Free The Good Goodbye by Carla Buckley

racing. It’s too much for her. They say she can’t handle it much longer.”

    “Of course she can,” Theo says. “She’s strong. She’s healthy. Rory’s a fighter.”
    “But she doesn’t even know there’s a fight going on!” Vince hasn’t shaved, the dark bristles a startling contrast against his skin. “You send your kid to school; you expect her to be safe. You don’t expect something like this to happen.”
    “No,” Theo says. “You don’t.”
    “All I wanted was to make a better life for them,” Vince says to me, pleading. “You get that, don’t you? You understand.”
    “Of course.” Theo looks at me.
    I know he wants me to assure Vince that none of this is his fault. But is it true? If we unravel everything all the way back, doesn’t it all start when he took that gamble and lost? Arden should be three thousand miles away. Rory should be in Boston. They shouldn’t be here. This is the last place they should be.
    “It’s okay,” I say again. “Our girls are going to be okay.” This is as close as I can get to saying the words. “I’m going to check on Gabrielle. She shouldn’t be alone.” I don’t look at Theo as I turn away.

Arden
    THIS IS HOW it happens.
    A girl gives you a pill from her stash and you think, Why not? Nothing happens and you’re disappointed. You say to yourself, Can’t you even get this right? But then the leaves turn bright green, their edges so sharp they cut the sky into pieces. Facts and dates and words zoom out of the darkness, so fast you can barely keep up. The snarky comments sail with them, twisting and turning before disappearing into the ether without the slightest prickle. You are brave. You are magic. Then the sparkling sky dims and the leaves turn muddy-colored again. You ask the girl for another pill and she gives you a look. What do you think they are—free?
    —
    I think they’re finally asleep, my dad says.
    We drive through twirling snow dense as lace, our headlights carving a tunnel through the darkness. The car radio’s on, playing Christmas songs that fade in and out. Oliver and Henry sit on each side of me, asleep in their booster seats, their heads lolling. They smell of animal crackers and milk, their little hands curled like shells on their small chubby legs. Percy’s curled up in my lap, softly snoring. My parents are talking about Grandma Lorraine and Grandpa Howard, who are now living in separate houses, and I’m listening to all the secret things they’re saying. It won’t be the same, my mother says and sighs, and my father reaches over and puts his hand on her thigh. She slides her hands over his, her strong battered hands that carry burbling pots from burner to burner, hoist me onto a stool so I can stir, too, tuck a long stray strand of hair behind my ear, tickle my ribs to make me giggle .

    Henry’s awake now, excited about Santa Claus coming. He kicks his legs and then Oliver does, too. Our tires crunch the crusted snow and we bump onto Grandma Lorraine’s white wonderland driveway. My brothers blink at the glowing strings of colored lights twisted all around the trees and bushes. We’re here, my mother says, and Henry starts to cry.
    Snow falls into my shoes, icy and wet, and I stomp them on Grandma’s welcome mat. I am prepared for bad news—the unpleasant shock of strangeness—but her house smells exactly the same, of cinnamon candles on the hearth and sugar cookies on a plate. Pine floor cleaner and bleach. Things change, I see, but they can stay the same, too.
    —
    It’s always the same routine at the playground: first Henry and Oliver want to swing on the swings, then go down the slide. Then the jungle gym—Henry hanging there and blocking Oliver until he can’t hold on anymore—then the haunted house, which is really supposed to be a pirate’s boat, but the big metal wheel fell off and sat there on the splintery wood until someone finally carted it away. But their favorite is the merry-go-round,