The Good Goodbye (38 page)

Look at me!

“But it’s possible, isn’t it?” Aunt Gabrielle says.

I close my eyes and lift my thumb.

Rory

IT’S BEAUTIFUL OUTSIDE,
one of those nights when you could drink the air, it’s so delicious. People are crossing The Bowl, laughing and talking, everyone headed to the stadium. I feel a part of something bigger. I don’t care what Chelsea says. I’m not talking to Arden. I go through the whole day without seeing her, or Hunter for that matter. If they’re hanging out together, then they deserve each other. I’ve texted D.D., and she and Whitney are going to let me sleep on their floor. The three of us are coming back from dinner when I see a car approach, its two headlights perfect circles, sickeningly familiar. I stop.

“What?” D.D says, looking toward the dorm, trying to peer between the heavy branches to my fourth-floor window. “Is it Arden?”

“You still have to get your things,” Whitney reminds me. “Come on, we’ll go with you.” She’s the one who got the tickets, a block of four, back when Arden was part of the block. She gave the ticket to Kyle, D.D.’s on-again, off-again boyfriend.
Guess he’s on again,
D.D. had said, sighing.

“It’s all right.” My mom’s car pulls to the curb and the headlights flash off. “You go on to the pep rally. I’ll meet you as soon as I put some of my stuff in your room.”

“You sure you don’t want help?” D.D. asks.

“I’m sure.”

“Hurry,” D.D. says. “You don’t want to miss the mascot relay race.”

Football must’ve been big at her high school, but sometimes I wonder about D.D. She’s a little off. Like the time she described this girl with an overbite as being able to eat corn on the cob through a picket fence. That’s just not how people talk.

The car door opens, a shaft of light falling out. My mother’s legs swing to the pavement. “Rory!”

I stand on the sidewalk. “What?”

My mother slams the door and crosses over to me, heels clicking sharply on the pavement. “I was
this
close to calling the police.”

“Come on, Mom. Nothing’s going on. I don’t need to call you every day.”

“You think you know everything. You think you are so smart.”

You have the ability, Rory. You just have to focus.
“
You’re
the one who doesn’t think I’m smart.”

“No, that’s not true. You’re just lazy. That’s always been your problem.”

“I’m not lazy. I have dyslexia.”

“Oh, everyone has something these days. When I was growing up we had nothing but hard work.”

We’re on the sidewalk, my building beside me. Arden’s in my room. Where do I go? I just stand there. Shadows of people hurry past. Laughter filters over. Everyone’s excited about the rally. No one’s paying us any attention. “You have to stop coming here. It’s embarrassing.”

“I’m worried about you. You’re spending time with the wrong people.”

“They’re my friends, Mom.”

“You need to make better choices.”

“How about this one? How about I quit school?”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“Harvard was never my dream. It was yours. You and your stupid Kennedy obsession.”

“Why are you acting this way? What happened?”

“Nothing, Mom. I’m just over it. I’m done. I don’t want to pretend anymore.”

She crosses her arms and looks impatient. “What do you think you’re going to do?”

“I’m going to travel, meet my relatives in France.” As soon as I say this, I know it’s true. I am flooded with freedom. Chelsea will join me. She’ll charm everyone and ease the way.

She laughs. “Do they know about this plan of yours?”

She’s so confident. She knows everything, everything. My whole life, all she’s done is push me into corners. I want to step out of the darkness. “Do you really love me, Mom?” I’m determined not to cry. “Do you really want me to be happy? Or is it all about you?”

“How can you say that? I’ve sacrificed everything for you.”

I hear her accent now.
Go ask your father. Don’t touch that! Behave yourself. Stand up straight. That neckline’s too low. That skirt’s too tight.
It’s the way she presses down on her consonants. It’s the way the syllables rush together, a river.
That’s the wrong fork. You don’t want people to talk. I think you can do better.

“Like what, Mom? What have you ever done for me that hasn’t been about what’s important to you? I’m just a walking, talking doll to you. My feelings don’t matter. They never have.”

The streetlight shines down. Her eyes are dark, unreadable. “You ungrateful little brat. I can’t tell you how much I wish you’d never been born.”

I hear the truth plain in her voice. She took birth control pills to make sure a mistake like me never happened again. I take a few steps back. She moves toward me, but I turn and run. I hear the clacking of her heels behind me.

“Rory!”

The sidewalk veers in front of me, popping from circles of light to darkness beneath the streetlights.

“Rory, stop! Come back!”

I kick off my flip-flops and run faster. Until I don’t hear her at all.

—

I limp down the sidewalk. Gravel and sharp sticks bite into the soles of my feet. It makes me think of Whitney the other night, the four of us running across campus, laughing and clutching one another. Three days ago. I don’t even know that girl I’d been, happy, reckless, brave. I’m small now, and fearful. Is this the real me, revealed in the space of finishing a sentence?

I wish you’d never been born.

I need my passport. How to get it from my desk at home? Aunt Natalie will do it for me. She’ll face down my mom and push past my dad. She’s the mother I should have had.
She’ll never be your mom,
Arden had yelled, but she doesn’t know.

I’m closer to the stadium now. Off to my left, the sky’s lit up like a Stephen King movie. A sudden roar tells me the mascots must be on the field now. Tons of parties tonight, but I won’t be at any of them, because I’m headed home, too—to the big house on the corner of the next block.

I stop to brush the grit from the bottom of my feet. Will Chelsea be there by now? If she isn’t, I’ll go to the art history building. I’ll find her in her office and tell her what happened. I’ll tell her I’m ready to leave now and that she’s right. I need to stand on my own two feet.

She can meet me in Paris or Rome when the semester’s over. I’ll get a job waitressing at some little café. One evening, I’ll turn around with a tray of drinks and see her coming through the door toward me, her long curls bouncing and a big smile on her face. I’ll barely manage to set the tray down before she throws her arms around me.

I turn the corner. The trees arch up and over, holding hands across the middle of the street. Fallen leaves clump the curbs and lie in thick drifts on the broad lawns. Chelsea’s porch light is on and light blazes from all the windows. It’s as if she knows I’m coming. I start to run, big long strides that carry me over the cracked and torn-up squares of pavement. I am free.

I veer onto the front path and up the sagging wooden porch steps. The covered furniture there, the dusty cobwebs in the corners, all of it seems infinitely embracing. Home isn’t perfect. Home is messy. Home takes you the way you arrive, barefoot and snotty, incoherent and empty-handed. I pound the door with my fist.
Let me in!

Chelsea’s muffled voice on the other side of the door. “Let me get that,” she says. “I’ll be right back.” She sounds happy. Has she seen me coming?

The door swings open. Chelsea’s there with a glass tumbler in her hand. Her hair’s pulled loosely back in a style I’ve never seen her wear before, baring her tanned shoulders. She’s wearing a tight black tube-top dress and long dangling earrings. Her smile fades as she sees me. “Rory?”

Behind her is a man, some guy I’ve seen around the halls of the Art History Department. He’s got on worn jeans and a white shirt open at the neck. He’s holding a glass, too, and as I stand there, he comes up and slides his other hand around Chelsea’s waist. I glance to my right and see the same sedan in the driveway that Chelsea told me belonged to her mother.

You let yourself open, like a flower with soft, soft petals, but you should know better, because everyone lies. Didn’t I tell you?

Natalie

THEO’S BESIDE ME
on the sofa, his face buried in his hands. We’ve been banished to the family lounge while the doctors are in Arden’s room.
I’ll come find you the minute the test is over,
Dr. Morris promised. Christine’s pill is wearing off. Soon I will ask her for another. I will keep asking, as long as I need to.

On the other side of Theo, Vince clears his throat. But he doesn’t say anything. Gabrielle stands by the window, looking out. Henry and Oliver are bent over the small table, kneeling on the padded chairs. They are making window stickers from the craft set that Christine has miraculously known to bring for them. My sister’s handing them bottles of colored glue that they drip onto acetone sheets. They are making one for Arden and one for Rory, and they are making a mess. They are in a race to see who finishes first.

My in-laws have arrived, orange-tanned and loudly optimistic. Theo and Vince have Sugar’s green eyes rather than George’s pale blue ones, but they have inherited his broad shoulders and easy laughter. Sugar and George sit on the other sofa with my mother, one on each side of her. My mother’s cardigan is misbuttoned; there’s a gap in the fabric near her throat. Sugar has my mother’s hands in hers, patting them, while George holds a foam coffee cup. He keeps saying things like
Thanks for holding down the fort, Lorraine,
and
Maybe you’d like to stay with us for a few days.
They know she is losing her only granddaughter while they will still have one. I can see the guilt in their eyes. And the relief.

I stare at the clock on the wall. It’s just like the one in Arden’s room. The hospital must buy them in bulk and hang one in every room. So we can monitor time. So we don’t let go of it. This clock tells me nine minutes have passed since we came in here. It tells me I have twenty more minutes before the apnea test will be over. But I already know the result. I saw it in Dr. Morris’s brown eyes.

I push myself up.

In the bathroom, I hold my hands beneath the faucet. Water collects in my palms and I bring it cool and dripping to my face. I look at myself in the mirror—my eyes, my nose, my mouth. Somehow the outside of me is holding together. I blot my cheeks dry with rough brown paper towels and let myself out into the hall.

Arden’s door is still closed. I stare at the curtained glass as if I can see through it to the other side. I imagine the two women and lone man moving around, testing, jotting things down. Are their faces grim? Are they talking? There’s only silence.

Rory’s door isn’t shut all the way. I slide it open.

The room is deep in shadow. I go over to the bed and sit in the chair there. I put my hand over hers, my thumb on hers, my fingertips resting on her fingertips protruding from the lumpy cast. “Hello, my darling.”

Rory’s thumb is long, the nail slightly square and clipped short. It’s achingly familiar. It could be Arden’s. These two girls are like sisters. How many times had I glanced out the window at them splashing in the pool, and for the briefest moment had difficulty determining which was which? How many times had I heard one of them calling out in laughter and couldn’t tell if it was my daughter or Rory?
Mommy,
Rory sometimes called me when she was little. I never corrected her.

I’m glad Arden had Rory. I’m glad they had each other.

“I’ve decided not to put chestnuts in the stuffing this year,” I tell my niece. “And no raisins, either. Promise.”

Do I imagine it or does Rory’s thumb twitch beneath mine? I look down. Is it some small automatic gesture or intentional? No, I’m certain there are movements. I stand and reach for the remote control lying on the nightstand and turn on the lights. The bulbs beneath the bed light up. An indirect glow, but enough for me to see that her thumb is moving, back and forth, small movements, but movements.

Rory’s eyes are open. She’s looking straight ahead, at the curtains across the room. The simple thing of seeing my niece like this, alert and awake, fills me with dizzy gratitude. Yes, we will save Rory. We will save this precious girl.

“Hey, sweetheart,” I say, softly.

Her eyes flick toward me and widen. There’s a bruise on her cheek, mottled purple. Her lips are chapped.

“We’ve missed you.” I smile and bend closer. “It’s so good to see you awake.”

She blinks.

“Are you having any pain? Let me get your mom.”

Her brow puckers. She looks confused.

“Honey. You were in an accident. But you’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”

She shakes her head and starts to cough. Has the ventilator tube become dislodged? I scrabble for the remote, hit the button again. The light above the bed goes bright. The plastic tube is still taped in place between her lips. But she’s clearly in distress. “I’ll get the nurse, sweetheart. Just hold on.” I look at her as I start to turn, and freeze. Slowly, I sink back into my seat. My heart’s booming. I put my hand on hers and lean forward. “Rory?”

She shakes her head again, this time frantically.

I whisper it. “Arden?”

Her fingers clutch mine. A tear pools in her right eye and spills.

Disbelief propels me to my feet. “Oh, my God.”
How can this be? I’m wrong. I must be wrong.
I smooth back her hair and see the freckle high on her left temple.

“Oh, my God. Oh, sweetheart. I’m so sorry I didn’t know you. Of course it’s you. Of course it’s you.” Tears are dripping down my chin. “Darling! My darling girl!” I’m laughing and crying, both.

Her eyes are already drifting closed.

Dazzling light surrounds me. I thought I knew joy. I’ve never known joy. Everything I’ve ever felt—my marriage, having Arden, having my boys. Nothing comes close.
This.
Champagne bubbles in my veins. I’m floating. This is what drug addicts chase. This feeling can’t be natural. Normal people don’t get to feel this. I’m the luckiest person in the world.