Revived

“Nothing,” I say. “I just love this song.”



We pull into a public lot and Matt kills the engine.



“It’s good that you brought a sweater,” he says. “It might get breezy where we’re going.”



“I came prepared,” I say.



“Let’s go,” Matt says.



Without thinking too much about it, I join hands with Matt as we set off through the lot, and then across a wide street. There are trees, a path, and water.



“What’s that?” I ask, pointing.



“The Missouri River,” Matt says. “We’re going across.”



Deciding to let go of my worries for the time being, I smile as we head toward a walking bridge that spans the river. Even at night, I can see clearly the massive pillars jutting out of the water and high into the sky, with webs of cables stretching down from their tops to support the river walk’s weight. From the bridge, I can see both the twinkling lights of downtown Omaha and the bright stars above. It’s beautiful.



“Pretty cool, right?” Matt asks.



“Yes!” I say enthusiastically. “Thanks for bringing me here. I’ve never done anything like this.”



“Really?” Matt asks. “There aren’t any rivers where you lived before? Where was it again?”



Everywhere, I want to say, but don’t.



“Frozen Hills, Michigan.”



“Sounds cold.”



“It was.”



We’re still holding hands. I can’t help but marvel at the fact that there’s nothing remotely strange about it. No sweaty palms. Neither of us holds on too hard or soft: Our hands instinctively know how to be together.



“Hey, thanks again for coming to get me in Kansas City,” I say. “That was really cool of you.”



Matt shrugs but doesn’t answer.



“I’m serious,” I say. “I don’t know anyone else who would have done that.”



“I’m sure that’s not true,” Matt says.



We walk in silence for a few minutes. A breeze picks up over the water and gives me goose bumps. I want to button my sweater, but I don’t want to let go of Matt’s hand. Instead, I walk a little closer to him.



“So, were your parents pissed about you leaving Kansas City?” Matt asks.



“No, not really,” I say. “My dad got it.”



“You never talk about your mom,” Matt observes.



“Yes, I do,” I say. “What do you want to know?”



“What’s her name?”



“Cassie,” I say.



“What does she do?”



“She’s a professional mom.”



“Like mine,” Matt says. “That’s cool. What about your dad?”



“He’s a psychologist,” I say, feeling a pinch of guilt in my side for the lie.



“He’s a shrink?”



“Sort of,” I say.



“Does he always try to figure you out?” Matt asks.



“Sometimes,” I say, laughing.



“And that doesn’t bug you?” he asks.



I shrug. “Not really. He’s all right.” I get the sense that Matt’s going to keep asking about my parents, so I abruptly change the subject.



“Hey, did you know that I’m an excellent gymnast?” I drop Matt’s hand and move toward the railing.



“Uh, no,” Matt says, curious and a bit confused.



“It’s true,” I say, kicking off one shoe, then the other. “I’m especially great at the balance beam.” Before Matt can reply, I’m up on the river-walk railing, crouched at first, then, when I have my balance, standing. I stretch my arms out to the sides and begin walking forward, my toes turned out so I can grip like a monkey.



“What are you doing?” Matt shouts. I glance at him without moving my head; he looks genuinely afraid.



“I’m showing you my balance-beam skills, of course,” I say, taking two more steps. “Want to see my turn?”



“No!” Matt says harshly. “I want you to get down. You’re going to fall.”



“No, I’m not,” I say without meeting his gaze. “And even if I did, I’d be fine. It’s not that far of a fall. I’d just get a little wet. It’s not like I’m going to die or anything.”



I hear Matt stop. Carefully, I pivot to face him. Matt is not impressed by my skills. In fact, he looks pissed. I think I even see a trace of disgust. I lower myself into a crouch, then jump back to the walkway.



“What?” I ask as I walk back to my shoes and slip my feet into them. Matt shakes his head at me. “What?” I ask again.



“Is this how it is with you?” Matt asks. “Are you always this careless?”



I feel exposed by his words, and silly for showing off. I only wanted to change the subject, to lighten the mood. I didn’t think about what it might mean to him. I realize what an idiotic thing it was to do.



“Oh, Matt, I’m sorry,” I say. “Here I’m being flip while Audrey is sick. I didn’t mean to… I’m so sorry.” He stares at me, angry. “Do you want to go home?”



More staring, then finally, he speaks: “If you can manage to stay off the railing, I’m good with hanging out here awhile longer, if that’s okay with you.”



Relief floods through me, but I try to play it off.



“I guess I can handle that,” I say, moving to his side as he starts toward the opposite side of the river once again. After a few moments, Matt speaks again, his voice softer this time.



“Sorry I freaked out,” he says.



“No, really, I’m sorry. I didn’t think of how you might feel with all that’s happening with Audrey. I feel like a jerk.”



Matt doesn’t reply, which makes me feel worse.



“How are you with all of this stuff, anyway? Are you okay?”



Matt shrugs. “I’m as okay as I can be, I guess,” he says. He runs a hand through his shaggy, dark hair. “If you want to know the truth, I’m a little sick of her being sick. That sounds horrible, I know.”



“No, it doesn’t. I bet it’s hard taking care of someone.”



“It’s not even that,” Matt answers. “I don’t even really take care of her. She doesn’t want me to. She wants me to be normal. But there’s just so much buildup. In the beginning, it was all drama and sadness and planning, and now I just feel like I’m ready. Like I’ll be wrecked when it happens, and until then, I’ll hang out with my sister as much as I can.”



“You have a positive attitude about it.”



“Not on purpose,” Matt says. “It’s just how I feel.”



“Not me,” I say.



“You don’t have a positive attitude?” Matt asks.



“Not at all. I mean, I know this is new to me and everything, so I’m pretty naïve, but frankly, I want her to get well.”



“She won’t,” Matt says, matter-of-fact, which really annoys me. He zips his sweatshirt, reminding me that I’m cold, too. I button my sweater, then let my arms swing, ready for him to take hold of my hand again, but instead he shoves his hands into his sweatshirt pockets. I try not to feel disappointed.