This is What Goodbye Looks Like (46 page)

It’s just a community college class, and it’s just a simple World History course, and it shouldn’t be anything to panic over. But it’s also something completely normal, and after the past few months, that’s almost more frightening than all the long hours I’ve spent in court.

Mom’s second trial should be ending sometime next week. A “guilty” verdict is inevitable, but I’m just hoping the prison sentence will be light. Although I know it’s something I have no control over, so I’m distracting myself during the wait by starting up my fall semester of college. I’m just hoping all the media attention on the case doesn’t haunt me at school, because I’m not going to be hiding my identity anymore.

I poke at a blouse with polka dots, wondering if it looks cheerful or just corny, and snap a picture of it to text to Brie. She’ll tell me if it works. Her fashion magic still seems to function just fine, even though we can only text from a distance. Brie got accepted into a study abroad program in London, and she left almost two full weeks ago to fulfill her dream of living in Europe.

But I know I’ll still get to see her often, because even if she loves Europe as much as she expects, she’ll be back in San Diego frequently to see Bailey. And to see Nathan, of course. Nathan finally made it out to California to attend culinary school, and he’s been dating Brie for a couple of months now.

The knock comes again at my door, and I glance toward it. “Give me a second, Jeremy,” I say, feeling a little bad for making him wait. He was nice enough to offer to drive me to school today, even though he’s catching a flight back to Colorado in just a few hours. He’s been visiting San Diego about once a month, but he’s spending most of his time in Denver, where his own college is starting up just next week.

From out in the hallway, a breathless, excited voice says, “It’s not Jeremy!”

Camille doesn’t give me any chance to reply before jiggling my doorknob, twisting it in that special way she figured out years ago so my old lock simply pops open. She stands there with a triumphant grin on her face, using one arm to lean heavily on a cane and the other to hold up a small envelope.

“I got the mail!” she squeals. “I walked all the way to the mailbox and back!”

I open my mouth to congratulate her, but all that comes out is a squeal even more high-pitched and excited than hers. She laughs, and it sounds just like it used to—bubbly and carefree and utterly beautiful.

It’s been ten weeks since she woke from her coma, but it still amazes me every time I hear that laugh. Her doctors are calling her recovery a freak miracle—as best they can tell, laying still for so many months caused a blood clot to form in Camille’s veins, which isn’t uncommon in coma patients.

What
is
uncommon was how the clot effected her—it ended up traveling to her brain and causing a small stroke. If it’d happened to a healthy thirteen-year-old, it would have been considered a medical disaster. But for Camille, the little stroke managed to work as some sort of natural “restart” button, and it shocked her brain into resuming consciousness.

Luckily, she remembers almost none of her time in the hospital. But she does remember drifting in and out of a dream-like state for a couple of weeks after her stroke, before she managed to actually open her eyes. She told me I was in her dreams a lot, and she’d always try to chase after me, but she could never quite reach me.

I told her she was wrong. She reached me just fine.

She still has all sorts of problems left over from both her head injury and the stroke—memory loss, migraines, muscle weakness, and partial paralysis on her right side, just to name a few. But there’s a small chance she could make a full recovery, and if there’s a chance, I know Camille will never give up on it. And I won’t, either.

Camille shuffles over to me, her gait stiff and wobbly from all the muscle she lost while lying still for ten months. Half of her hair is pulled back, while the rest frames her face. It hasn’t quite grown out enough to be held in a true pony-tail, but Camille keeps stubbornly trying to style it into one, even though it always escapes.

She flops down on my bed and gives a dramatic sigh as she drops her cane on the floor. I walk over to her and pick it back up, resting it against the bed next to her. I haven’t had to use my cane in over a month, but it’s become somewhat of a full-time job making sure Camille uses hers properly so she doesn’t fall.

She’s breathing hard, like she does now whenever she exercises even the smallest bit, but she’s still smiling. I poke her gently in the side. “I thought you weren’t supposed to go further than down the hall without someone helping you?”

Dad and I have been helping her constantly, and I know she’s getting sick of it. Especially since Dad won’t stop hovering. His shock when Camille woke up quickly turned to elation, and then to overwhelming guilt. I haven’t dared to tell Camille how close he came to yanking her life support, but I think Dad might give her the truth someday and tell the full story. In the mean time, he still has a lot of healing to do, maybe even more than Camille.

She rolls her eyes at me. “I got bored. I wanted to go outside.”

“I can’t blame you a bit,” I admit. I pull myself onto the bed next to her, not caring that I’m still in my PJs, and Jeremy’s probably already waiting out in the car. If Camille can survive ten whole months in a coma, then surely I can survive being ten minutes late to class.

I pull her into a hug, squeezing her close to my chest. “I’m so proud of you.”

She blushes. “All I did was walk out to the mailbox,” she mutters, but she hugs me right back. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“It is to me,” I insist. Then I pluck the envelope out of her hand and raise an eyebrow. “What’s this?”

“Don’t know,” she says with a shrug. “Everything else in there was just bills and stuff for Dad, but that came for you.”

I flip over the envelope, and my breath freezes as I read the front. The return address is from San Diego, but the name of the sender is Seth Ashbury. It only takes me a moment to realize the address is from the neighborhood that San Diego State University is in, and I remember Seth’s plans to follow his brother to the same college.

I can’t help but smile, despite the ache his name causes in my chest. He made it.

“It says ‘Ashbury,’” Camille says, hesitantly poking at his name. “Is something wrong?”

“Not at all,” I say, and I somehow know it’s true. Seth hasn’t been in contact with me since he sent me the information about the trust fund, but despite that, I know that he wouldn’t send me a letter just to stir up trouble.

Camille nudges my shoulder. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

I hesitate, brushing my fingers over the front of the envelope. Then I nod and tear open the top.

Inside the envelope are two pages, both filled with writing. One is a photocopy of a diploma from San Diego State University, granting Parker Gregory Ashbury an official Bachelor of Arts degree in Photography Studies. I let out a relieved laugh and don’t bother holding in my grin. Brie had told me months ago that Parker’s thesis project was accepted, but this makes it official.

This small part of Parker’s journey ended just how he wanted it. He finally got his degree.

I flip to the other piece of paper, which looks like it’s been torn from a book. I run my fingers across it, half expecting to find the texture of one of Seth’s souvenirs on it, like the ones he decorates his walls with. But the page is smooth.

I quickly scan over the printed writing and recognize it as the opening of the Walt Whitman poem Seth and I read together all those months ago. In the margins, Seth has scrawled his phone number and a message in his spidery handwriting:

“I once told you that I never leave a chapter of my life behind without taking a souvenir. I still don’t know what to take away from you, which makes me think it’s not time to let you go. Call me.”

I trace my fingertip over each of the digits in his number, treasuring the familiar messiness of his handwriting. I don’t realize I’m crying until Camille brushes a tear away from my cheek. Concern puckers her face into a frown, and her blue eyes stare up at me anxiously.

“Are you okay?” she whispers.

I pull her into another tight hug, smiling as I watch her concern melt into a look of comfort.

“No,” I admit, holding both her and the letter close. “But I’m going to be.”

******

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About the Author

Olivia Rivers
is a hybrid author of Young Adult fiction. Her works include the independently published novels “Frost Fire” and “In the Hope of Memories,” along with the traditionally published novel “Tone Deaf” (Skyhorse 2016.) As a certified geek, she enjoys experimenting with new publishing technologies, and her online serials have received over 1,000,000 hits on Wattpad.com. When Olivia isn’t working as a writer, she’s a typical teen attending college in Northern California. Olivia is represented by Laurie McLean of Fuse Literary, and nothing thrills her more than hearing from readers.

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