Finding Goodbye Read online

  I watched as she backed out of the drive, and then pulled onto the road. I waved until I couldn’t see her car, and there I was, suddenly alone.

  I could hear the branches swaying, and creaking above me. I stood for a moment longer, wrapping my arms around myself to keep out the cold. The too-big house loomed behind me like a fortress of doom; I couldn’t bring myself to go back inside. I didn’t want to face the sudden silence. Instead, I started for the porch and sat on the front step with my back to the house. My breath billowed out in front of me, the frosty cloud lingering only for a moment before dissolving. I reached into my pocket to pull out my phone, dialing Luke.

  He answered on the second ring. “Hello?”

  “Hey,” I said. “What are you doing right now?”

  “Lying in bed,” he replied sleepily. The morning grog was thick in his voice.

  “So, today’s the day,” I said.

  It took him a minute to catch up, but then he said, “You’re leaving?”

  “Yeah. Would you mind coming over? Keep me company while I pack?”

  There was a slight pause before he answered, “Okay, see you in a few.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and then pressed the end button and pocketed my phone. Luke lived across the street, which made our life-long friendship all the more convenient. My front porch faced his garage, and I heard the hinges groan in complaint; the slow give as the door lifted from the concrete. Luke emerged from the darkness, the sunlight playing in his golden blond hair as he crossed the street. He was wearing track pants, and I could see the green and silver lettering of his university T-shirt poking out beneath the collar of his jacket.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “For what?”

  “Getting you out of bed early on a Saturday. I know how important sleep is to you.” Luke was a sophomore at the Havenport University, taking sixteen credit hours a week on top of trying to keep up with a part-time job at the mall working retail.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, mussing the top of my head like he had done since we were kids. “I was awake; I just wasn’t motivated to get up.”

  “I know the feeling,” I said with a pinch of sarcasm.

  He brushed by me on the way up the front steps, and pulled open the large oak door. The warmth of the house enclosed around us as we stepped inside the foyer. Luke headed straight for the kitchen, opening cupboards here and there, and helped himself to a bowl of cinnamon Life cereal.

  When I was a kid, I thought eating that particular brand of cereal would somehow magically extend my life, or at least boost the quality of it. Boy, had I been wrong. In spite of that, it was still my favorite.

  I sighed, sinking down into the chair across from him at the center island. I reached for the box, and decided to pour myself a bowl.

  “How long will your mom be gone?” he asked around a mouthful of cereal; his words garbled, nearly indecipherable to the human ear, but I had long since acclimated to his jumbled vocabulary.

  “Between eight and twelve weeks,” I answered.

  “Wow, she’s really jumping back into it.”

  “It’s been four months,” I said. “I know she misses it. It will be good for her.” As I said this, I started tracing invisible circles on the counter top.

  “Yeah, but what about you?” Luke’s blue eyes leveled on mine.

  “I’ll be fine,” I said hesitantly.

  “I get why you don’t want to stay here.” His eyes bounced around the room, noting all of Gabriel’s things that were still lying out in the open; all endless reminders that he was gone, and I wasn’t. “But do you really have to go to Havenport?” he asked me.

  Havenport was a thirty minute drive from here; Luke still made the daily trek to campus since it was cheaper opposed to staying in the dorms. My grandparents lived just outside of town, closer to the coast, but tucked away on a nice little piece of country land. They lived in my grandfather’s family farmhouse, a dated, two-story brick home that was full of character.

  “You could stay with me,” Luke suggested nonchalantly when I didn’t answer.

  “I appreciate the offer but you’re hardly home as it is. You’ll come visit me though, won’t you?” I sounded hopeful.

  “You know I can’t stay away from you for too long.” He winked.

  “Good.” I reached up to run a hand through my disheveled hair. I probably looked terrifying, but I was way past the point of trying to impress Luke on account of my looks. He was my best friend foremost, and he’d seen me at my lowest of lows, my darkest of days, and still he stayed.

  Luke had finished his cereal, and had gotten up to rinse the bowl out before loading it in the dishwasher. He turned, leaning up against the counter in that suave, cool-guy way, flipping his hair out of his eyes. “When are your grandparents expecting you?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Anytime, I guess. I was thinking of leaving soon.” The less time I had to be in this house, the better.

  Luke nodded, and glanced down at his watch. “I have to be at work in an hour. What can I do to help while you pack?” he asked.

  “You don’t have to do anything,” I said.

  “I want to.” He reached out, his fingertips brushing lightly on my forearm.

  “I guess the fridge could probably use a cleaning.” I shrugged.

  “I’m on it,” he informed me, heading in that direction.

  “Please. Take anything you want,” I said. “It’s not like I’ll be home to miss it.”

  “Well you know me,” he said, grinning, “I can’t say no to free food.”

  I shook my head, and turned for my bedroom. I pulled my green cross country bag from the top shelf, plopping it open on my bed. The silver embroidery of my name had started to fray, and the Tiger Shark’s emblem had a dirt stain smeared across its fin. I ran my finger over it absently, knowing it was a permanent fixture. It didn’t matter though; it wasn’t like I would ever use it again for the actual purpose it was intended for. I turned, gathering the essentials, and started stuffing them in the bag.

  Softly, I sat on my bed and opened the drawer to my nightstand. Inside was a mixture of prescription bottles that had been prescribed by my doctors and therapists. I paused, running my thumb along the edge of the drawer.

  It’s funny how there seemed to be a pill for everything these days… Can’t sleep? There’s a pill for that. Can’t eat? There’s a pill for that, too. Scientists had developed a pill for all sorts of scenarios, creating a synthetic state of mind along with a complete dependency epidemic. Was some of it useful? Sure… but it was just so easy, taking a little pill that magically made all your problems disappear. At least for a little while, anyway.

  I reached into the drawer and pulled out a blue bottle that was prescribed for pain. Another that was meant to help me sleep, and a third that was for anxiety. In the beginning, I abused them all. I lived in my false synthetic reality, feeling as little as I possibly could. I’d float for days, unaware of time or space. I was completely comatose in my every day existence, and then suddenly it wasn’t enough. They called this stage: Denial.

  I went through a phase where I refused any medication. I wanted to feel the pain, and know that I was suffering. I wanted–no–I needed that physical ache that coursed through my body and mind. I needed that absolute feeling of destruction. If Gabriel was gone, then I would endure that suffering, too. They called this stage: Anger.

  I didn’t rely on the pills to get me through the day anymore, but sometimes I would find the pain to be just a little too much to handle and I’d cave. My bionic leg ached severely every time the weather changed, particularly with a coming storm. I’d find
myself in overwhelming situations and need to pop an anxiety pill, or the worst yet… when I’d wake from a reoccurring nightmare and I’d need all three. I wanted to say that I was getting better–stronger, but truthfully the thought of not having one of my little magic pills “just in case” terrified me beyond reason.

  I swallowed around the lump in my throat, and packed the medication in a small black bag, tucking it safely in the smaller zipper compartment of my bag. You know, just in case.

  I finished packing, changed into a pair of jeans and a comfortably warm sweater, and washed up in the bathroom before meeting Luke back in the kitchen. He had a black garbage bag in one of his hands, and a container of sour cream in the other. I sat my bag on the counter, and the sound caused him to look up.

  “Do you realize this expired in November?” He shook the container.

  “Gross.” I made a face.

  “I’m going to open it.”

  “Luke, please don’t–” I started to protest, but he was already peeling back the lid. I braced myself for the putrid smell as Luke flashed the container in my direction. Green, fuzzy goop had taken over the contents.

  “Sick,” Luke muttered, poking at it with his index finger.

  “What are you, twelve?” I chastised. “Throw it out.”

  He laughed, dumping the goop into the trash bag. He turned for the sink, rinsing the plastic container before launching it into the recycle bin.

  “It’s a good thing I got my hands on your fridge,” he declared a moment later. “While that oversized Petri dish would have been a fascination to scientists, it also would have been a major red flag for the health department.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him.

  “I’m kidding,” he said, “maybe just a yellow flag.”

  I laughed. “Thank you, for doing that.”

  “You don’t have to thank me,” he said. “Are you all set?”

  “I think so,” I replied. “Oh!” A thought popped into my head. “Can you get the mail for me while I’m gone?”

  “Sure, I’ll keep an eye on everything. No need to worry.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

  “You’ll never have to find out,” he said with a wink, taking the bags from me and heading out to load up my car. Luke had always done that–the looking out for me bit–but ever since the accident, he had started treating me more like a wounded animal that couldn’t look out for herself. I appreciated his help and concern, but I had been so independent prior to the accident that I worried he’d treat me differently for the rest of my life. I didn’t want that, nor did I want him thinking that I needed fixed in some way. I didn’t want to be anyone’s “project.”

  I hobbled out after him, turning to double-check the locked door. I met him at the driver’s side door of my car as he opened it for me. “Text me to let me know you made it safely,” he said.

  “I will, and, thank you, for everything.”

  Luke scooped me up in a hug, the top of my head resting just under his cheekbone. I felt his lips brush against my hair, and just as quickly, he released me. “Drive safe,” he said, and closed the door, tapping the hood of my Juke twice before crossing the road back to his house.

  I pushed the key in the ignition, the gear in drive, and started off down the road. It was a quarter past nine, and the sun was shining brightly above me. That was one thing I liked about the winter sun, once it was up, it just moved lazily across the sky and illuminated the world in a halo of gold.

  I turned on the radio and turned up the heat as I pulled out of our suburban neighborhood, turning onto the highway that would take me to my grandparents’ farm.

  The road stretched out before me with miles and miles of endless, undulated countryside up ahead.

  It wasn’t long before I was making all of the familiar automatic turns that would take me past a field of ancient oak trees that were draped in dying Spanish moss. The sage colored threading clung to the branches like spider webs; the dew from the morning catching the sunlight as I drove by.

  I slowed as I rounded a bend and the farmhouse came into view. I pointed my car down the tree-lined gravel drive, and tried to avoid the dangerous looking potholes as my car bumped down the lane.

  The farmhouse was a magnificent red brick with deep blue shutters. The paint might have been a little chipped but it was still a stunning sight to behold. The house had a wide wooden wrap-around porch with a couple of rocking chairs, and a swing that faced the east. Empty flowerpots hung from the awning, the stems of the dead flowers left to whither in the winter sun.

  I parked my car near the back gate, next to the barn. Zipping up my jacket, I braced myself for the cold as I slipped out of the car. My footsteps crunched against the gravel as I made my way across the drive and stepped onto the porch. Before I had a chance to reach for the handle, my grandma burst from the screen door, letting it slam shut behind her. She crooned in delight as she wrapped her thin arms around me, and squeezed with a strength that surprised me for her small size.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said against my ear. She held me out at arm’s length, scrutinizing me in only the way a grandmother can. “You’re too skinny,” she decided. “Come inside, I’ve got breakfast on the table.”

  I laughed involuntarily, shaking my head as I followed her inside. A blur of black-and-white fur and feathers surrounded my ankles, moving quickly in dizzying circles. I could hear excited barking and something that sounded like squawking coming from the cartoon tornado in front of me.

  “What in the–”

  “–Luna! Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Grandma was in the midst of the chaos bending to separate the dog and the–duck.

  “When did you get a duck?” I asked, narrowing my eyes as she bent to pick up the white feathered creature. It quacked happily in her arms.

  “She’s our latest rescue,” Grandma said. “She’s an American pekin duck but she thinks she’s a dog. She certainly gives poor Radar a run for his money.”

  I bent slightly to pet the border collie who was now sitting calmly at my feet. I scratched his ears as he licked at my chin in a happy greeting. “I missed you too,” I said, and then turned back to Grandma. “And what on earth is your duck wearing?”

  “Oh, this?” Grandma pointed to the pink contraption that was strapped to the duck’s back. It wrapped around her body and created a pouch under her backside. “It’s a diaper,” she clarified.

  “Interesting.” I lifted an eyebrow skeptically.

  “Luna is a very special case,” Grandma said, placing her back on the floor next to Radar.

  Most of the animals on the farm were “special cases.” All of the animals here had been adopted or rescued at some point in time. It was all part of the charm that captivated me so much.

  “Where’s Grandpa?” I asked, following Grandma into the kitchen.

  “He’s running some errands in town, but he’ll be back around lunch I imagine. A man is like clockwork when it comes to his stomach,” she said, retrieving a mug from the cupboard. “Coffee?”

  “Please,” I said, pulling out a chair at the kitchen table. My grandfather had hand-carved it years ago. The kitchen smelled amazing. Hazelnut coffee, maple syrup and blueberries perfumed the air in a delicious mouthwatering scent. My stomach seemed to grumble on cue.

  For as long as I remembered, my grandmother’s kitchen had always been bountiful with food. “It’s the one thing that brings us all together,” she would say. And it was true, too. Out of the five senses, they say that scent is the strongest trigger of memories. When I reached back into my memory bank, the first thing I recalled about my grandmother’s kitchen
was the smell of baking pie. These weren’t your typical store-bought pies, either. Every ingredient–including the crust–was made entirely from scratch. It was the only time I’d ever seen the kitchen in complete disarray; tin cans and baking ingredients spread out over every inch of the counter and table surfaces. Flour was strewn across floor, cracked egg shells and dirty, used utensils lay in the sink basin while Grandma worked meticulously to perfect her craft.

  Nothing about her pie-making process was ordinary. I remembered pushing a chair up to the counter as a small girl, standing on it, and cradling my arms through the pegs for balance while I watched her work. She had an array of pastry tools that she used to carve designs into the top layer of her pie crusts. I remembered being mystified, watching her take a plain, flat piece of dough and turn it into something that only she could see was there–like Michelangelo bringing forth David from a block of marble.

  At Christmas, pies would be presented in the shape of snowflakes and holly leaves. At Thanksgiving, her crusts were made from three dimensional fall leaf patterns, and in the center of the pie would be a cornucopia with fruits and vegetables spilling from its mouth. Every detail was precise and carefully constructed.

  Every year for our birthday, she would make Gabriel and I our own individual pies; his favorite being peach cobbler, while mine was apple crisp. Gabriel’s pies were mostly covered in sports paraphernalia, while mine were mainly decorated with animals. It wasn’t until we got older that the pictures turned into more detailed patterns, or things I thought should be seen in an art museum instead of eaten.

  Sometimes, I thought watching her turn those pies into masterpieces was what sparked my love for art. If it hadn’t been for her letting me help, carefully guiding my hands with the tools, teaching me to be patient–then maybe I wouldn’t have developed an affinity for it. Though pie crusts were not my medium of choice, I certainly held a certain level of respect for hers. Ironically, Grandma had never been interested in working with art on a professional level. “It’s just a hobby,” she’d say, shrugging whenever someone complimented her work.