This is What Goodbye Looks Like

by Olivia Rivers

  Chapter Six

  It was the second day of the trial, and Whittaker was still sitting in his chair at the prosecutor’s desk, which seemed strange. In all those Law and Order episodes, the prosecutors always paced back and forth like some sort of wildcat waiting to strike. But Whittaker must have realized I could barely focus on words, let alone a moving figure, so he remained leaning back in his chair and questioned me from there.

  “And so tell me, Miss Alessio,” he said, like he always did before a big question. “What exactly happened while you were driving down Greystone Road?”

  “I was in a car accident, sir.”

  “Yes, you’ve said that. But what happened exactly?”

  “I already told you. My family was driving home from a reunion at my uncle’s house, and we got in an accident.”

  He bobbed his head in a slow nod, his beard dipping to touch his chest. “You say ‘we.’ Who is ‘we?’ Only one person was driving, correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And who was driving?”

  “Sophia Alessio.”

  Whittaker’s eyebrows raised at my use of her full name, but I was too embarrassed to call her “Mom.” It seemed like a stupid emotion, so childish. But I couldn’t stop the shame that coursed through me as I glanced at my mom’s tearful form sitting in the front of the courtroom.

  Her dark hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and she wore a conservative navy-blue dress with a white trim along the edges. Just four months ago, she’d worn the same outfit to my cousin’s baptism, and she’d looked stately and beautiful in all the pictures I took at the ceremony. Now the dress was too big for her, the fabric drooping awkwardly where her curves had disappeared. She used to be the stereotypical Spanish mother, always professing the benefits of a big dinner, but she hadn’t eaten a full meal since the accident.

  Mom dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, careful not to smear her makeup, and offered me a wobbly smile. I didn’t return it.

  “Good,” Whittaker said. “It seems that’s something everyone can agree on. Sophia Alessio was driving. Now, tell me, had your mother had anything to drink at this party?”

  “Yes,” I said. “All the adults were drinking.”

  “But how much did your mom have? Only as much as the other adults, or more?”

  I clamped my hand on the arm of my wheelchair. Pain streaked through my pinky, right where the bone was fractured in the accident. “I think she had more.”

  Mom breathed in sharply. She was sitting close enough for the broken little sound to carry, but I refused to look at her again.

  “And did she do anything else different from the other adults?” Whittaker asked. “Some people reported there was an argument.”

  “She was upset with my uncle. He’d let my little sister help light the barbeque, and my mom didn’t approve of it.”

  A murmur went up in the packed seats of the audience. Apparently, the irony of Mom fretting over Camille’s safety wasn’t about to escape them, no matter how tense the courtroom was.

  Whittaker folded his broad hands. “So they ended up in a fight.”

  “A verbal fight,” I clarified.

  “And was this the reason you left the reunion early?”

  I nodded and then remembered I had to speak out loud for the court record. “Yes.”

  “So on the night of the accident that killed Parker Ashbury, your mother was not only drunk, but also in an agitated state. Is that correct?”

  My heart thudded against my chest so fast and hard, I thought it might simply burst. I didn’t respond, pursing my lips and silently waiting for my heart to fail so I could just die and not have to answer any more questions.

  But then I heard a muffled sob, low and exhausted and so, so broken. This one came from the opposite side of the courtroom, right where Parker Ashbury’s mother was sitting.

  “Yes,” I whispered. “That’s correct.”

  Chapter Seven

  I spend the weekend recovering from my “stomach flu” and telling Brie that, yes, I’m doing okay, and no, I don’t need any more Tylenol, and yes, I’ve been drinking enough water, and no, I really don’t need to see a doctor. If she wasn’t so damn sweet, I’d probably strangle her for being such a mother hen.

  Dad calls every day to check on me, but our conversations are as choked and short as usual. I’ve gotten into the habit of calling my brother every evening, but Jeremy never picks up, and the short texts he replies with would be laughable if they didn’t hurt so much.

  “In class, can’t talk.”

  “Sorry I missed your call, had my phone off.”

  “TTYL, cramming for test.”

  I want to tell him that I get it, that I understand no college student wants to spend their time dealing with family issues. But, more than that, I want to demand why a degree in Computer Science is more important than his little sister stuck at a new school across the country, and his baby sister stuck in a coma, and his parents stuck in denial about the whole thing.

  I spend Sunday evening with my nose buried in my copy of The Three Musketeers. I’m supposed to have already read it for my World Lit class, but I’m only halfway finished. After the accident, I started reading a bunch of poetry, since I could follow the short pieces even when I was on painkillers and had crappy concentration. I haven’t touched pain meds in months, but my poetry reading habit has stuck around, and it’s making The Three Musketeers seem impossibly long-winded.

  I keep my phone beside me, hoping Jeremy will call so I can talk to someone about how anxious I am about school starting tomorrow. But the screen remains blank.

  Brie leaves me in peace and stays on her side of the room, absently organizing her already-pristine nail polish collection as she chats with her mom. She talks with her family about once a day, using her iPad to video chat with them. I slip on my headphones on so I can listen to music and drown out their conversation, but then I can’t bring myself to start any of my playlists. Brie’s mom is telling her about her little brother’s favorite new stuffed toy, and it’s a meandering, mindless conversation with little point. But it’s exactly the sort of talk I miss.

  It’s only when Brie waves at me that I realize I haven’t turned the page of my book in probably ten minutes. I take my headphones off, and she gestures to her iPad.

  “Want to come meet my family?” she asks.

  I almost say “no”—I know exactly what I’ve lost, and I don’t need to have it flaunted in my face. But Brie’s smile is eager, and I don’t have the heart to tell her to keep her family to herself. So I nod, and she brings the iPad over to me, letting me stay on my bed so I don’t have to limp over to her side of the room.

  I do my best to plaster a smile on my face and wave at her mom through the screen. “Hi,” I say. “I’m Lea.”

  Brie is the spitting image of her mom—same heart-shaped face, same blue eyes, same exuberant voice as she introduces herself as Charlotte and gushes about how nice it is to meet me. In the background, I can see the living room of Brie’s home, with chic furniture and pale yellow walls. Charlotte disappears from the camera’s view for a minute, but quickly returns with a pudgy toddler boy in her arms.

  “This is Bailey,” she says, and the boy starts frantically waving at the camera with one hand and flapping around the other, which he’s using to grip a stuffed, polka-dotted elephant. Charlotte sets him down in front of the screen, and he keeps waving as he leans in closer.

  “Hi, Bailey,” I say, waving back at him. “I’m Lea, Brie’s new friend.”

  “Hey, Bailey Boy,” Brie coos, a smile lighting up her face. “I hear you got an elephant. Can we see?”

  Bailey returns the smile, which is just as bright as Brie’s, and starts babbling about his new toy. I can barely understand anything he’s saying, but Brie nods along and makes little comments as Bailey proudly shows off his stuffed elephant. I’m guessing Bailey is about two-years-old, and even though he’s so much younger than Brie, there’s no mistaking
they’re related. Their faces are the same shape, and although his eyes are a dark brown, they have the same softness as Brie’s.

  Charlotte pops back into the video chat just a minute later, saying she needs to go put Bailey down for bed, and we quickly say goodnight. Bailey starts crying as soon as Brie waves goodbye, and her mom gives a tired sigh as she shuts off the video chat, leaving Brie and me in silence. Brie stares longingly at the blank screen, her smile immediately falling from her face.

  “Thanks,” I say. “For introducing me, I mean.”

  She nods. “Yeah, no problem. I figure you might as well meet them, since I’m talking with them all the time. My dad’s not around tonight, but I’ll introduce you guys next time we talk.”

  “Do your parents make you call every night?”

  Brie shakes her head and gives a small laugh. “No, but I do it anyway.” She shrugs. “Harting’s a great school, but it’s not home. And Bailey...he’s special to me, you know? I miss him like hell.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I get that.”

  She nods to me. “You said you have a sister, right?”

  “A little sister.” I flinch as soon as the words are out of my mouth. I wasn’t planning on telling anyone here about Camille, but I can’t take it back now. I clear my throat a little, trying to get the hoarseness out of my voice, and choke out, “Camille. Um, that’s her name.”

  “Are you two close?”

  “Yeah. I know people are supposed to be annoyed by little siblings, but it’s just never been like that with us. We’re pretty much exact opposites, but I still love her to death.”

  Brie smiles at that. “How old is she?”

  “She just turned thirteen.”

  “Thirteen, huh? How’s she liking high school so far?”

  “She...” I heave a deep breath, steeling myself for the truth. “She hasn’t started yet. She got, um, really sick toward the end of eighth grade. So she’s been in the hospital for a long time.”

  My stomach twists, just like it always does when I talk about this. The first few months Camille was in the coma ward, I’d visited her every single day. In the morning, I’d do my physical therapy over in the recovery ward, and then I’d spend the entire afternoon sitting at her bedside, catching up on my homework and quietly talking to Camille, even though I never got a response.

  Then my physical therapy got cut back to twice a week, and so did my visits to Camille. According to my doctors, it was unhealthy to be spending so much time in the hospital. I should be out doing “normal teen activities,” whatever that’s supposed to mean for a girl who suddenly finds herself trapped in a home-study program and hardly able to walk. And as I continued to fail at the whole “normal teen” thing, and Camille continued to not wake up, Dad put his foot down. I was only permitted to visit Camille once a week.

  That was when Harting became my goal. If I couldn’t spend time with Camille, then getting away from San Diego seemed ideal. And, if I was going to escape, I decided I might as well try to help Camille while I did it. Everyone in my life seemed more interested in me “moving on” than solving the issues at hand, so since they couldn’t help, I decided that the Ashburys might be able to. They’d already done exactly what I needed to do—healed their broken family.

  I knew they wouldn’t talk to me openly. But I also learned through news articles that Parker was an alumni of Harting, and Seth still goes here. It’s far-fetched, and I’ve known it since the start, but I’ve made it this far, so who knows. Maybe my plan will actually work. Maybe I’ll actually be able to get to know Seth Ashbury, and he’ll help me figure out what kept his family from crumbling, and how I can fix mine.

  But it’s definitely going to require talking to him a lot and fishing for information, which so far, I’m failing miserably at.

  Brie opens her mouth, and I think she’s fishing for something encouraging to say to me. But then she just shakes her head. “I’m so sorry,” she says softly. “I can’t even imagine how terrible that must be.”

  “Yeah,” I murmur, because I think she’s right. Comas had always sounded creepy to me, but I never understood how truly horrifying they are until the first time I visited Camille in the hospital.

  Seeing her bruised and broken body hooked up to half a dozen machines was worse than any nightmare I’d ever had. For years, Camille had been using her tiny, slender build as an advantage when she competed in gymnastics, and she’d won dozens of medals for her local team. I’d always loved how she’d shock people with her abilities, despite being smaller than most girls her age. But after the accident, her shortness stopped being cute. It was just another part of my living nightmare, a realization that ninety-pound girls have no chance of walking away from a car accident unscathed.

  “My sister’s going to be okay,” I say, realizing an awkward silence has settled over the room.

  Brie smiles hesitantly. “I’m glad.”

  But she doesn’t sound convinced, and I don’t have the energy to protest her skepticism. In my head, all I can see is the conclusion from the report written by the latest specialist who examined Camille’s case: “Due to the patient’s lack of regular brain function and the persistence of a comatose state without change, termination of life support is recommended.”

  I shove myself to the edge of my bed and untangle my legs from the blankets. “I’m going to go get ready for bed,” I say.

  “Yeah,” Brie says. “I should probably head to sleep, too. Don’t want to be tired on the first day of the semester, right?”

  For a single, bizarre moment, I consider telling her the truth: that I’ll inevitably be tired, because even if the flashbacks don’t keep me awake, they’ll haunt me in my dreams. But I shake away the urge and force a small smile.

  “Yeah. Right.”

  Chapter Eight

  As soon as I wake up, I notice the difference in the atmosphere. Outside, the wind blows wispy clouds across the pale morning sky, and branches skim against the dorm windows with frail creaks. But inside, I can hear the other girls in the dorm chatting and giggling, muffled snippets of their excited conversations floating through the walls as they get ready for the first day of the semester. Laughter breaks out from the shared bathrooms down the hall, and I recognize Brie’s high, ringing tones. Of course. She’s definitely not the type to sleep in if there’s anything remotely exciting going on.

  If Harting is anything like my previous school, the early-semester enthusiasm will last about three days before it dissolves into eagerness for summer break. But, for now, the excitement is really not helping my nerves. A bunch more students returned to the campus over the weekend, and while I’ve managed to use my sudden case of the “flu” as an excuse to avoid socializing, today that’s going to have to end.

  I drag myself out of bed and check my phone. Two new messages from Dad, which I don’t bother reading, and nothing from Jeremy. I sigh and toss it back on my nightstand, running a hand through my hair as I examine the clock. I have plenty of time to complete the physical therapy exercises I’m supposed to do every morning for my legs, but I decide to skip it again. Today is going to be painful enough without stretching out my torn muscles and jacked-up nerves.

  I limp over to the closet, nervously eying all the potential outfits I’ve unpacked on my side of the space. I’m not sure how long I stay frozen there before Brie bursts into the room, already fully dressed with her makeup perfectly applied.

  “Morning,” she chirps, and then when she sees the stare-down I’m having with the closet, she comes over and nudges me away. It takes her about two-point-five seconds to pull together an outfit for me—black skinny jeans, a deep green blouse, and a light grey cardigan to drape over it. She tops it off by reaching into her side of the closet and tossing me a crocheted scarf almost the exact color as the blouse.

  “You’re a miracle worker,” I say, tucking the scarf firmly around my neck so it hides my scars.

  “Just make sure you put layers under it. I’m not talented e
nough to bring you back to life if you freeze to death.” Then she offers me a smile and says, “Quit worrying. Boarding school kids can be bratty, but there’s a lot of us who are pretty normal. Just stick with me and my friends, and you’ll be fine.”

  I have the sudden urge to pull her into a hug. She’s the first person in a long time whose kindness doesn’t feel like pity, and while I don’t really get why she thinks I deserve it, it’s still a welcome relief. But before I get a chance to hug her, she snatches her backpack off her desk in the corner of the room and points to the door.

  “I’m ready to go, so I’m going to meet with some friends at the dining hall. Join us when you’re ready, okay?”

  “Sure,” I say. “I’ll be over in a minute.”

  She heads out of the room, and I can’t help watching her graceful gait with a touch of envy. Then I take a deep breath and start getting ready for my day, doing my best to focus on my motions and not what they’re leading up to. I keep my head down as I use the bathroom, murmuring hellos to a few people, but not stopping to talk as I do my hair and makeup as quickly as possible. By the time I grab my book bag and leave for the dining hall, my skin is crawling with nervous goosebumps, and I’m just hoping I can make it through breakfast without throwing up again.

  The dining hall is an elegant building in the center of campus, its aging brick walls covered in snow-dusted ivy. It’s only a minute’s walk away, but by the time I step inside, I’m shivering with cold and regretting only putting on three layers. I tug off my mittens as I peer around the crowded hall, taking in the room. Brie’s been bringing me food while I recovered from my “flu,” so I haven’t had a chance to visit in here yet, and I’m kind of surprised at how elaborate the set up is. The wall closest to the door is lined with two long tables stacked with food platters, everything from muffins to waffles to scrambled eggs. I grab a plate and quickly load it with some eggs and another one of those giant blueberry muffins, not caring if it makes me look like a glutton.