Revived

Revived Page 41

“Tell whoever it is to go away.”

“You’ll have to do that yourself,” Mason says. I hear him leave the room. Someone else comes in. Whoever it is sits on the end of my bed but doesn’t say anything. I don’t move the pillow: I breathe into it and wait. The moisture of my breath, trapped between me and the fabric, makes me feel like I’m in a sauna, but I don’t move. And still, silence. Eventually, I start to get perturbed. Why come into my room and just sit there? Frustrated, I toss aside the pillow. And then I see someone I never thought I’d see again.

“Sydney?”

“Hi, sweetie,” she says in the voice that always made everything better. “I hear you’re having a tough time.”

The acknowledgment of my pain brings it all out again; I begin to sob. Sydney moves closer—right next to me—and wraps her arms around me. She’s wearing a gray sweater that I’m pretty sure I ruin with snot, but she doesn’t seem to mind. We sit there like that, her smoothing my ratty hair and me crying on her shoulder, until I don’t have any tears left.

After that, we talk for hours. I tell her all about Audrey—every minute I remember. I tell her a lot, but not everything, about Matt. I share that I feel guilty for being with Megan when Audrey was dying. That I think there’s something going on with the program that’s stressing Mason out. That there’s even more that I don’t want to talk about right now.

“You’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders,” Sydney says. “I can see why you needed some time to yourself.”

“I wish Mason was as understanding as you are,” I say.

“Oh, Daisy, you need to give him a little credit,” she says. “He may not have known what to do, but he knew enough to call someone who might. And I think he’s more in tune with what you’re going through than you might think.”

“Maybe…” I say, not really believing it. Mason’s a science guy, not a feelings guy. “I just don’t know what to do now. I don’t know how to be without Audrey. What should I do?”

“Daisy, I wish I could fix everything for you,” Sydney says. “I’m so sorry to see you hurting. But the hard truth is that the only thing that can mend a broken heart is time.”

I’m quiet, frowning because she sounds like a condolence card. I tell her as much.

“Well, it’s good advice,” she says. “That’s why it’s on so many cards.”

I half smile at her; she takes my hand.

“There are little things you can do,” she says.

“Like what?” I ask, craving a prescription that will cure my heartbreak.

“Well, like first thing in the morning, when you wake up and remember that Audrey’s gone, instead of dwelling on what she won’t get the chance to do, think of something really great that she did do. Honor her a little, and then move on.”

“Easier said than done,” I say. “What else?”

Sydney shrugs. “Take a shower. Go to school. Pay attention. Do the things you used to like to do; eventually, they’ll get fun again. Call Megan and talk to her about your feelings. When he’s ready, try to reconnect with Matt.”

I’m quiet, so she continues.

“Unfortunately, there’s no formula for making the pain of death go away sooner. No matter what, you’re going to carry this with you for the rest of your life. But how you carry it is up to you. You can choose to dwell on the sadness of losing Audrey, or you can choose to celebrate the time you had with her.”

“You sound like her,” I say.

“She must have been a smart girl,” Sydney jokes.

For the first time in days, a small laugh comes out of me.

“Are you going to get in trouble for coming here?” I ask.

“What God doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Sydney says. “And besides, my best girl needed me. You may not know it, but I’m always here for you, Daisy.”

Sydney leaves after dinner, and it’s like she takes some of my angst with her. By talking openly about Audrey, I feel like I’ve released a lead balloon. I’m a little bit lighter. A little bit better.

I go to bed at nine and sleep like a baby. When I wake up in the morning, the memory of Audrey’s funeral slams into my brain. I push it aside, choosing to think instead about the time she thought she saw Jake Gyllenhaal outside Starbucks downtown. Sad and happy tears stream down my face as I laugh out loud about her reaction: She really thought it was him.

“You’re totally Gyll-obsessed,” I say aloud to Audrey, wherever she is.

And then, I go take a shower.

I walk to school, hoping that the fresh air and vitamin D will help perk me up even more. On the way, I dial Megan’s number.

“I’m sorry for not calling you,” I say.

“Don’t apologize to me,” she says. “Your best friend just died. I’m impressed that you’re even functioning.”

“I wasn’t there for a few days,” I say.

“I know,” Megan says quietly. “Mason called my mom for advice.”

“Sometimes I think they love each other,” I say, smiling.

“Same.”

“It’s a good thing we love each other, too,” I say. “Just in case they ever own it and get married or something.”

“We’re already sisters, anyway,” Megan says.

We’re quiet for a few seconds.

“Hey, Megs?”

“What’s up?”

“I feel… guilty,” I say.

Megan is quiet, encouraging me to go on.

“I feel like I’ve been given so many chances, and Audrey didn’t even get one,” I say. “I feel horrible about it.”

“You have survivor’s guilt,” Megan says softly. “It’s normal.”

“Yeah, but it’s more than that,” I say. “I feel like I should have done more for her. I feel guilty for being in Seattle when Audrey was going downhill. I feel like I abandoned her or something. I actually feel bad for being with you.”

Megan is silent for so long I think the phone might have lost service.

“I can see how you might feel that way,” she says finally.

“You do?” I ask.

“Of course,” she says. “But stop worrying about things like that. You didn’t give Audrey cancer, and you couldn’t make it go away, either. Audrey knew you loved her, and you guys were good. There’s no way you could have predicted when it would happen. It’s not your fault.”

When Megan says those last four words, my heart implodes. Not until this moment have I realized that I’ve been blaming myself. I mean, sure, Audrey had cancer, which was totally out of my control. But in a way, I thought—I hoped—that my friendship was helping her to stay strong.

“You’re right,” I say quietly. “It’s not my fault.”

“I’ll tell you what is your fault, though,” Megan says, a little tinge of teasing in her voice.

“Oh, really?” I say, okay with thinking about something besides death for a while.

“It’s totally your fault that our blog is lopsided right now because of a serious lack of coverage out of Middle America.”