The Goodbye Girls

by Lisa Harrington

  “No, Mom,” I repeat. “That won’t fix anything!” For some reason, the more she offers to help, the more angry it makes me.

  “Is this about Willa, then?” She wrings her hands. “I should have suspected something. I haven’t seen her around in a couple days.”

  “A couple days, Mom?! Try over a week!”

  She lets out a little gasp and mouths, “Over a week?” like she can’t believe it, then, “I think you should know, Lizzie, Willa told her mom she didn’t want to go on the trip.”

  I digest this information, but don’t say anything.

  “Marlene had to pass that development onto Greg, because Willa refuses to see or speak to him. He assumes it’s because they signed the divorce papers last week—”

  “They did?” Willa’s worst nightmare.

  “Marlene’s making Willa go, though. Says she’s been in such a funk, she thinks it will do her good.”

  I continue to digest the information, letting it roll around in my head. Is Willa’s funk because of the divorce? Greg and Mom? Or me? Whatever it is, the funk can’t be that debilitating if she’s still heading to New York. “Yeah, well, she couldn’t have put up that much of a fight. Since when does she let Marlene tell her what to do?” I say sarcastically.

  “Lizzie, please. Could we just take a moment and talk about this reasonably?”

  I stare back at her. Not really at her, more like past her. There’s a faint ringing in my ears. Could be the exhaustion. “You know what? I’m done talking.” What little bit of energy I have left kicks in. “You, Greg, Willa, Trish! You guys can figure this all out yourselves! Willa can go to New York! Trish can destroy the human race! You and Greg can run away to Vegas for all I care! You have my blessing!” By the time I finish, I’m waving my arms around like one of those inflatable arm-flailing guys you see in front of car dealerships.

  “Lizzie, sit—”

  “Mom! No. I said I’m done.” If I’d been holding a mic, I would have dropped it for dramatic effect.

  “You can’t expect me to just leave things like this. You’re breaking my heart. Can’t we please talk about this?”

  My eyes get wide. Oh my god. If she says “talk” one more time….

  The car dealership inflatable guy has lost all his air. I got nothin’ left. “Mom,” I whisper, “I’ve told you what’s going on. Please let that be enough for now.”

  She studies me for a minute, biting her lip. “Okay.”

  I go out to the hall and drop my coat on the bench. She follows me. “What can I do to make you feel better? Do you want some supper? I’ll make you anything you want.”

  “I don’t want anything.”

  “Well, what are you doing now?”

  “Bed.” I reach for the banister. “I’m going to bed.”

  Chapter 31

  Trish opens my bedroom door without knocking. Shit. I forgot to relock it after the bathroom. There have been numerous knob rattlings and knocks since yesterday. I ignored them all.

  “You might as well go ahead and tell me,” she says, folding her arms.

  I look up from my laptop. My new passion is solitaire. I’ve been playing pretty much non-stop for the last day and a half, and I’m not thrilled about being interrupted. “Tell you what?”

  “Did you talk to Mr. Scott?”

  I lower my eyes and click away at a few keys.

  “Lizzie. Did you?”

  “It’s Christmas vacation,” I say. “How could I talk to Mr. Scott?”

  “Before school ended,” she says. “Did you talk to him before school ended?”

  I keep playing my game. I like seeing her squirm. The way things are going for me right now, I have to take my joy when I can get it.

  “Look,” she huffs. “Just tell me if I have to spend the entire break waiting for the cops to show up on the doorstep.”

  I toy with the idea of letting her dangle in the wind for the next week or so, but truthfully I just want her out of my room and I know she won’t let it go until I answer.

  “You’re fine,” I say. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Oh.” She continues to stand there. “But did you talk to him?”

  “Trish.” I slam my laptop closed. “I said don’t worry about it. What more do you want?”

  “Okay. Jesus!” She starts to close my door, then stops. “No. Wait. Tell me what happened.”

  “No.” Why should I?

  “I’m not leaving till you do.”

  “Fine!” I say through my teeth. “I told him I was the one behind The Goodbye Girls, but that I didn’t do those other baskets, and I had no idea who did.”

  “And that was it? He was okay with that?”

  “Yup.”

  She squints at me. “What about the police?”

  “He doesn’t have any proof of anything, and no one’s even made a complaint except you. So the police will only get involved if you want them to get involved.” I give her a nasty smirk. “Figured you didn’t want that.”

  The relief is obvious on her face. “And you didn’t get in trouble?”

  “What do you care?” I reopen my laptop. “Shut the door on your way out.”

  She hesitates again for a moment but then leaves, shutting the door behind her.

  A new hand of solitaire hasn’t even finished dealing itself on my screen when there’s a knock.

  “What?” I call.

  Trish sticks her head in. “I just got this tote bag. It’s brand new. See?” She holds it up. “Tags still on. I thought it might be good on the plane. It’ll fit your laptop.”

  “I’m not going on the trip,” I say, glancing up from the screen.

  Trish’s mouth falls open. “What? Why?”

  “I’m just not. And it’s none of your business.”

  “But…” She tugs on her lip. “Did Mr. Scott kick you off?”

  “I said, it’s none of your business.”

  “Well…is it to do with Willa, then? Is she still going?”

  “What do you think?” I snap.

  Looking confused, Trish backs out of my doorway. Once I hear it click shut, I go onto The Goodbye Girls’s website. I don’t even know why; I haven’t looked at it in a couple weeks. The screen reads, “This page is no longer available.” My eyes drift to my dresser, to my sock drawer in particular. I get up, yank it open, and reach in the back for the envelope. I flick through the bills, counting under my breath, then mentally add on the refund cheque that I haven’t cashed yet. Half this money is Willa’s. I think about walking to the bank and depositing all of it so I can send her an e-transfer. She could spend the money in New York. Then I change my mind. She probably has lots of spending money.

  * * *

  Usually I live for Christmas break. But not this time. This time I barely leave my room, or my bed for that matter. Why would I? What reason could I possibly have? Mom keeps trying to lure me out using Christmas cookies and fudge, as if I’m some wounded animal hiding in the bush.

  “It’s Christmas Eve, Lizzie,” Mom says. “Why don’t you get out of bed and come carolling with the Sampsons? Their kids adore you.”

  I want to say I’d rather stick a fork in my eyeball, but instead I fake croak, “I’ve got a sore throat.”

  “At least come with us and drink hot chocolate. You don’t have to sing.”

  “I can’t. I can’t even swallow.”

  She looks at me like she knows I’m lying. But she says, “All right,” and comes back with a glass of water and a couple Advil anyway.

  Later, I recognize sounds from downstairs. The tinkling of bells. I know Mom and Trish are watching It’s a Wonderful Life. We watch it every Christmas Eve. I jam in my headphones to drown it out.

  * * *

  I finally come out Christmas morning for our gift exchange. It’s a quiet, solemn a
ffair. Thank god we bought gifts while we were all still talking to each other.

  Mom makes the exact same breakfast as she does every Christmas morning—fruit salad, Belgian waffles, bacon, hash browns, and cinnamon buns. She puts everything on the table with a huge smile plastered on her face, probably hoping it’s contagious.

  We start eating. The clinking of the utensils sound extra loud against the lack of conversation.

  “Come on, ladies,” Mom says, all chipper. “It’s Christmas. Whatever it is you two are fighting about”—she looks at me—“and whatever our issues are, let’s put it aside for today.”

  Trish and I just keep chewing.

  Mom sighs loudly and adds about a half a bottle of Baileys to her coffee.

  * * *

  “It’s almost time to go to Mrs. Mitchell’s,” Mom says, standing at the end of my bed. “You should get up and get dressed.”

  Ever since Dad died, the Mitchells have had us for Christmas dinner. Mrs. Mitchell’s intentions are good, but she makes literally the worst turkey in the history of the world. It’s so dry, it’s like gnawing on straw. We’ve tried a couple of times to get out of it, make up some excuse, but she won’t hear of it, and changes her schedule to fit ours. We’re in too deep. There’s no getting out.

  “I’m not going,” I say. “I have a migraine.”

  “Lizzie. It would do—”

  “Mom, please.”

  Trish comes up behind her. “What’s goin’ on?”

  “Your sister’s not feeling well,” Mom says. “Again.”

  Trish looks at me, then says, “That’s okay, Mom. Let her stay home. More turkey shoe leather for us.”

  After they leave, I get up and go to my dresser in search of a clean T-shirt. I’ve had the same one on for a few days now. I’m starting to offend even myself. When I open the top drawer I see a plastic bag and pull it out. It’s my Christmas present for Willa. I got her a really nice leather passport cover with a matching luggage tag and change purse. I should have just given it to her. Too late now. Might as well return it. I can’t use it. I’m not going anywhere.

  I stuff it all back in the drawer, crawl into bed, and pull the duvet over my head.

  I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I see is Mom leaning over me with her hand pressed against my forehead. “You don’t have a fever. How are you feeling?”

  “Okay.”

  “Well, I managed to talk Mrs. Mitchell out of sending you a turkey dinner to go, but she wouldn’t let me leave without a slab of fruitcake. She says the rum will help your headache.”

  “Gross.”

  “I think I threw my back out carrying it home. I swear it weighs twenty pounds.”

  “Gross,” I repeat, and pull the duvet back up over my head.

  * * *

  One day of vacation blurs into the next. Except for the odd shower, I haven’t been out of my Roots sweatpants in eight days. Before I know it, it’s New Year’s Eve. Trish is going to some party; even Mom has plans. Probably with Greg. She tells me she’s going to cancel them because she doesn’t want me to be alone. Why can’t she get it through her head that that’s exactly what I want? So I lie and say I’m going to Becca’s to watch the ball drop. I don’t even know a Becca. It just pops into my head because she was my favourite Bachelorette.

  When I’m sure the house is empty, I tiptoe downstairs. My legs actually creak and groan due to lack of use. I curl up on the sofa and eat an entire family size bag of Doritos while I watch Ryan Seacrest’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve—just in case there’s a quiz later. I’m back in bed pretending to be asleep when I hear Trish, and then Mom, come home.

  * * *

  I drag my laptop onto my stomach and open it up to my most recent game of solitaire. Will this vacation ever end? I don’t know how much longer I can do this. But then I cringe because the alternative is school. I glance down at the time and date on the bottom of the screen. My stomach takes a little dip. They leave today for New York. Everybody will be heading to the airport in a few hours. Tonight they’ll have dinner at the hotel and then off to Phantom. Tomorrow most of the day will be spent at the Met. People say you can spend days in there. My lower lip starts to tremble and I bite it to make it stop. It doesn’t work. My lip keeps trembling. Then from nowhere, these noisy, snotty sobs burst from my body, accompanied with a non-stop raging river of tears. I curl up into the fetal position and let it all out till there’s nothing left.

  My eyes still feel swollen and puffy from my long night of crying. There are a dozen balled-up Kleenexes scattered all over my bed, and a dozen more on the floor around my garbage can where I threw and missed. I don’t bother to pick any up and roll back into the fetal position. I’m facing my open laptop. The Facebook icon glows bright blue on my tool bar, taunting me. I refuse to give in and click on it. I know it’s just going to be a barrage of pics and comments from everyone who’s in New York. About all their adventures. I reach over and delete the bookmark. “That takes care of that,” I say.

  Eventually I roll over the other way. Trish is standing in my doorway, her phone in her hand. “Um, Abby just texted me….”

  I prop myself up on one elbow and try to focus on Trish, who is much farther away than my eyes have looked in days. “Yeah?”

  “She’s on the trip. With Garret.”

  “Yeah? So?” I have zero patience.

  She frowns. “She says Garret asked Maddy Evans to the prom. Did it right on the front steps of the Met in front of everyone.”

  My heart beats a few extra beats. “Good for him.” I try to sound like I don’t care.

  Trish is still frowning. “But I thought—”

  “You thought what, Trish?” Can’t everyone just leave me alone?

  She opens her mouth, but closes it again. Then she leans against the door frame. “He’s not all perfect, you know.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. He’s a real heavy mouth breather.”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “At first you don’t think it’s going to be a big deal, but after a while….”

  I just shake my head, burrow down, and hide under my duvet.

  * * *

  I attempt to put drops in my eyes—they’re dry and irritated from gazing into the computer screen for days on end. Or maybe from my epic crying session. I’m dabbing my face with a Kleenex when there’s a knock on my door. I rest my head back against the headboard. God. Let me play my solitaire in peace! “Yes?!” I shout.

  “It’s me, honey,” Mom says.

  “Yes?” I repeat.

  She comes over and sits on the edge of my bed. “So, listen. There’s an advertising rep who’s a client at the gym. She works at Q104. You know, the radio station?”

  I have to stop myself from sighing. “Yes, Mom. I know what Q104 is.”

  She waves a hand in the air. “Of course you do. Anyhow…she gave me a couple passes to an advance screening of that new Leonardo DiCaprio movie. You know how we love our Leo.”

  She’s right. We do love our Leo.

  It might even be worth getting out of bed for. I’m about to ask her when it is, when I pause. Something occurs to me. “You know, Mom,” I say, “I know someone else who likes Leo.”

  “Oh. Who?”

  “Trish.” At least I assume she does, because, like, who doesn’t?

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. She does.”

  Mom shrugs. “Well, here.” She sets the passes down beside me. “You and Trish go, then.”

  “No, no.” I slide them back toward her. “You and Trish go.”

  She tilts her head. “It’s highly unlikely Trish will want to go to a movie with me, her mother.”

  “Actually, Mom, I think it’s highly likely.”

  * * *

  My phone chirps, startling me awake from my now routine sucky-vacation e
vening nap. I haven’t gotten a text in forever. The phone’s buried in my bed somewhere and it takes me a moment to find it. There, up in the corner. A message from Willa. Worried I’m hallucinating, I rub my eyes and check again before opening it.

  Heard u and garret broke up.

  Yup.

  U ok?

  Then it happens. That cement block that has been sitting on my chest slowly starts crumbling to dust, and I can finally breathe normally again.

  Yup I’m ok.

  Talk when I get back.

  Sure.

  I lie there for a minute, letting it sink in. I can’t be sure, but I think I feel the corners of my mouth turn up, just a bit, all by themselves.

  The opening theme of Jeopardy drifts up from the living room TV. I flip myself out of bed, tug off my sweats and T-shirt, and slip on jeans and my West hoodie.

  At the top of the stairs I lean over the rail. Mom and Trish are sitting together on the couch frantically shouting out wrong questions for the answer. As I make my way down to join them, I holler, “Whoever doesn’t get Final Jeopardy has to eat Mrs. Mitchell’s fruitcake!”

  Acknowledgements

  So many people to thank.

  First, my family. Ross, for your constant support. Lexi and William, for providing an endless supply of material, letting me use you as a sounding board, and for shooting down my ideas when you knew they wouldn’t work. My puppy, Hermione, for keeping my feet warm as I typed every word.

  Thank you to my editor, Penelope Jackson. I felt like you “got me.” Not everyone does.

  To Whitney Moran, and the whole team at Nimbus. Thank you for making the experience seamless and easy.

  Lastly, my writing group. Jo Ann Yhard, Daphne Greer, Graham Bullock, Jennifer Thorne, Joanna Butler, and Lexi Harrington. Your amazing talent is reflected in every page.

  (An honorary shout-out to Taylor Swift, whose text-message breakup inspired the idea for this story.)