What Happened to Goodbye

  I nodded, forcing a smile. “Really.”

  “But she was fine!” she added quickly, glancing at me. “Totally fine. Didn’t even scar, although we were both sure she would.”

  “Wow,” I said.

  “I know!” She shook her head, slowly accelerating as signs for the hospital began to appear. “Modern medicine. It’s amazing.”

  I peered ahead, taking in the big red EMERGENCY with an arrow beneath as it appeared. Despite my dad’s assurances, I was strangely nervous, my stomach tight ever since we’d hung up. Maybe Deb had picked up on this, and it was why she’d pretty much talked nonstop since I’d approached her and asked for a ride. I’d barely had time to explain the situation before she had launched into a dozen stories to illustrate the point that Things Happened, But People Were Okay in the End.

  “It’s just a knife cut,” I said for about the tenth time. I wasn’t sure if this reassurance was for me or her. “He gets them all the time. It’s part of the job.”

  “I can’t believe your dad is a chef!” she said, easing into the turn lane. “That is so exciting. I hear Luna Blu is amazing.”

  “You’ve never been there?”

  She shook her head. “We don’t eat out much.”

  “Oh.” I wasn’t sure what to say to that. “Well, I’ll have to take you sometime. To thank you for the ride.”

  “Really?” She seemed so surprised I had a twinge of pity, although I wasn’t sure why. “God, that would be so great. But you totally don’t have to. I’m just happy I coud help out.”

  As we headed up the road to the emergency room entrance, I saw a couple of doctors pass by, both in scrubs. Off to the left, a man in a wheelchair with an oxygen mask was sitting in the sunshine. None of this helped my nervousness, so I distracted myself by saying, “Yeah, but it must get kind of old, right? Being a student ambassador, and everyone always asking for something.”

  Deb leaned farther over the steering wheel, peering at the parking options. She was so precise and responsible, in her perfect green headband, her neat car with a memo pad stuck to the dash, a pen clipped to its side. She seemed older than she was, older than she should be. “Not really,” she said, turning into a nearby lot.

  “No? ”

  She shook her head. “You’re actually the first person who’s asked me for anything.”

  “I am?” I didn’t mean to sound so surprised, and could tell immediately by her reaction—a slight flush, a nervous swallow—that it didn’t do much for her confidence. Quickly, I added, “I mean, I’m glad. Makes me memorable, I guess.”

  Deb cut the engine, then turned to look at me. Her expression was clearly grateful, happy. What must it be like to be so genuine, so fragile, your entire world of thoughts so easy to read on your face? I couldn’t even imagine. “Well, that’s nice to hear! I hadn’t even thought about it that way!”

  There was a sudden blast of siren from behind us, and an ambulance came racing up to the emergency room entrance. He’s fine, I told myself, but even so my heart jumped.

  “Come on,” Deb said, pushing open her door and reaching into the backseat for her purse. “You’ll feel better once you see him.”

  As we walked across the lot, she reached into her bag, taking out a pack of gum and offering it to me. I shook my head, and she put it back, not taking a piece herself. I wondered if she even chewed gum, or just carried it as a courtesy. I was pretty sure I knew the answer.

  Earlier, when we’d stopped by my house, it was no surprise that she’d been polite and complimentary. “What a lovely place,” she said, standing in our sparsely furnished living room. “That quilt is gorgeous.”

  I looked over at the sofa. Tossed over one arm was one of my mom’s quilts, made way back when she’d first taken up the hobby. The truth was, she was really good at it, and could do all kinds of intricate patterns. At our old house, we’d had tons of them, both as décor and to use when it was chilly. When we left I’d boxed most of them up with the rest of our stuff in storage, only to have my mom give me a new one as I stood in Peter’s driveway saying goodbye.

  “I’ve been working on it nonstop,” she said as she pressed it into my hands. Her eyes were red: she’d been crying all morning.

  I took it, looking down at the neatly stitched squares. The fabric was pink and yellow and blue and varied: denim, corduroy, cotton. “This is really nice.”

  “It’s baby clothes,” she told me. “So you have something to remember me by.”

  I’d taken it, and thanked her. Then I’d put it in a box in the U-Haul, where it had basically stayed until I brought some stuff back to her house during one summ ofeak and left it in my closet. I knew I should have kept it, but like so much else with my mom it just felt so loaded. Like under it, I’d suffocate.

  “Thanks,” I’d said to Deb, back at the house. “We just moved in, so things are still kind of all over the place.”

  “I’d love to live here,” she said. “This is such a great neighborhood.”

  “Is it?” I asked, digging around in the file box for my dad’s insurance card.

  “Oh, sure. It’s in the historical district.” She walked over to the doorway, examining the molding. “My mom and I looked at a house for sale on this street a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Really? Are you thinking about moving?”

  “Oh, no,” she said. She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “We just . . . Sometimes for fun, on the weekends, we go to open houses and pretend we’re buying. We decide where we’d put everything, and what we’d do to the yard. . . .” She trailed off, looking embarrassed. “I know it sounds silly.”

  “Not really.” I found the card inside a book of stamps, and slid it into my pocket. “I do stuff like that, too, sometimes.”

  “You do? Like what?”

  Now I was stuck. I swallowed, then said, “You know. Like, when I start a new school I always kind of change myself a little bit. Pretend I’m someone different than I was in the last place.”

  She just looked at me, and I wondered what on earth it was about her that made me be so honest. Like she was sick with truth, and really contagious. “Really,” she said finally. “I bet that’s hard, though.”

  “Hard?” I said, walking back to the door and pushing it open for her.

  She walked out, adjusting her purse over her shoulder as I locked the door. “I mean, just having to change each time. It’s like starting over. I’d kind of, I don’t know. . . .”

  I glanced over at Dave Wade’s, thinking of Riley and her asking about him. There were no cars in the driveway, no signs of life. Wherever he was, he wasn’t at home.

  “... miss who I was before,” Deb finished. “Or something.”

  Then I’d said nothing: I didn’t know how to respond to this. Instead, I just followed her to the car, and we’d come here. Now, though, as we walked up to the emergency room sliding doors, I glanced at her again, envying her confidence, even in the face of what I knew others thought about her. Maybe it was easier for some than others, though, changing. I hardly knew her at all, but I already couldn’t imagine her being any other Deb than this one.

  Inside the hospital, we were hit with that immediate hospital mix of disinfectant and uneasiness. I gave my dad’s name to a squat man behind a glass window, who typed a few things on his computer before sliding a piece of paper across to me that read A1196. The four digits made me think back to that morning, searching for my locker, when my biggest concern had been getting my mom off the phone and out of my hair.

  “I think it’s this way,” Deb said, her voice calmer than I felt as she led us down a hall, taking a right. Somehow, she just seemed to know when I needse er to take the lead, like my fear was that palpable.

  There were not rooms but cubicles with curtains, some open, some closed. As we passed by, I tried not to look but still caught glimpses: a man lying in a bed in his undershirt, hand over his eyes, a woman in a hospital gown, mouth open, asleep.

  “A1194,” Deb
was saying. “A1195 . . . Here! This is it.”

  The curtain was closed, and for a moment we stood there as I wondered how you were supposed to knock or even know you had the right place. Then, though, I heard something.

  “Seriously. You have got to let the roll thing go. It’s done.”

  There was a loud sigh. “Okay, I understand the pickles have been well accepted, but that doesn’t mean . . .”

  I eased the curtain open, and there they were: my dad, seated on the bed, his hand and wrist wrapped in bandages and gauze, and Opal in a nearby chair, legs crossed, looking irritated.

  “There she is,” my dad said. He smiled at me, which was about the most reassuring thing I’d seen, well, ever. “How’s it going?”

  “Forget about me,” I replied, walking over to him. “How are you?”

  “Completely fine,” he said easily, patting the bed beside him. I sat down, and as he slid his good arm over my shoulders, I felt a lump rise in my throat. Which was ridiculous, as it was obvious this was true, he was okay. “It’s just a flesh wound.”

  I smiled, swallowing, and glanced at Opal. She was watching me, her face kind, so kind I had to look away. “This is Deb,” I said, nodding to where she stood at the curtain’s opening, purse over her shoulder. “She gave me . . . She’s my friend.”

  Hearing this, Deb smiled, clearly pleased. Then she took a step forward, sticking out her hand. “Hi,” she said. “It’s so nice to meet you! I’m very sorry about your accident. Mclean was so worried!”

  My dad raised his eyebrows, glancing at me, and I felt myself flush.

  “That’s probably because it was me that called,” Opal said. “I’m not exactly known for my poise in emergencies.”

  “This was not an emergency,” my dad said, squeezing my shoulder again. I let myself lean into him, breathing in his familiar smell—aftershave, laundry detergent, a hint of grill smoke. “If it had been up to me, I would have just wrapped it and kept cutting.”

  “Oh, no!” Deb said, aghast. “You have to get medical attention when you cut yourself. I mean, what about staph infections?”

  “See?” Opal pointed at Deb, vindicated. “Staph infections!”

  “Knock knock,” came a voice from outside the curtain. A moment later, a plump nurse with red hair, wearing a smock decorated with hearts, came in. She looked at my dad, then down at the chart in her hand. “Well, Mr. Sweet. Just need your card and a little paperwork and you’ll be rid of us.”

  “Wonderful,” my dad said, taking the clipboard as she offered it to him.

  “Oh, now, don’t say that! You’ll hurt my feelings!” the nurse said, her voice too loud as she smiled widely at him. Across the room, Opal raised her eyebrows. I, however, was not surprised in the least. I had long ago grown used to the effect my father had on females. Maybe it was his longish hair, or those blue eyes, or the way he dressed or carried himself, but it seemed like wherever we went, women were drawn to him like magnets. And the less he reciprocated, the more they did it. It was so weird.

  I handed the nurse my dad’s card, then steadied the clipboard as he uncapped a pen with his good hand, scanning the papers in front of him. As he signed, I glanced at the nurse, who beamed at me. “Aren’t you sweet, taking care of your daddy. Is your mom out of town?”

  She’d clearly already noticed no ring, but was just doublechecking: this was also a trick I’d seen before, performed by waitresses and hotel clerks, even one of my teachers. So obvious.

  “Excuse me,” Opal said suddenly, before I could come up with a response, “but we’ll need to be sure that these charges are sent to our company. Can you help me with that, or do I need to talk to someone else?”

  The nurse glanced at her, as if just now noticing she was there, even though Opal—in faded jeans, red cowboy boots, and a bright orange sweater—was hard to miss. “I can direct you to the proper department for handling that,” she said coolly.

  “Thanks so much,” Opal replied, equally polite.

  Deb, just inside the curtain, looked at Opal, then the nurse, then back at Opal again. But my dad was oblivious as always as he handed back the clipboard, hopping down off the bed. “All right,” he said. “Let’s blow this taco stand.”

  “Mr. Sweet!” the nurse said. “We still have a few more forms to fill out. You’ll need to—”

  “What I need,” my dad replied, grabbing his coat from where it was lying across the pillow, “is to get back to my kitchen before the whole place collapses. Like Opal said, forward the bill to EAT INC. You’ve got the info, right?”

  Opal nodded, pulling a card out of the bag at her feet. “Sure do.”

  “Perfect. Then pass it on, and let’s go.” Opal handed the card to the nurse, who looked less than enthused to be taking it. Again, my dad didn’t notice as he shrugged on his coat, then looked at me. “You need to go back to school, correct?”

  I glanced at my watch. “By the time I get there, it’ll practically be time for final bell.”

  He sighed, clearly not happy about this. “Home, then. We’ll drop you on the way back to the restaurant.”

  “Oh, I can drive her,” Deb offered. When my dad glanced at her, she smiled, as if she might need his approval to actually do this. “I mean, it’s no problem at all.”

  “Great. Let’s go,” he said, pushing the curtain aside. He was out and down the hallway before any of us even got close to following.

  Everyone looked at me, but I just shrugged. This was my dad as dictator, the side of his personality that came out during the busiest rushes and whenever we were moving. He wasn’t always a bossy person, but under certain circumstances he behaved like a general on the battlefield, whether he had willing troops or not.

  The nurse tort c a couple of sheets of paper, handing one to Opal, who took it and headed out the way my dad had gone. The other she handed to me, along with my dad’s card, seeming to take quite a while to complete the exchange.

  “If your dad has any problems with that wound,” she said as she finally let go of it, “my direct line is on the release notes. I’m Sandy.”

  “Right,” I said. I could feel Deb’s shock from behind me, like heat coming off of her. Sure enough, when I turned she was staring, openmouthed. “Thanks.”

  I walked out into the hallway, and she rushed out behind me, still aghast. “Oh my God!” she hissed as we passed by the man in the undershirt, who was now sitting up, a doctor leaning over him. “That was so inappropriate!”

  “It happens,” I replied, spotting my dad and Opal just outside the front entrance. “Mclean? ” he called out, impatient. “Let’s go.”

  Deb immediately picked up her pace, following orders like a good soldier. As I fell in behind her, I glanced down at the discharge papers, with Sandy’s loopy script spelling out her name and number in red pen. It seemed like a correction, something marked right that was wrong, and I folded it over, stuffing it deep in my pocket as I stepped through the doors to leave this place, too, behind me.

  Five

  The noise was oddly familiar, but at first I couldn’t place it.

  Thump. Thump. Thump. Clank.

  I opened my eyes, blinked, and then looked at the slope in the ceiling, following it to the edge of the molding where it hit the window. Beyond that, there was only clear glass, some sky, and the dilapidated roof of the house where Dave had taken over the cellar. It was so big, though, that I wasn’t sure it was a residence at all. More likely, I’d decided, it was a business, long shuttered: the windows were boarded up, weeds growing up all around it. I’d seen a FOR SALE sign that looked equally ancient on its other side when I was walking to the bus stop. Now, though, from this weird angle, I noticed something else: a few letters painted on the roof, once red, now faded to the lightest of pinks. I couldn’t make them all out, but the first looked like it might be an S.

  Thump. Thump. Swish.

  I sat up, glancing out the window beside me. My dad’s truck was already gone. It was only 9:00 a.m. after
a blistering Friday rush he’d worked pretty much one-handed, but the farmers’ market was on Saturday mornings, and he always liked to get there early to have the best pickings of what was on offer.

  Thump. Thump. Laughter. And then a crash.

  I felt the house shake slightly, and then everything was still again. I sat there for a moment, waiting for what, I had no idea, before finally sliding my feet onto the floor and grabbing my jeans from the nearby chair, where I’d tossed them late the night before. Outside, it was quiet now, my footsteps all I could hear as I made my way down the hallway.

  As I first stepped into the kitchen, I thought I was still asleep and dreaming when I saw the basketball rolling toward me. Behind it, the door to the deck was open,uld air blowing in, and I just stood there and watched as the ball came closer, then closer still, slowing with each turn. So weird, I thought. I was sure I’d been awake, seen the truck gone, but—

  “Whoops! Sorry about that.”

  I jumped, startled, then looked up to see a guy standing on the porch, just past the open doorway. He was about my age, with short, tight dreads springing up from his head in all directions, wearing jeans and a red long-sleeved T-shirt. His face was familiar, but I was still too asleep to figure out why.

  I looked at the ball, then back at him. “What—”

  “My comrade has a bit of an overenthusiastic throw,” he said as he stepped inside, grabbing it from my feet. As he looked up at me, smiling apologetically, my memory sputtered up a flash of him on a TV screen, holding some papers. That was it: he was from the morning announcements at school. “Which wouldn’t be so bad, except his aim kind of sucks.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Right. I just . . . I didn’t know what was going on.”

  “Won’t happen again,” he assured me. Then he turned, lifting the ball with both hands over his head, and pitching it toward the driveway. “Incoming!”