Revived

thirty

Mason’s on his way back from Seattle, again, but for now I’m by myself. Honestly, I feel like I have been this whole time. If James checked up on me, he did it invisibly. Guess that makes him good at his job.

I brush my teeth, think about the fact that Audrey is dead, and throw up. Then I brush my teeth again. I stare at myself in the mirror for a long while, not really seeing. I start to feel trapped in my own skin, like I need to move or I’ll go crazy. I rush out of the house, not knowing where I’m going. I walk a few blocks, then text Matt.

Daisy: Where are you?

Matt: Home.

Daisy: I’m coming over.

No answer.

Maybe I called a cab; maybe it just showed up. I don’t really remember. I give the driver the McKeans’ address and remind myself to breathe the whole way there. I look down at my lap and realize that I’m wearing a pair of Audrey’s jeans. I fold forward and sob silently for the duration of the ride. Lucky for him, the taxi driver doesn’t look at me or ask whether I’m all right.

The Mini sits in front of the McKeans’ house, smiling and waiting to beep beep around town with Audrey at the wheel. I want to kick the car or drag my key through the paint: It’s too happy.

Matt answers my knock but says nothing. He opens the door wider so I can come in, and I do, even though I’m pretty sure he doesn’t really want me to. I follow him to his bedroom, not caring who’s home or who minds.

“I don’t know why you’re here,” he says when we both sit down on his rumpled bed. This is the first time I’ve ever been in his room.

“I didn’t want to be alone,” I say honestly. I have no filter anymore. “And I wanted to know what happened. Did you do it?”

“Yes.” He’s looking across the room with flat, emotionless eyes.

“And?”

“And nothing,” he says. “I injected it into her IV less than five minutes after they called time of death.”

“And?” I ask again, as gently as I can. Matt’s head snaps in my direction so quickly that it makes me jump.

“And what, Daisy?” he hisses. “What the hell do you think? Does it look like Audrey’s sitting next to me right now?”

His hand is gripping the bedspread like he’s afraid he’ll fall off.

“I’m sorry I came,” I say, standing. “And I’m sorry it didn’t work.”

“I’m sure you are,” Matt mutters. My blood boils and all I want to do is scream at him. Tell him that I loved his sister, that I love him. Shake him and say maybe he did it wrong. Wrap my arms around him and lie on his bed and cry with him.

Instead, I leave.

An hour later, Matt’s on my doorstep. He’s sweaty and I wonder if it’s possible that he ran all the way here. I let him in and we go upstairs to my room. It’s exactly the same as when I went to his house, but in reverse.

Except it isn’t.

We don’t say a word to each other. I walk into my room first and he follows; halfway across the floor, he catches my hand and spins me around. He grabs my face in his hands and kisses me, unsure for a moment, then hard, aggressive, but nothing I don’t want him to do. I feel like I’m drawing out his pain like venom from a rattlesnake bite and, for a few minutes, it makes me forget my own misery.

We fall onto my bed and hold each other so tightly that our hands can’t really move to explore body parts or anything. Besides, this isn’t about moving through the bases. This is so much more than that.

Clothes are somehow undone, and we’re so close to…

Matt abruptly pushes back and stands. His jeans are unbuttoned and his T-shirt is rumpled and stretched out. His hair is wild, covering his left eye completely. I can only see the tears welling up in his right.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he says with a voice so pained it burns me. “I don’t know whether to hold you or hate you.”

I’m stunned into silence. Matt turns toward the door. “I have to go.”

And he leaves like that, disheveled, but I don’t say anything. He might run into Mason on the way out—who knows when he’ll be back—or scare mothers pushing babies on the street. But I don’t care what Matt looks like right now, and I know he doesn’t, either. Because when someone dies—dies for real—things like how you look don’t matter anymore.

In fact, what no one ever told me is that nothing does.

thirty-one

I stare at the ceiling of my bedroom, thinking or not thinking, floating or just lying there. I might have been at Matt’s three days or three hours ago: Time passes in odd increments. The lamp on my nightstand buzzes so loudly I want to smash it but I’m numb all over. My arms are glued to the bed. I look at my phone and register the time; the instant I look away, it’s gone from my memory.

Mason’s back.

Cassie’s back.

Someone brings me food that I don’t eat. Instead, I examine it like a fossil, drawing conclusions from the plate’s contents. The dish contains breakfast: It must be morning. There are blueberry pancakes: Mason’s concerned. There’s a vitamin on the tray: He’s really concerned.

The second I start to feel amused by my archaeological approach, I remember that Audrey is dead. I’m sitting here counting the number of grapes on my plate like tree rings and Audrey will never eat breakfast again.

Suddenly blueberry pancakes are an insult.

I shove the tray to the end of my bed. I roll onto my side and clutch my torso and curl into the fetal position because it’s too much. She’s not going to pick me up for school. I’m not going to meet her for lunch. She’s not going to tease me about liking her brother or about my taste in music, or lend me clothes or talk about Bear or Jake or anyone else.

She’s dead.

My phone rings; it’s Megan’s tone. I don’t answer it. I don’t even look at it. Anger rolls through me: I shouldn’t have been in Seattle when Audrey was dying. I should have known something was up. I should have stayed.

My chest caves in; my heart is crushed. I try to psychically ask Matt to come over and lie next to me. But not to kiss me or anything. Just to lie here. I imagine him staring into my eyes like in Kansas City, but all I can see are his tears for his dead sister.

I cover my head with my pillow, but the thoughts are still there.

I wonder if they’ll ever go away.

I stay in bed until nighttime, then wander the house in the dark. For hours, I stare out the living room window at the desolate street, hoping to see Audrey’s ghost there, waving at me. I retreat into my sour, stale room before anyone wakes up in the morning. I listen to showers running. To breakfast being made. My phone buzzes so many times that I turn it off. Mason brings more food; the hunger strike continues.