My Darling.
A DYING STAR
Though her dad had been overseas for almost a year before his death, Naima couldn’t help but wonder what would’ve happened if her mother hadn’t died all those years ago. Would her dad still have left? Or would having someone like Naima force him away regardless? Two questions, no answers. She needed another plan. Plans are good. They’re solid. You can count on them; rely on them, point by point. Naima likes that—knowing what comes next before it’s in front of you.
Five hundred thirty-nine days before, after a lot of consideration, Naima planned to take her own life. Five hundred thirty-nine days before, her attempt failed. That was the beauty of her plan. She didn’t want to die; it was an imperfect, highly problematic plan, but she wanted to give her father a reason to stay, however misguided.
Stay. Stay. Stay. Stay. Stay. Stay.
What Naima didn’t know was that 743 miles away, there was another who could relate. The day Naima’s grandparents, JJ and Kam, got news of Ray’s death, an antique kettle couldn’t be heard through their incessant wailing. And Dew GD Brickman—who hadn’t yet earned his name—snuck in to pull the kettle off the stovetop, quietly leaving after. He knew it wasn’t his place. But once Naima came to town, it was the only place he could imagine. Two constellations connected by one falling star: Staff Sergeant Raymond Rodriguez.
NAIMA
Today, it’s not only Dew’s birthday, but Dad’s. Weird, right? Don’t you dare call it kismet. In nine days, I’ll start my senior year of high school, where I’ll inevitably avoid everyone in my path (except Dew, I guess) so as not to make any new attachments in this temporary phase of life. Everything is temporary, really. I’m learning to grasp how to make the most of the moments before they become the past. I’m not about to wax poetic because I don’t have all the answers, and I’m a frickin’ long way from feeling healed, but I’m trying. There’s a divine purpose tied into every decision I make, good or bad (whatever the hell that is); at least, that’s what Dad said in the final letter.
Final. Final. Final. Final. Final. Final.
On this day, I take a few moments to myself, wondering what he’d have said if we had the chance to talk in the weeks before his death, and I remember the missed call. Did he know it’d be the last one? After six deep breaths, I listen to the last saved voicemail I’ve avoided, only now realizing, I’ve feared it for no reason. Probably wasn’t even intended—a butt-dial in the desert if there ever was one; a perfect summation of the relationship we shared.
Dad
cell
May 22 at 1:14 AM
Transcription Beta
“[indecipherable]” [call ends]
Would you rather live a long life where absolutely nothing of interest ever happens, or a short one where all the terrifying but exhilarating things do?
That question is the very thing I need to find out. I’ll discover new therapies and medications—ones that work for me—because I accept I can’t live this particular way anymore. I’m ready to let go. I think.
Think. Think. Think. Think. Think. Think.
After having six red, biodegradable balloons filled with helium for the last time this summer, Dew, JJ, Kam, and Nell join me as I release each wish into the sky. The 5k run’s balloon release was fine enough, but these six balloons have deeper, more personal meanings attached. They represent the six goodbyes I never said to Dad. That’s not something I could let go of in a crowd of strangers; Dad would understand that more than anyone. Just as how my tics change without notice, so does my heart. Dew’s right—life is messy and I suppose this would be another plot twist in the version of mine. Maybe I’m a cliché trope, a generic one at that. Ask me if I care.
At the final balloon, I let out a held breath and release the strings from my grip. Hiccup, who JJ’s tortured into a yellow doggie sundress and bonnet, nips at the backs of my heels. I lean over and boop his snout, which appears to disable the canine god’s malfunction.
The corners of my mouth tug upward when I glimpse a shiny penny nearby. My fingers grasp the copper between them, and from that empty place inside, a full smile bursts up out of me. Maybe I don’t know exactly what I’ll do with my whole life. If I’ll be brave enough to join the military, like Dad. Or support from afar, like Kam or Nell. I don’t know if I’ll be a political and educational pioneer, like JJ, or one who sacrifices her life for her child, like Mom. Maybe I’ll never fully release a breath in the same way again. But there’s no shame in figuring it out my way, on my terms. Whatthehellever that means.
I look up to the parting clouds and decide to buck everything I’d normally do the moment the noon church bells sing. I’m ready to let go.
THE TRUTH ABOUT FLOAT
FLOAT isn’t an acronym meant only for service members. It’s not even a real acronym. In fact, it has little to do with a silver box carried by a cargo plane from an overseas war. Fallen Loved Ones Awaiting Transfer is all of us broken by distance, emotional or physical. Even if our loved ones are alive. We’re not in motion when they’re gone, fighting, staying alive, dying; we’re here, waiting, always waiting. We’re the fallen, the cherry blossom petals, forgotten. We’re the FLOAT wondering how to move forward with, or without, them, in a life that only moves forward.
Life goes in all sorts of directions, even when we’re bound by pain. So maybe despite all your efforts to be away from everything that hurts you or scares you or leaves you feeling lost, this moment is exactly where you’re meant to be.
Until you find a
New balloon,
With new strings
You can grab on to.
Where you can FLOAT like a butterfly
Up into the clouds.
Until you find
Where you belong.
Naima
cell
August 23 at 5:05 AM
Transcription Beta
“I’m sorry it’s taken so long for me to call you back. I’ve been afraid. It was wasted time. There’s nothing I hate more. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. Maybe you can hear me, maybe not. Maybe I’ll never be okay without you. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. There’s a plane above me. I’m gonna pretend it’s you, my star. Forever floating over to light the way through my darkest nights. [sigh] I should’ve said it more when you were alive, but thank you. For always seeing me. For loving me, even at my most unlovable. It’s because of you I’m here at all. Take care of Mom [indecipherable]. Goodbye.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Six Goodbyes underwent multiple full revisions. That means I’ve undergone multiple semi-breakdowns. No, but really. In the midst of telling Naima and Dew’s stories, I found myself bound to my own mental illnesses, even hospitalized. I say this so all of you suffering in silence know: I hear you, I see you; I am you. Never be afraid to state your truth, state it loud. Until the stigmas disintegrate into nothing you cannot shrink. I wouldn’t be here without the care and support of solid therapists who help me work through traumas, medication to “keep me level,” as Naima would say, and a slew of family and friends, who, quite literally, pick me up off the floor when I feel I can’t go on. You all took a page from Alejandra’s book of verbs by stepping into my metaphorical shoes, peeling back my layers, and treating me with compassion and kindness when I felt most unworthy. I may not be here if it weren’t for the love and acceptance, as I am, flaws and all. For that, I’m eternally grateful.
With that said, I want to thank my biological father, Matt. While I never had the chance to say my six goodbyes, I do in my mind and heart, every single day. Naima’s empty longing and identity struggles are “gifts” my father’s absence left in me. They may never disappear, but sometimes I think they’re not meant to; they’re reminders of who I am, and where my roots bind. In case he’s listening, thank you, Matt, and goodbye goodbye goodbye goodbye goodbye goodbye.
Thank you to my brother, Jacob, and Dad, Jay, along with all vete
rans who’ve served our country and consulted on this project. You’re far braver than me. And for my freedom, six thank-yous could never be enough. Never never never never never never. Along the same lines, thank you to those fostering any of the hundreds of thousands of children in the foster care system, and especially those who’ve adopted thereafter. Cyndi and Jesse Swafford, you’ve set the example and the world needs more of you. All children deserve a place they belong, a place they are loved, and a place they, too, are accepted as they are.
Mom, Kathy, thank you for standing by my side—especially over the last few years. I can’t think of another human I’ve been closer with, trusted more, or who lifted me up most. I never say it enough, but thank you. You’re more like Gram than you realize, and that is everything. And thank you to Randy, for being a father to me all these years.
Speaking of, I miss you, Gram; come back come back come back come back come back come back.
Of course, this book wouldn’t be in your hands without my amazing editor, Vicki Lame. Through the many many many many many many many drafts and edits and corrections—and OMG WILL IT EVER END WITH THIS BOOK—I’m so thankful you didn’t give up on me, that you ever believed in me in the first place with Birdie & Bash. You’re the baddest, raddest, mofo (with just the right amount of optimistic sparkle) I’ve ever met. Also, hi to Troy. Meow.
Alongside Vicki, thank you to the whole Wednesday Books Team, which includes DJ DeSmyter, Dana Aprigliano, Sarah Bonamino, Jennie Conway, Kerri Resnick, Anna Gorovoy, Jeremy Pink, Janna Dokos, and Karen Richardson.
To Brent Taylor, my agent, who’s been in my corner long before we finally teamed up. You’re absolutely my North Star. No matter what I’ve gone through, I thank you for being there with boundless support and encouragement. Also, thank you again to Bethany Buck (previously at Greenburger) who sold Six Goodbyes along with Birdie & Bash, all the agents I had before Brent (Dan Mandel, Jackie Lindert, and Joanna Volpe), and every single person who read any part of this work, or any other. To Winans (hi, Taylor; ILY) for giving me all the writing fuel I could ever need (a lot), my ridiculous cats, Kitty, Feathers, & Milo Ventimeowlia. Because, why not? Meow again. To Jonathan Fletcher Faust. You’ve inspired something big between these pages. I’ll leave it to you to figure out what.
To Erik—love is a verb. Love is patient; love is kind; love never fails. May we set the example our children will follow.
And finally, to my children, Lilliana and Sullivan. My darlings, it is you I breathe for, live for. May you wish on all the airplanes and dying stars, may those wishes come true, and may you never, ever, for a single second, doubt how amazing you are. Momma loves you from the earth to the sky, in this galaxy and all others, infinitely.
To everyone else, thank you for reading.
Without you,
There is no me.
Well, there is,
But not between the pages
That help pay
My endless therapy bills.
ALSO BY CANDACE GANGER
THE INEVITABLE COLLISION OF BIRDIE AND BASH
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Candace Ganger is a staff writer for Romper; a contributing writer for Teen Vogue, TWLOHA, and HelloGiggles; and an obsessive marathoner. Aside from having past lives as a singer, nanotechnology website editor, and world’s worst vacuum sales rep, she has also ghostwritten hundreds of projects for companies and bestselling fiction and award-winning nonfiction authors alike. She lives in Ohio with her family. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Author’s Note
Anatomy of the Float Phase
Epigraphs
Naima
Naima
Naima
A Summary of Naima’s Medical History
Naima
Naima
August Moon and the Paper Hearts: “Fire”
Naima
The Origin of Naima
Naima
Naima
Naima
Red Balloons
Naima
The Good Fortune of Strawberry Cake
Naima
Naima
Naima
Naima
Naima
Numbers and Death
Naima
Naima
Naima
The Beginning of the Shoeboxes
Naima
Naima
Naima
Naima
Naima
Naima
Naima
Sky Full of Wishes
Naima
Naima
Naima
Naima
Naima
Naima
Naima
Naima
Naima
Naima
A Dying Star
Naima
The Truth about Float
Acknowledgments
Also by Candace Ganger
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
First published in the United States by Wednesday Books, an imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group
SIX GOODBYES WE NEVER SAID. Copyright © 2019 by Candace Ganger. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Publishing Group, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271.
www.wednesdaybooks.com
Cover design by Kerri Resnick
Cover illustration by Cannaday Chapman
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Ganger, Candace, author.
Title: Six goodbyes we never said / Candace Ganger.
Description: First edition. | New York: Wednesday Books, 2019.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019012709 | ISBN 9781250116246 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781250237088 (ebook)
Subjects: CYAC: Grief—Fiction. | Interpersonal relations—Fiction. | Obsessive-compulsive disorder—Fiction. | Social phobia—Fiction. | Anxiety disorders—Fiction. | Racially-mixed people—Fiction. | Orphans—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.G3547 Six 2019 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019012709
eISBN 9781250237088
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at [email protected].
First Edition: September 2019
Six Goodbyes We Never Said Page 28
