy, but I want it to stop. We’re not going to let your sister keep suffering just because the Ashburys think it’s a good idea. It’s not like they even understand the situation.”
“No.” I want to sound angry, but my voice is weirdly calm, like the rage surging through me has become my normal response to the things Dad says. “No, they don’t understand, because we’ve lied about everything, and they know it. But they’re still offering this.”
This is What Goodbye Looks Like Page 33
