Revived

“You need to get up,” Mason says. He walks across the room and throws open the curtains. He opens the window and the fresh outside air stings my nostrils.

“No,” I mutter.

“You’ll feel better after a shower,” he says.

I laugh bitterly. As if a shower could wash away the pain of losing Audrey. “Not likely.”

“Your choice,” Mason says, moving to the door again. “We’re leaving for her funeral in an hour.”

Of course, I get up.

I stand on shaky legs like a newborn fawn and hobble across the room. I can feel the lack of fuel in my body, but the thought of food makes me want to hurl. I grab clean underwear from the dresser then check my phone, which is charging on the desk. There are several missed calls from Megan; there’s a text waiting from Matt:

Matt: I’m sorry.

Just two words, and yet, they are monumental.

They give me enough kick to move.

I shower and dry my hair, then pin back my curls in the front. I stare at my blue eyes in the mirror for a long time, searching for recognition. My face doesn’t look the same anymore.

I go back into my room and pull on a black skirt of Audrey’s.

It might seem weird to wear a dead girl’s clothes to her funeral, but to me, it feels okay. She was free with her stuff, and half the clothes in my closet are probably hers. And besides that, there’s the note.

Mr. McKean brought it over the night she died. It seemed an odd delivery at the time—why not stay with your family?—but then I realized he probably needed to keep busy so he wouldn’t be forced to sit and think about Audrey. He’s like one of those sharks that will die if they stop moving. So he brought over the note.

I pick it up off the nightstand and run my fingers over Audrey’s straight-up-and-down cursive. It looks so much like her to me. I reread the first half of the letter.

Daisy—

Promise you’ll do two things for me.

The first is easy: Take my clothes. ALL OF THEM. Even if you throw them away, get them out of our house (but I have pretty good taste—haha!—so you should just keep them).

You’ve seen those people who can’t let go. They sob over old T-shirts that aren’t worth anything. My mom is a pack rat; she’ll obsess. My ugliest pajamas will break her heart. Take them, Daisy. Do it for me (and for your wardrobe ).

There is a knock at the bedroom door.

“Almost ready?” Cassie says quietly. Her tone is less robotic, more like how she acts when we’re in public.

“Yes,” I answer. I fold the letter and put it in my pocket, slip on some flats, and open the door.

“You look nice,” Cassie says.

I don’t care.

For a girl who, according to her brother, didn’t have many friends, Audrey’s funeral service is packed. I can’t help but wonder whether school let out early for attending kids. Then I imagine Audrey’s ghost reading my mind and immediately feel like crap for thinking that.

I inhale a breath of musty old church air. It’s a good turnout, I mentally say to Audrey, as if she can hear me. Everyone loved you.

I’ve never been to a funeral, so I have no basis for saying that this one seems typical. I don’t cry, because when dozens of Audrey’s classmates stand and talk about her, they cry enough for all of us. They sob. They weep. Dramatically, they proclaim to the sky that they will miss their best friend. Meanwhile, I think back to Audrey’s room. I think of the faces in the pictures on her desk. I recognize very few faces here.

Again I feel awful for thinking such thoughts.

After the service, we caravan to a nearby cemetery. The day is bright, like Audrey’s personality. The vibrant orange and red fall trees and the towering monuments look earthy and polished at the same time, just like my friend was. Everyone gathers around her grave; I try to listen and feel something without passing out from the lack of food. It’s only a warm day, not too hot, but I’m sweating just the same, wishing that Audrey were here to make a joke about me forgetting to wear deodorant.

The crowd disperses following the burial, and very quickly the only people left are the preacher, the McKeans, and us. Matt stands apart from his parents, staring at his sister’s grave. Mason and Cassie wait for Mr. and Mrs. McKean to thank the preacher, and then they offer their condolences. I watch Mason put his hand on Cassie’s back like a loving husband and want to scream for him to stop pretending. Because this is real.

I look at Matt and imagine that I can see a halo of pain radiating from him. Despite everything, I know I love him.

Without thinking about it, I walk over, stand beside him, and grab his hand.

My eyes stay on Audrey’s casket. I don’t look to see for sure, but I assume Matt’s do, too. He doesn’t pull away; he holds tight and doesn’t let go. What we both need is each other.

We stand like that, staring, forever. With her brother next to me, without the crying fakers pretending to be her friends, I let myself really feel the loss. I feel it in every part of me: in my hair and in my toes. I feel it like something is rotting deep down in my core, releasing bitterness and anger and pure sadness into my veins.

Standing here, holding Matt’s hand, I want to say so many things to him. I want to tell him that I’m so sorry. I want to say that I feel horrible that Revive didn’t work. I want to say that I love him and that I want to take all of his pain away.

But I can’t. I can’t speak. And I can’t take Matt’s pain, because I have too much of my own, and I have no place to put his.

As if it’s mimicking my emotions, the afternoon sky clouds over. It smells like rain is on the way. I break from my trance and look to the clouds.

Are you up there? I think to Audrey. Nothing happens.

Because she’s dead.

Dead.

I think of what that really means.

It is not like being gone—like my real parents or the nuns or people in the cities we had to leave—because gone implies that you can come back if you really want to. Contrary to what I may have been taught, there’s no coming back from death. Not really. Someday, I’ll die for good. And then I’ll be like Audrey.

Not gone.

Dead.

I shudder at the thought, and Matt squeezes my hand tighter.

I look back to earth and the gravesite. Only then do I realize that Matt and I are alone. I look at him.

His eyes are on me.

“Hi,” he says, as if he’s seeing me for the first time. He looks down at our clasped hands and smiles, and then moves his gaze back to my eyes.

“Hi,” I say back to the boy I never want to leave.

“I’m really sorry,” Matt says.

“Me, too.”

Eventually, we leave the cemetery. We drive in heavy silence to Matt’s house. Cars are parked everywhere: in the driveway and out front, across the street and around the corner. Matt eases into a small space down the street and as we approach on foot, I try not to look at Audrey’s happy car.

Inside, there are piles of food on every available surface, and every room is crowded with people wearing black and navy blue, talking in hushed, respectful tones as if they’re afraid they’re going to wake the dead. I feel like I have cotton in my ears: When people talk to me, I have to ask them to repeat themselves.