Free This is What Goodbye Looks Like by Olivia Rivers Page A

and held breaths. “When you were leaving your uncle’s house on the night of May fourth, did you notice that your mother was at all unstable?”
    “Unstable?” I repeated, my voice a quiet croak.
    “Yes, unstable. Was she in an altered state, either emotionally or physically?”
    “I already told you,” I said slowly. “She’d just been in a fight with my uncle. Of course she was upset.”
    He nodded. “You also stated she’d had too much to drink that night.”
    “Yes,” I said. “She’d been drinking.”
    “And, tell me, is this common? For your mom to drink too much?”
    I wanted to repeat the excuses I’d made so many times: She’s a specialist in late-stage lung cancer. The clinic she manages has one of the highest survival rates in the nation, but they still lose over fifty-percent of patients to the disease. Her white coat is basically just a giant tissue for all the mourning people she has to console. Why wouldn’t she want to block that out? Who could possibly blame her for wanting to numb the pain of watching patient after patient die? And it’s not like she ever drinks on the job or gets mean. Sometimes she just has a bit too much in the evenings and acts a little weepy.
    The excuses rolled around in my head, clattering against each other like glass marbles. Then I risked a glance at the Ashbury family, and all my logic shattered in the face of their tear-streaked expressions.
    Every one of those excuses made sense. But none of them would ever bring back Parker Ashbury.
    “My mom isn’t a bad person,” I murmured, although I wasn’t sure who I was talking to.
    “I’d like to believe you’re right, Miss Alessio,” Whittaker said. “But that doesn’t answer my question.”
    I looked down at my hands, frail from all the weight I’d lost in the hospital, and watched tremors run through them. “She has a drinking problem, sir.”
    “How often did she drink?”
    “A couple times a week.”
    At least , I added in my head. Lately, I had been spending more time tucked away in my basement reading nook, curled up on the small couch down there with Camille. I’d play YouTube videos on my laptop with the volume on high, trying desperately to distract Camille from our crying mother upstairs.
    Whittaker nodded, and I could tell he was trying not to look too excited that he was finally getting answers out of me. With Parker dead and Camille in a coma, I was the only witness left to testify. As Dad had stressed so many times, the verdict of this case pretty much depended on what I told the jury.
    “Did anyone point out to your mother that she’d had too much to drink on the night of the fourth?” Whittaker asked. “Or that she shouldn’t drive?”
    I flinched, remembering my angry words as I’d helped her out of my uncle’s house. My aunt and cousin had tried to hurry after us, but I’d waved them away, too embarrassed to accept their aid. “You’re drunk,” I’d snapped at Mom that night. “Just shut up and let me drive, okay?”
    “People tried to stop her,” I said out loud.
    It was the truth: I tried. I really did. But she was so insistent on driving, saying I hadn’t had my license long enough to travel in the dark. And I gave in. All I could think about was my relatives inside, and the scene Mom was causing, and how desperate I was to escape the embarrassment of it all. So I stopped trying to snatch the keys from her hand and climbed in the passenger seat, growling at Camille to get in so we could just leave.
    She hadn’t wanted to get in the car. Camille had been crying, but I’d just told her to calm down and demanded she get in the back seat.
    “And why didn’t your mother stop?” Whittaker asked.
    Because I wasn’t strong enough to make her.
    Because I failed.
    “She was stubborn,” I whispered.
    And I was a coward.
    Whittaker gave one of the long, slow nods he always used while considering his next question. “Now tell me, Miss Alessio. Is it safe to assume your