The Good Goodbye (2 page)

The first thing Vince and I had done when we’d taken over the building five years ago was knock down the wall between the kitchen and the dining room. We’d been absurdly happy, our dream realized at last. One big open space—no barrier between customer and chef. Who knew it would be the barrier between the chefs that would bring it all down?

He rolls up his sleeves. “You got my note, I see.”

“Does it have anything to do with twenty-two teenagers who are going to be showing up in just a few hours?”

“No. I guess it can wait.”

I sprinkle buckwheat flour on the mound of beige-gray dough and cover it with cheesecloth. “I need you to close tonight.”

“No problem. Boys okay?”

“They’re fine.” The twins love their uncle Vince. They ask after him and Gabrielle all the time.
How come she doesn’t watch us anymore?
Henry had wondered just the other day, and I’d replied,
She’s busy.
He’d scrunched his eyes at me.
Busy doing
what,
exactly?
he’d demanded.

“Hey, that’s right.” Vince brings out the double boiler and sets it on the stove. “Today’s your anniversary. Congratulations. You and Theo have big plans?”

Last year, on their nineteenth wedding anniversary, Vince and Gabrielle had toured Napa Valley, a lavish six-day trip he later wrote off as a tax deduction. It should have been a clue.

“We’re going out.” I hear how curt my voice sounds. He nods, and heads toward the dry-goods section. “Apple strudel,” I tell him, and he stops.

“Not raspberry mousse?”

Raspberries are six dollars a pint. “Not unless you’ve won the lottery.” I turn away so I don’t have to see his expression.

—

By seven-twenty, the homecoming couples still haven’t shown. I bend a wafer-thin slice of pickle into a curl and nestle it alongside the piece of grilled cobia. Wiping my hands on the towel tied into my apron strings, I slide the plate beneath the heat lamp. I’d called that afternoon to confirm the reservation.
What?
the teenage girl had said. I’d had to repeat myself.
Oh, yeah,
she’d said.
The restaurant. We’ll be there.

The restaurant.
Not
Double.
I glance toward the front door and Vince says, “They’ll be here.”

Friday night and we’ve had only five tables, a total of sixteen covers.

“What if they’re not?” I’d ordered a supply of shrimp and filets—the two proteins teenagers most like to order, as well as the most expensive. I should’ve stuck with chicken.

“Then we’ll run a surf-and-turf special tomorrow.”

“For the crowds thronging the door?” Everyone in town offers filet. Shrimp turns in a day. Vince knows this as well as I do, but he’s always happiest with the easy solution, even if it makes no sense. He loops lines of puréed basil across the piece of flounder, a magical composition of confidence and artistry, but right now it looks all wrong. Too bright. Too hopeful. Just like Vince.

“Nat,” he says. “We really do have to talk.”

“About what, another wonderful investment opportunity?”

“Are you ever going to forgive me?”

Just then, the door opens into a swirl of laughter and gold lamé, yards of black tulle and a windstorm of Axe and perfume. For a moment, I see what they see: eclectic chairs painted purple, green, orange; red and yellow gerbera daisies in their glass bowls; flickering candles and white linens stiff with starch but looking cloud-soft.
Come in,
it all beckons. Arden had helped choose the colors, her hands on her hips, frowning at the selection.

Vince hands me the plate to finish and, grinning, goes over to greet and escort them to their tables. They tilt their faces to him and giggle, take their seats, and pick up their menus.

This is the Vince I loved. But this is the Vince who betrayed me.

Theo arrives as the homecoming couples are leaving. There’s chaos by the door as kids push past in a happy clamor, and then Theo steps through. “Hey,” he says. He looks tired, but he’s taken the trouble to put on a jacket and tie and slide cuff links through the cuffs of his shirt. “You look nice.”

“My Spanx’s cutting me in half,” I confess, and he laughs. I’m covered chin to knee in heavy bleached cotton, my feet are encased in dumpy clogs, and I must reek of grease and garlic and onions. But Theo’s smiling at me and I feel the heat of his affection. “Ready?” he asks. He doesn’t look around for Vince.

I go back to the office to get my bag and drop my apron into the laundry bin. I tell Liz I’m leaving. “I’ll let Vince know,” she promises.

The night air’s breezy with an impending storm. The weather forecasters have been warning us all week.
Gonna have a wet weekend, folks. Better move those cookouts indoors.
I shrug out of my chef’s jacket and fold it over my arm. “How was soccer?” I ask Theo.

“Fine. Henry still likes the coach.”

T-ball had been a bust, Oliver ducking every time the bat swung; chlorine made Henry break out in a rash. But the boys had insisted on finding something they could both do, and so we were giving soccer a try. “What about Oliver?” He tended to look confused every time the ball headed his way.

“He fell and scraped his knee. He refused to go back onto the field.”

“Shoot.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. It’s all part of learning to play a sport. He’ll be fine tomorrow.”

I glance up at the clouds massing overhead. “What if we’re rained out tomorrow?”

“It might blow through quickly. Even—”

My phone’s ringing inside my bag. “Hold on,” I interrupt. “It must be Mom.” Or maybe—at last—Arden? I pull out the phone and don’t recognize the phone number. “Hello?”

“I’m looking for the parents of Arden Falcone.” A man’s voice, a stranger.

Trouble. Arden’s in trouble. I know it instantly. “This is her mother,” I say. “Is she okay?” I’ve stopped walking. “What’s going on?” Theo says, and I shake my head. I press the phone hard against my ear.

“Your daughter’s been in an accident,” the stranger says, and everything slides away.

Arden

SOMEONE’S SHOUTING
in my ear. “What do we have?”

“Eighteen-year-old victim found unconscious.”

I’m jostled up and down.

“Where are the lines?”

“We got two. Eighteen-gauge line in her right arm running saline…”

“Which room?”

“CAT scan.”

A jolt. I open my eyes. Ceiling tiles swim past. A purple sleeve patterned with red hearts over my face. Above that, a hand gripping a metal pole. The light blinds me.

I am rolled, then lifted. A face leans close. A man. He needs to shave. “I’m Dr. Saunders. You’re at Saint Luke’s. You’re going to be all right. Do you have any allergies?”

I can’t remember.

“Does anything hurt?”

Panic rises in a huge wave.

“Is it possible you’re pregnant?”

His face is gone. I feel cold air against my legs, my belly. The smell of something sweet and burned, then a pain so awful it carves a deep hole inside me. I hear moaning. It’s me.

“…need another line,” the man says.

A new face, a woman’s, hovering above mine, worried. “We’re giving you some medicine that will make you feel better,” she promises.

The whole white world telescopes to a dark dot and blinks into nothingness.

—

Buzzing. A fly, looking for a place to land. I try to lift my hand, but my arm won’t move.
Why am I so sleepy?

I’m in my bed. It’s early and peaceful; the twins aren’t up yet. I feel Percy on the covers by my feet. I try to move my foot to find him.

That fly won’t stop whining. And there’s something else, a soft whooshing. The ocean, rolling in waves to the shore. So I’m not in my bed at home. I’m at Rehoboth, with Mom and Dad, Oliver and Henry, and Percy.

The buzz is too loud to be a fly.
A bee?

I can’t open my eyes. I feel darkness pressing down on me. Something brushes my cheek.

“…eight milligrams.”

“When was her last morphine?”

Who are they? Why are they in my room?
Fear.
I want my mom. I want my dad.

“…think she’s awake.”

“I’m Dr. Morris. I’m taking care of you. Are you in pain?”

Yes.

“You were in a fire. Do you remember?”

So hot I can’t breathe. Flames and greasy, awful smoke. Rory twists away, her hair swinging out in a glowing circle, shrieking as Hunter flails around. I can’t help him. I’m going to be sick. I gag, scrabble at the sheets. Something’s stuck in my throat. I’m choking on it. My heart gallops, faster and faster. I’m screaming.
Why can’t they hear me? Where’s my mom?

“It’s okay. Don’t worry. That’s just a tube helping you breathe. You’re going to be okay.” Dr. Morris turns away. “Increase the drip.”

Wait!
A swoosh of heat. Flames leap across my bed, race up the walls. They claw at me. They hiss. Screaming so animal I feel my skin rip.

You were in a fire. Do you remember?

Why was I there? Why didn’t I get out? Why can’t I remember?

Rory

THE ENVELOPE ARRIVES
thick, crisp, and white. My mom practically dances, handing it to me at breakfast; she doesn’t even do her usual up-and-down scan of what I’m wearing. It’s all about the envelope. Mom must’ve bribed the mailman to come to our house first. That’s just the kind of thing she’d do. My dad’s already left for work—not a big deal, he’s always at the restaurant, but I thought that today, of all days, he’d hold off going in. “Open it,” Mom urges. Her red hair’s combed back, her lipstick perfectly applied. She’s got on her alligator pumps with the three-inch heels—she must have a breakfast meeting with someone really important.

She stood at the foot of the stairs calling up to me the whole time I was getting ready, but I’d taken my time, texturizing my hair and braiding it into a fishtail, trying on my Miu Miu sneakers to see if the ribbons were too much, switching them for Kate Spade flats—which looked great but told everyone I was trying—and ending up with blue Sperrys, then searching forever for my diamond studs. I’d dabbed concealer on the tiny scar on my forearm and spritzed on perfume. I sit at the kitchen table and pull my coffee cup toward me. “In a minute.”

The phone rings—Aunt Nat, for sure—and Mom frowns but doesn’t answer it. “Don’t be like that, Rory. Open it, or I will.”

“It’s a felony to open somebody else’s mail,” I inform her, splashing in fat-free hazelnut creamer until my coffee turns a light brown. Her face sort of crumples.

“Whatever.” I take the stupid envelope. I know what the letter says—I was online exactly at midnight and saw the results for myself—but I’m still nervous as I tear open the flap. What if it had been a mistake? But there it is, confirmed in black and white. I read the first word aloud,
Congratulations,
and my mom shrieks and throws her arms around me. You’d think she was the one who’d just gotten into Harvard.

—

At school, everyone’s buzzing in the halls. There are some girls with their heads down, not looking at anyone as they shove books into their lockers. They’ll be the ones stuck at the no-name schools clustered around Maryland and Virginia, where all you have to do to get in is breathe. Jessica got into Brown, and Beth is going to Cornell. Emilie got wait-listed for Dartmouth, but who cares, she says. She got into Smith, and Dartmouth can fuck itself. Mackenzie got into Princeton, but everyone knows her dad’s BFFs with the dean. It would have been pathetic if she hadn’t. I hug her anyway. “Congrats,” I say. “You’re going to do awesome.”

“So? What about you?” she asks. I can tell she doesn’t really want to know. She’d applied to Harvard, too, but it’s obvious how that had turned out.

By now there’s a crowd of girls standing around, listening. I shrug, but feel myself grinning.

Jessica jumps up and down, her breasts jiggling. “I knew it. I knew it I knew it I knew it.”

Arden comes in, her arms filled with binders and books. We meet at our lockers, and she peels off her sweater. I’ve tried to help her fit in, but Arden always manages to do things just wrong enough. Like straightening her hair. There’s always a section she misses, a wavy flag down the back of her head. Her green seersucker dress is wrinkled, her belt tied in a sloppy bow. I’ve told her a million times to do what I do and wear a leather belt instead of the lame fabric one that comes with the uniform. As soon as I graduate, I’m going to cut all my uniforms into ribbons. Not Arden. Uncle Theo’s making her donate hers to the school bookstore for the scholarship girls. I’d rolled my eyes when she told me, made her swear she wouldn’t tell anyone else.

“Hey, thanks for not texting me back,” she says.

“Yeah. Sorry about that.”

“I had to find out from my
mom.
” She jams her books into her locker.

“I meant to call…” My voice trails off. I should have called, but for some reason I hadn’t wanted to. I hadn’t slept at all.

“Whatever.”

“My mom’s out of control.” I lean against my locker, but Arden won’t look at me. My mom had been squealing on the phone with Aunt Nat when I left, and I’d bet anything she was still making phone calls. “Probably her manicurist knows now. Probably the president.”

Arden’s mouth quirks up at that one, but only for a second. She’s really pissed.

“Definitely CNN,” I continue. “And
Good Morning America.
Now she’s trying to find out if NASA can relay a message around the world.”

Arden sighs and her shoulders relax. She can never stay mad at me for long. She looks at me. Her green eyes are kind of sad. We have the same eyes. Her lips are chapped, her lashes pale, so much like the face I look at every morning in the mirror, before I color it in. “Congrats.”

“Thanks.” She’s going to art school out in California. She applied early decision and heard back just before Christmas. For the first time in our lives, we’ll be living thousands of miles apart. “We’re still going to do it, you know.”

She doesn’t answer, but I know she heard me.