Will Byers is dead.
Will. He's gone.
Jonathan's brother.
Joyce's son.
Dustin, Lucas and Mike have lost a friend.
These thoughts run through my mind over and over as I get Eleven to the Wheeler's, and then take Dustin and Lucas home on autopilot, somehow managing to avoid the impending breakdown I can feel coming through sheer force of will, alone. Lucas just keeps biking when we get to his driveway, eager to get inside, not that I can blame him, and Dustin?
Dustin seems to waver for a moment after his bike drops to the ground at his feet, watching me for a moment in silence before hurling himself against my torso and flinging his arms around my waist.
"Hey—I've got you, okay?"
All I can sense in response to the attempt at providing reassurance is a faint nod, and the hold Dustin has around my waist tightening before he is pulling away, peering up at me with nothing less than concern as one hand wipes at his nose while he speaks.
"You'll—you're gonna make sure Mike is—"
"I'll call the Wheelers as soon as I get home. I promise."
"Thanks, Cami."
This time, I am the one who can only manage a faint nod, emotion clogging my throat as I release Dustin completely and watch him trudge to his front door. And I catch myself doing something I haven't exactly had the desire to do in a very long time. Praying. Praying that Lucas, Dustin and Mike can make it through this. Praying Mike will forgive Eleven, because there is absolutely no way she could have seen any of this coming. None of us could have.
I'm not exactly sure when responsibility for these kids became something I even wanted, but now that I am absolutely sure that I have it, I need to know they're safe.
As soon as Dustin is safely inside with the door shut behind him, I turn back to my bike, my feet feeling as though they are slogging through something far thicker than the open air that meets them in reality. A part of me wants to forgo the idea of going back home, in favor of heading to Jonathan's instead but I know I am nowhere near ready to face my best friend right now. Not when I am teetering on the edge of falling apart. I can't do that to him. I can't make it so that I am the one being taken care of, and not him.
I need to get whatever this is out of my system first. I need to get rid of it so that I can be whatever he needs.
Home it is, then…
Clambering onto my bike, I turn to head in that direction, but I cannot seem to keep my mind from drifting along the way. No matter how I want to avoid it, I'm no longer in the present, the weight of Will's death hanging over my mind.
Instead, I can hear the shrill beeping of machines in a hospital room, my fingers tightening their hold on the handlebars of my bike as tears start to burn at the corners of my eyes.
…
I'm far more pleased than I probably should be, the cookie I'd managed to slip from the hospital cafeteria when my grandfather wasn't looking securely wrapped in a napkin and currently residing in my sweatshirt pocket. I'd gone with Grandpa to grab a bite to eat while Mom and Dad stayed behind to talk to the doctors that are taking care of Sara. And because my younger sister has done nothing but pout about never getting dessert when they bring her her own meal trays, I decided to take it upon myself to remedy the discrepancy as best I can.
The trick will be getting it to her, without Mom or Dad noticing as well.
My hand drifts into the pocket to brush against the edge of the napkin and I catch myself suppressing a smile as Grandpa's hand comes to rest against my shoulder to guide me out of the elevator and toward the pediatric oncology wing not long after. Honestly, I could probably have found my way to Sara's room blindfolded by now, but I don't bother telling Grandpa that.
He seems to think I'm too much like my dad. Too quick to offer sarcastic comments or other quips he doesn't approve of in the least.
Mom always gives me a vaguely disappointed look when Grandpa mentions this, but to me it always seems like my dad is trying to bite back a smile.
It's occurred to me, especially with Grandpa being around more now that Sara's sick, that it doesn't always seem like he and my dad get along. And I'd asked my father about it once, not long after he first arrived, but never really got an answer that made any sense.
"Always been that way between us, kiddo. Nothing to worry about."
I did worry, though. I worried because I've heard them arguing when we're all at home, and they all think I'm asleep.
Apparently Grandpa doesn't think I should be at the hospital all the time, but at least in this case, I'm glad my dad won't listen to him. Sara is my sister. My best friend, even with the age difference between us. And there isn't any other place that I would rather be.
Grandpa's hand tightens on my shoulder as we get closer to Sara's room, though, and at first I don't entirely understand why. I can see Mom and Dad standing near the door, not far from the edge of my sister's bed. A shrill whine is coming from the room, along with my mother's muffled sobs, and that's when it hits me.
My mom turns to bury her face in my dad's chest not long after, never once noticing my stricken appearance in the hall before I summon the wherewithal to wrench myself free of Grandpa's tight grip on my shoulder to bolt into the room myself.
The shrill whining is only getting louder, and I realize it appears to be coming from one of the machines just above Sara's bed…
"Sara!"
"Sir, she can't be here—"
"Come on, Camille. Why don't we go back down to the—"
"NO! That's my—Sara! Bring her back!"
"Camille, she isn't coming back."
Grandpa's arm has come to snake around my waist just as I manage to make a grab for my sister's hand, and this time, I cannot get away, my ears ringing as a strange wailing sound seems to come from everywhere, and nowhere at once. The room is blurring, somewhat, and I'm suddenly not exactly sure I'm breathing because my lungs feel as though they are on fire.
I can't even be entirely certain I'm even putting forth much of an effort to get free anymore, but the one thing I do realize is that someone else is taking me out of my grandfather's arms. Someone far more familiar.
"I've got you, Cami. I've got you."
Dad…
"I said it, didn't I? She shouldn't be seein' this," Grandpa says, his voice low—curiously even, regardless of how, at least from where I'm standing, the world may as well be coming to an end, "Let me take her—"
"Why don't you just leave."
"Jim—"
"Leave, Dad. I think we can take it from here."
I don't get a chance to hear my grandfather's reply, since I am clinging to my father with all I have, my face buried in his chest as I finally realize that the strange wailing sound I heard earlier is actually coming directly from me. My dad's arms tighten around me, and I start to wonder where Mom went, until I hear the sound of soft sobbing coming from somewhere closer to Sara's bed.
Sara.
She's gone.
My best friend. My little sister, dead.
I'm never going to get to hear her laugh, or see her smile again.
The wailing sound only grows louder in response to that thought, and I am dimly aware of my father's lips pressing against my hair. Of how his shoulders shake because suddenly, he is crying, too. It almost feels like he is trying to hold me together, or maybe he is only clutching me so tightly to him because he needs that particular favor for himself.
I can't seem to stop myself from shaking against him, though. I can't put a damper on the grief that really does feel like it can split me in two.
Somewhere in the midst of all of this, my throat starts to burn with a fire similar to the one in my lungs, but it's not like I can stop it…
My little sister is gone forever, and I know, even then, that a part of me has just died right there with her.
…
The blaring honk of a car horn whizzing by drags me out of the past, and nearly sends me careening into the ditch near the road as I struggle to get out of the way, my heart hammering along against my ribs as I try to regain some manner of equilibrium as best I can. Once again, my fingers are gripping the handlebars so tightly the skin over my knuckles has gone white. And then I see it. In spite of my distraction, somehow, I have still managed to make it home, the familiar mailbox at the end of the drive filling me with something not all that far from an equal mix of relief and dread.
Relief because I am home. I no longer have to try to keep myself together, when all that I've wanted to do since seeing Will's body coming out of the water is fall apart.
And dread because aside from the porch light, the rest of the trailer is still completely dark.
Coming to a stop not far from the edge of the trailer, I abandon my bike without ever really seeing where it lands, my breath coming in shorter and shorter gasps as I lean down to rest my hands upon my knees. The feeling is back. The one from the hospital, when Sara died. Flames are licking at the inside of my chest, threatening to grow into an inferno that will tear me in two.
My eyes squeeze shut of their own accord, one of my arms curling around my stomach in a vain attempt to keep myself from flying apart at the seams, and I can't breathe. I can't see. I can't think.
All I can do is feel, and I want it to be over. I want it to be over so badly that it hurts.
I'm not exactly sure how long I remain in the driveway, but in the time between my initial arrival and the present, I have somehow managed to collapse to my knees, tear tracks staining my cheeks, along with the mascara that now burns at my eyes. The fingers of one hand dig into the fabric of my shirt while those on the opposite hand seem to have taken up the act of clawing at the gravel beneath me, instead.
Gravel that digs into my knees, even through my jeans, and yet still I cannot persuade myself to move. Not even an inch.
Even when the sound of tires on that gravel slowly makes its way into my apparently self-inflicted bubble of oblivion, I still remain exactly where I am, my breathing somewhat easier now, though not altogether free of the occasional tremulous gasp.
"Cami? Jesus, you okay?"
I flinch at the sound of my dad's voice. At the sound of heavy footfalls coming across the gravel so that he can crouch beside me, his larger frame partially obscuring the beam from the headlights of his truck. I flinch again when he places a hand on my shoulder, but somehow, I manage to turn just a bit to look him in the eye.
In seconds, I can tell that he knows. He knows that I know about Will, even if he doesn't know how.
And with just one look at my face, his own expression changes. Concern is still there, of course, but beneath it, there is something else, entirely.
He is seeing my tear-and-mascara stained cheeks—my red rimmed eyes, and shallow breathing—and just like me, he is going back to that dark place in our lives that we are both still trying to outrun.
I'm forcing him back to that place, and as much as I hate myself for it, the idea of no longer having to stay there alone makes it somewhat easier to breathe.
"C'mere, kid."
The words surprise me with their ability to unfreeze my bones and muscles, and before I can fully reconcile it, I am clambering into my dad's embrace, clinging to his jacket while whatever resolve I had that kept me from losing it entirely simply…
Breaks.
Once again, I'm just a scared little girl, clinging to her dad, hoping he can put the world back together again. But unlike when I was just twelve years old, and Sara was gone, this time, I think my dad and I both know that the world—or at the very least, our world—is more than likely broken beyond repair.
…
"I assume you're not planning on going to school today."
"What?"
"School. I'm guessing if I take you in, you'll just find some other way of ditching to get to Jonathan, instead," My dad elaborates, his presence in the kitchen still not entirely making any sense to me as I shuffle farther into the room, still clad in nothing but my pajamas, my hair a mess despite getting little to no sleep to speak of at all.
"I need to—Dad, I need to be there for him."
"Yeah, kid. I know."
"Do you?" I inquire, eyes narrowing as I pause halfway to the refrigerator to favor my father with a look that has to be at least a little skeptical, every instinct I possess trying to convince me that this is a trap, even though just one look at my dad's expression tries to tell me otherwise, "Because you weren't exactly happy when you found me at his house the other day."
"Yeah, I think today has some—extenuating circumstances—attached to it."
"Wow. That's a big set of words, Dad."
"Camille—" My father warns, clearly not amused, though I force myself to send him what is probably a comically ridiculous look of feigned innocence, regardless, "I'm actually being serious right now."
"You're going to just—let me skip school."
"Better than having you wandering to the Byers' on your own. At least this way I know where you are."
It probably surprises my father as much as it surprises me that I don't have anything already waiting in the wings as far as responses go, but in an effort to distract myself from the strange look he is giving me, I force myself to turn back to the refrigerator to grab a container of yogurt, my fingers curling around the small container as though my life depends on keeping it within my grasp. It's ridiculous. I am being ridiculous.
I'm being offered a chance to actually do what instinct all but screams that I should be doing, and yet here I am, second-guessing it instead of just going with the flow.
"Think I'm gonna need something in return though, if I let you do this," My dad says, the words causing me to stiffen, the container of yogurt placed upon the countertop before me so that both hands can grip the edge. This is what I had been worried about. A bargain. But even as much as a part of me wants to remain stubbornly silent, a larger part knows that if I do, going to Jonathan's will be entirely out of the question.
"What's the something, then?"
"How'd you come home knowing about Will before I could say a word?"
There it is. The question I don't know how to answer. I'm not even sure my father will believe me if I do opt for nothing but the truth, since it isn't exactly like I go hanging around with middle school kids on a regular basis. But more than that, I find that I am suddenly caught between that rock and hard place everyone is always talking about, knowing that if I do tell my dad everything—even what I know about Eleven—he might be able to help, while also knowing that I will be betraying the already fragile trust of at least Mike and Lucas as a result.
Again, I wonder why I care so much about the boys and their reactions to the potential betrayal, but I force myself to shove those thoughts to the side as best I can, aware that the lingering silence in the kitchen can only mean one thing.
An answer will need to be forthcoming, or I can kiss any hope of missing school goodbye.
"I was—with the kids."
"The kids."
"Yeah. Mike and—Lucas and Dustin," I sigh, watching my father carefully for any sign of a reaction, and fighting the urge to squirm as soon as I note the almost predictable narrowing of his eyes, "They—they needed a distraction from everything with Will, so I—"
"You willingly spent your day with middle schoolers?"
"Um—yes?"
"Since when are you a babysitter, Camille?" My dad questions, moving to stand just a bit closer to me, as though that will give him a better chance of trying to detect a lie, "The only kid you willingly watch over like that is—"
"Will. I know."
"Jonathan wasn't with you."
"I know that, Dad. I was there, remember?" I retort, knowing the remark will hardly win me any favors, even though that knowledge is obviously not entirely enough to persuade me to remain silent.
"So what were you and the—kids—doing?"
"Just biking around."
I force myself to hold my father's gaze no matter how much I do not want to, and I can see the comprehension dawning in his expression with far more clarity than I truly wished to witness. I've wound up by the quarry enough on my own solo-biking trips to know that he wouldn't have an issue with it, at least not on principle.
What I'm not sure of, though, is whether he'll regret the idea of his daughter seeing yet another dead body, or if he'll find fault with how I inadvertently allowed three younger kids to see the same.
"So you saw."
I can only manage a shaky nod before I am ducking my head, not needing to look my dad in the eye to predict the disappointment that will be so readily apparent in his gaze. The air in our tiny kitchen seems to have grown heavier, or maybe that is all just a figment of my imagination…
"Jesus, Camille."
"Look, I'm sorry, alright? I screwed up!" I exclaim, hating the way that my voice seems to crack around the words, my body turning away from my father on instinct as I realize my eyes are, once again, stinging with the presence of unshed tears. I have to wonder if the reality of my mistake will change his mind about letting me see Jonathan today, and a part of me almost feels like I would deserve that outcome.
Because I didn't put my foot down and tell them no, three twelve year old boys witnessed the unthinkable, last night…
They were the same age as I was, when Sara died.
God.
"Hey—hey, look at me. Cami—" My father's words reach me through the renewed ringing in my ears, forcing me to turn to face him, whether I truly wish to do such a thing or not. Before I can fully reconcile it, I feel his hands coming to rest on my shoulders, and realize that my breath has, once again, started to come in short, ragged gasps.
"Breathe, Camille. You're okay. Just breathe."
"I just—just let me take a shower, okay? And then you can—take me to school," I stammer, somehow managing to wriggle free of the hold on my shoulders, and making it about half of the way back toward the hall that will lead to my bedroom before my father's voice stops me in my tracks.
"What makes you think I'm taking you to school, kid?"
"I'm in trouble, right? For letting the boys see—that."
"No. You're not in trouble," My dad replies, seeming to sense that if he moves any closer I will take it as a reason to bolt, and thus remaining in the spot I had left him in as a result, "None of this is your fault, do you understand?"
"Dad—"
"Do. You. Understand?"
"Yeah. Yeah, sure, Dad. I understand."
"Then go get cleaned up. I'll drop you at Jonathan's on the way in to the station, 'kay?"
Stunned, to say the least, I force myself to nod again, my feet carrying me toward my bedroom while my mind seems determined to linger back in the kitchen with my dad. I still don't entirely trust that I won't wind up hopping in the truck, and find myself back at the high school not long after. But I go through the motions of getting ready anyway, hoping beyond hope that, just this once, I can trust my dad to know what I need without having to put up a fight.
It's been so long since I felt like he could do that. So long since I felt like he was in the present enough to care.
I may never admit to such a thing out loud, but I need him to be that dad, right now. The guy he was before Sara died.
And something is starting to convince me that he might just need me, too.
…
Hello, darlings! And welcome to another new chapter in Cami's tale! I'm sure you might be wondering what I'm doing, creating a Steve/OC story, and yet having Cami be entirely separate from him for the most part, thus far. I promise they will end up getting more time together in the near future! (There really is a method to my madness, I swear!) But in the meantime, I hope Cami's interactions with the kids are enjoyable, too? I can't help but see her ending up reluctantly attached to them, and because of losing Sara, fiercely protective of them as well. So hopefully that decision meets with your approval!
As always, I am so, so very grateful for all of you that have taken the time to read, follow, favorite and review this story so far! Special thanks to Crystal-Wolf-Guardian-967 for the review on the last chapter, as well! I truly do appreciate the support, and I hope you continue to enjoy where the story goes from here!
Until next time, loves…
MOMM
