Page 273 of Mad Girl

“No,” I said.

“Yes. You pushed me to talk about things. You convinced me to keep going to therapy. You made me want to change—to be better, to move on from my past—and because of that, I’ve been able to make it through this. All that time, I was meant to be the one looking after you, but you were also looking after me. You were holding me up, so that when everything fell apart around me, I wouldn’t fall, too.”

I couldn’t respond. The words wouldn’t come. I could only close my eyes and focus on breathing. On swallowing back the tears. On not breaking down at that table.

“And you know what else? You held them up, too. You made them whole. You won’t let me tell you how they’re doing, but I will tell you this. They miss you. Your absence has created a hole in their lives. I’ve caught them sitting in your bedroom. I’ve caught them staring at your photos on the bookcase in the Garland Room—in John’s study, too—and they ask after you all the time. They’re greedy for information. Just last week, Eleanor said, ‘You know what I miss most about my granddaughter? She never misses an opportunity to call someone out when they’re being a jackass.’”

“Eleanor would never say that,” I said, head shaking furiously. “Eleanor doesn’t swear.”

“She did on this day. And she was looking right at your dad when she said it. She isn’t very happy with him.”

I shrugged. “I became his worst fear. Can she blame him? Can anyone? He tried so hard…”

I couldn’t finish, couldn’t look at you, staring instead at the white cinderblock wall behind your shoulder, trying not to cry. I’m so sick of crying over my dad.

“Elliot, look at me,” you said.

I did—and the tears came, anyway.

“You did a bad thing,” you said softly, leaning even farther over the table. “You’ve done many bad things. But you are not bad. You are so much more than the bad choices you’ve made. Accidentally killing someone does not make you a bad person, nor does it give your dad an excuse not to visit you in here. You deserve so much more from him.”

At this, my face collapsed.

“I need you to be okay, too, you know,” you said, letting your fingers inch across the table. “I need to know you’ll be alright in here. I need you to hang on…for just a few more months.”

“And then what?” I whispered.

“I’ll be here,” you promised.

Your fingers brushed mine, but just barely. You hesitated, waiting for the guard to bark No touching! and dare you to try. But she didn’t. At that very moment, Vera happened to be looking in the opposite direction.

Quickly, your fingers clasped mine. “I’ll help you transition back.”

“Back to what?”

“We’ll figure it out, okay?” you said, squeezing my hand. That brief contact of your skin against mine felt like home, Casey. Like you, gently tugging me back. “We’ll figure it out together.”

Hearing you say so would be such a great relief…if not for the little voice in my head reminding me that, when I get out of here, I’m supposed to give you these letters.

What happens if you can’t handle the truth? What happens if I give you everything, and you want nothing to do with me?

Obviously, my dad didn’t send me away, and I was determined not to make him regret it. Determined to prove Libby wrong.

I could be what my dad wanted me to be. I could be what no one thought I was capable of being. Not perfect. Never perfect.

But good enough to stay.

I went back to therapy. I texted a lengthy apology to Bree, who never texted me back. I wrote letters to Libby and John, asking them to forgive my outburst at brunch and apologizing—more sincerely this time—for defacing Libby’s signs.

A few hours after I’d dropped those letters through their mail slot, my phone pinged with a text from John: I received your letter, and while I forgive you, I’m having a hard time believing you actually intend to do better. I challenge you to make me believe it. The Elliot we celebrated on your birthday this past summer? That’s the Elliot our family needs. We love you no matter what, but we also need you to make better choices going forward. By the way, that goes for me, your dad, and Libby, too. There shouldn’t be secrets or lies in any family, and I’m sorry you were hurt by ours.

I cried when I read John’s text, cried even harder when he followed that text with another: Also, I’m sorry you had to hear your dad say those hurtful things about you. He loves you exactly as you are—I know he was telling the truth when he said that, because I know your dad. You’re the love of his life.

I never received a response from Libby. I tried telling myself her new responsibilities as mayor kept her from responding, but deep down I knew she’d finally had enough.

But you know what?

Deep down, I still thought she was a bitch.