Say Goodbye

A best friend was the person who knew everything about you and loved you anyway. A best friend was what I lost.

                Best friends. All girls had them growing up, for the most part. A best friend was the person you had sleepovers with, where you’d stay up to the wee hours of the night talking about absolutely everything and positively nothing at the same exact time. A best friend the person you went shopping with every weekend, the person who helped you cram for your midterm until neither of you could keep your eyes open. A best friend was the person who knew every single little thing about and loved you anyway.

 

                A best friend is what I lost.

 

                It was a bitter cold day in December, only a week before Christmas, and we were at the mall. You were stressed out because you couldn’t find that perfect gift for your boyfriend or the last minute, heart-felt Hallmark cards for your parents and sister. I was carrying a heap of our bags because you needed both of your hands to sift through the huge display of sweaters in Macy’s. You were flitting from rack to rack, with sweaters and shirts we had marked as maybes slung over your shoulder. I was struggling behind you, the weight of the bags making me sway.

 

                “Laura, slow down!” I shouted a little too loud. The eyes of other shoppers flicked over me as they quickly passed by. You turned around and laughed. You walked back to me and tore some of the bags from my hands.

 

                “Sorry about that,” you said through giggles. Your laughter was contagious, and soon I caught it. We both set the bags on the floor and you took one of the sweaters from your shoulder.

 

                “What did we say about this one?” you asked. I scrutinized the woven fabric, reached out and felt the texture.

 

                “Isn’t he allergic to wool?” I inquired.

 

                “S**t,” you muttered, and you shoved the sweater onto the nearest rack, along with three others that you had draped over your shoulder. This left you with two. You took both their hangers and held them in front of me. “Choose.”

 

                I sighed, hating to have to be the one to choose your boyfriend’s Christmas gift. But I was your best friend and I suppose that’s what best friends were for. I looked both sweaters over. One was a black pull-over hoodie with a splash of red at the center, the center of which read “Bah Humbug!” with a flurry of snowflakes surrounding the words. The second was simple. Traditional Christmas red-and-green stripes. I bit my bottom lip and shut my eyes, played eenie meanie miney mo, knowing that you, too, had your eyes closed and were switching the sweaters between your hands. After all, this was how we made all important decisions.

 

                When we both opened our eyes again, my finger was pointing to the red and green sweater. The two of us crinkled our noses and you put it on a rack while I quickly directed my pointing finger to the other sweater.

 

                “It,” I said with a grin.

 

                “Perfect!” We gathered our bags and you paid for the sweater, and then we walked out of Macy’s. “Now what?” you asked. I wrestled my cell phone out of the pocket of my jeans and checked the time.

 

                “9:15,” I announced. “Maybe we should head to the car?”

 

                “Awww, Pam,” you whined and you gave me the biggest puppy-dog eyes you could manage. You knew I’d fall for it.

 

                “Alright, alright,” I said and I looked at the stores around us. I smirked and looked at her, bumping her elbow with mine. “Apple Store?”

 

                You started laughing. We both hated Macs. We could never really figure out exactly how the damned things worked. You had always said that they were specifically programmed to work against anybody named Laura or Pam. But we always had time to go into the Apple Store and mess around with the programs on the displayed computers. We could spend hours taking pictures with Photo Booth or jamming out to Garage Band. You linked your arm with mine and, despite the bags weighing you down, you started to skip.

 

                “We’re off to see the Wizard,” you sang, and I joined you for the next line. “The wonderful Wizard of Oz!”

 

                Here are a few differences between me and you. You were tall, skinny, and well tanned. I was a little short for my age and had enough fat to muffin-top my jeans. I was pale, with boring brown eyes and dark hair that frizzed when it was even the slightest bit humid. You had bright blue eyes and straight, striking blonde hair. You were the kind of person that people seemed to gravitate towards. The whole school knew exactly who you were and you had the whole world at your fingertips. I, on the other hand, had the jazz band and some overdue homework for company whenever you were gallivanting around with your boyfriend or at yearbook meetings or social events I had only been invited to because I was your “charity case”. You had straight As and a spot in the National Honor Society. I was lucky to be pulling Bs on my report card and I sat in the library during my lunch period. The majority of the student body knew me only as “Laura’s friend” and I bet they all wondered why you stuck with me. You see, you could skip throughout this entire mall singing any ridiculous song at the top of your lungs and anybody who saw you would want to be your friend. I could do the same thing and all people would think was that some nutcase had wriggled her way out of the happy hotel.

 

                But if this was all true, why had you been the one to fall that night?

 

                We had managed to waste away about an hour in the Apple Store playing with all the effects on Photo Booth. I was surprised that you actually agreed with me when I suggested we should get going. You closed out of the programs on the sleek laptop we’d been using and we picked up all the bags. The exit closest to our car- yours  that night since we’d used mine to go to the movies last week- was just outside the Apple Store so we were able to go right outside.

 

                It looked like the perfect Christmas scene, for a parking lot at least. A blanket of snow covered everything, from the walkway to the trees. A white flurry was falling down on us as we made our way to the car. We could hear the bell of a sidewalk Santa Claus trying to get people into the good spirit of Christmas. The Christmas carols that were muffled inside the mall could be heard clear out there. The parking lot was pretty empty, which made sense because it was one of the back parking lots and a lot of people didn’t want to park there when they stores they wanted were on the other side of the mall.

 

                We got to the car and threw our shopping bags in the trunk, keeping only our purses with us, and then split to opposite sides of the car- you to the driver’s side, me to the passenger. You hadn’t unlocked the doors yet, so I stood there jingling my keys because, well, I really didn’t have anything better to do.

 

                And then I heard you scream.

 

                I didn’t know what happened, but what I did know was that in seconds I was by your side. I remember three things: the sound of a gunshot before the scream, the sound of frantic footsteps after, and the amount of blood I saw on you. It was soaking into your clothes, dripping down your skin. There was so much I couldn’t even pinpoint where your wound was. I grabbed your hand and let my fingers graze your wrist. You had a pulse.

 

                I felt a tap on my shoulder and it wasn’t until I turned around and saw I man dressed in a Santa suit who was asking me if I was ok that I realized I was crying. He took one look at you and stepped backward.

 

                “Have you called an ambulance yet?” he asked me, trying to appear calm. An ambulance? I hadn’t even thought of that. What kind of friend was I? I shook my head and started to cry harder. The man knelt next to me, pulling a cell phone from the folds of his red suit, and put his arm around me while he dialed 911. “It’s gonna be ok,” he assured me, but I couldn’t believe him.

 

                The minutes after he made his call are a blur to me now. An ambulance pulled up, police cars with it. Paramedics tended to your wounds while a police officer tried to get me to tell him what happened. I wanted to help so badly. I wanted to scream the story to the sky. He asked me question after question and each time I opened my mouth to give him an answer I realized I didn’t have one so instead of words only sobs escaped my lips. Behind the officer and I, you were on a stretcher, bandages wound tightly around your chest, and you were being loaded into the ambulance.

 

                “Wh-where are they taking her?” I asked. It was a question I should have known the answer to, but in my shock I couldn’t for the life of me remember where ambulances bring people.

 

                “They’re going to the hospital,” the officer said gently. He must have seen worry in my eyes, fear, and most importantly the need to be right next to you at all times. He placed a hand on my shoulder. “We’ll follow her there,” he promised, and he led me to his cruiser. I slipped inside and remembered a conversation I once had with you. It was one of those few times that you’d managed to coax me out of the library during lunch so that I could sit with you and your friends in the cafeteria. One of the girls at the table, one neither of us really knew well, was talking about how the police had shown up at her house the other night and arrested her older brother, who had secretly been a drug dealer. She said that the officers slapped on a pair of handcuffs and read him his rights, then pushed him into the rear seat of a cruiser and whisked him away. You had made a comment that you’d always wanted to know what it was like to be stuck in the tiny backseat of a cop car.

 

                Having the experience, I knew I could assure you that you are better off not knowing. It’s a sickening feeling. You don’t know how long the ride is going to be, and there’s bitter taste in your mouth the whole time. Your muscles are tense and there’s a knot in stomach, tying up your fear and worry and dread. Tears burn at the back of your throat, or maybe that was just an effect I felt because my eyes already hurt from how much I’d cried.

 

                When we got to the hospital you were in surgery. I wasn’t a blood relative-- despite the fact that I could waltz right into your house and plop myself down on the couch and no one would even blink an eye, or the fact that I knew you better than your entire family combined, or the fact that, when we were younger, we swore we were twins separated at birth--so no one could release any information to me. I sat in the waiting room on an uncomfortable green chair, my phone resting on the table in front of me. On the way there the officer told me I needed to call my parents. He said he’d do it for me, but I told him I couldn’t remember my own home phone number. He seemed to understand and said that a lot of people were like this after being a witness to a crime as terrible as this. I had thought about that since the moment I walked through the double doors of the hospital. Could I really be considered a witness if I hadn’t seen you get shot? Could I really be considered a friend if I hadn’t prevented it from happening?

 

                By 11:30 I didn’t have to worry about calling my parents, because they called me. My mother’s voice was frantic when I picked up. I had an 11:45 curfew, and I was so worried about missing it all the time that I would always come home and hour before I needed to be there.

 

                “Where are you?” my mother asked.

 

                “I’m at the ho-“ I couldn’t finish. The word “hospital” felt like rocks rolling over my tongue, pebbles crashing on my teeth. It was unnatural, painful, and all I could picture in my head when that God-awful crept up my throat was you, blood-stained on a stretcher, being taken away from me by a medical team.

 

                “Where are you?” my mother repeated, probably thinking that the connection had broken up when I was speaking. I took a breath and mustered up whatever scraps of courage were hidden inside me.

 

                “I’m at the hospital,” I forced out, and then a wave of tears washed over me.

 

                “Pam?” my mother said. I just kept crying. “Pamela?! What happened?!”

 

                “C-call Laura’s parents,” I stuttered. “Tell th-them to c-come.”

 

                I knew it wasn’t long between the time I abruptly ended the call with my mother and the time she, my father, and your parents appeared in the waiting room, but it felt like an eternity. As soon as I saw my mother I ran into her arms, searching for the save haven that had always been there when I was younger.

 

                “Pamela,” she whispered against my hair.

 

                “Pam, what happened?” my father asked. I glanced at him over my mother shoulder. Your mom was beside him, wringing her hands nervously. Your father was pacing back and forth across the room. To calm myself down I counted his steps. 21 steps forward, then he’d turn on his heel and travel 21 paces back to his starting place. Just like he always did when he suspected something was wrong.

 

                “We…We were walking out of the mall, t-to the car. We put the bag in the t-trunk and then sh-she went to her side of the car, and I went to m-mine. I was waiting for her to unl-lock the door. Then I heard the shot.” I lowered my head so I wouldn’t have to see the grief etched across any of their faces. I had enough of it running through my entire body for all of us.

 

                In the hours that passed your mother had gotten information for us from a doctor. You’d been shot in the chest, and the bullet bounced off your ribcage, chipping some of the bone and fracturing one of your ribs. The bullet missed your heart. The broken rib didn’t.

 

                The surgical team did everything they could for you that night, but it wasn’t enough. I remember hearing the dismal time of death being called in the operating room. 3:43. I remember it distinctly because now, that is the time that I wake up in the middle of the night with sweat pouring down my face and tears welling in my eyes and the fresh image of the shooting tattooed on my mind.

 

                I didn’t celebrate Christmas that year. I didn’t go to mass, or open gifts, or wake up especially early for my mother’s annual cinnamon bun breakfast. I didn’t sit by the fireplace with my brothers clutching a mug of hot cocoa while we watched It’s A Wonderful Life. Instead, I woke up at 3:43 in the morning and bawled like a baby. I rolled out of bed at noon and I had my mother drive me to the cemetery. Your parents had already left by the time I got there. I suppose it was too much for them to bear. I sat down at your gravesite, picturing your polished black casket six feet below me. I stared at your headstone, your name engraved on it.

 

Laura Gabrielle Fitzgerald
Beloved daughter and dear friend
March 5, 1991-December 15, 2008

 

 It was a permanent reminder that I could never again call you at midnight when I’d had a bad dream, or go to the mall with you, or laugh at some crappy movie with you. It was a reminder that we would never again cover the entire kitchen in flour when trying to figure out how to bake cookies. You wouldn’t be at graduation. You wouldn’t be there to go off to college with me. You wouldn’t be in a bar with me, enjoying my first legal drink for my 21^st birthday. It was a reminder that I wouldn’t be the maid of honor at your wedding, like we’d planned so many years ago. It was a reminder that I had to say goodbye.

Author's Note

I cried when I was writing that last paragraph. I've been sitting on this idea for a while. I have to say, despite how sad the story is, it feels really good to have actually finished a short story. I haven't done that in a while. So...Comments? Crit? Reactions?

Reviews

[MadasonBlue]

Well. I'm going to cry. Great job.
I'm inspired to write something depressing.
Yep, I'm crying.
"The bullet missed your heart. The broken rib didn't." That IS heart-wrenching.
And then, at the bottom, all the things you'll never do with your dead friend.
That's the worst, and yet the best.
Anyway, this is wonderful and at the same time awful. I give it a 10.

[Signet]

This story was sooo heart wrenching... I was imagining myself in your place and my best friend in Laura's. I cried like a baby reading the last paragraph. Its so difficult to lose a loved one!

[John McGrael]

wow, you really know how to tell a story, how to bring the reader into a certain state of mind... nad evoke any emotion you please out of them

and i know how it goes to be sitting on a short story idea for a while... i do that all the time

wonderful job with this story, i love it!!
im not gonna lie..., i teared up a little bit; although i dont like to admit it :)

[Anjel]

that was completely heart wrenching and i must say, as twisted as it sounds, i enjoyed every second of it. it made me feel and made me emotional. and i will admit....i did tear up...very well done!

[Marlena]

Comments? Great story. Crit? None, really. Reactions? I would've been bawling like a baby if my cousin and mom weren't in the room with me. Great job :)

[Winter Poison]

...Evil. D: I WAS -this- CLOSE TO CRYING D: