Matylda, Bright and Tender

by Holly M. McGhee

  After he lost, Guy went through the flight motions with his arm, over and over and over again, trying to figure out what he did wrong. He couldn’t understand it. It was nine months ago, but it seemed like yesterday. I could still see him, flying an invisible paper plane, motioning with his arm, Guy of the Mystery Defeat, still puzzled that he didn’t win. I didn’t want to go to a birthday party without him.

  My dad came out of the kitchen. “Whatcha got?” he asked. I couldn’t hide the invite from my dad, so I handed it over.

  “Do I have to go?” I said.

  “Zombies!” said my dad. “Dress for the occasion.”

  “I don’t want to go,” I said.

  “You don’t have to,” my dad replied, “but you can borrow my zombie tie if you want. It might be fun to see some people.”

  “You want me to, don’t you?” I could tell.

  “Only if you think you can,” said my dad. And when I heard him say those words, I wanted to do it. It was safe in my room, with my butterfly mobile and rooster rug and Matylda, but I had to go to Carter’s. I didn’t want to worry my parents.

  “I’ll go,” I said. “But I’m not wearing your tie.”

  “Roger that,” said Dad. “I think you’ll have fun.”

  Maybe he was right. Maybe it would be fun to see people.

  When I got to Carter’s the next weekend, everybody was in the backyard already, and his mom greeted me and said, “Have you played zombie tag before?” I told her I had, which was true — we used to play it on the playground sometimes . . . but that had always been with Guy.

  Whoever the zombie tagged became a zombie, too, until finally, there were just a ton of zombies and one person left, the winner. You had to outsmart the others, just like Matylda did on the mountain, fighting her last battle, fighting for her freedom and a wish. Remembering her, I wanted to win — maybe I could get that, too.

  “INCOMING!” yelled Carter. He was the zombie. And then I felt like lightning on the grass — I had to win. Like Matylda, I weaved and I swerved and I ducked, a snake on the lawn; nobody could catch me. Flattening myself behind a tree, I peered around.

  One, two, three, four zombies now — five of us left.

  And I was a cheetah, fierce and fast, leaping over rocks, ducking behind bushes, crouching in the corner behind the garage, outwitting my opponents, time after time after time. Sneaking, creeping, on the edge, five, six, seven zombies now . . . zigzag jumping side to side, behind the pond — zombies circling, one boy standing . . . till he was a zombie, too.

  Just me then, in the middle, hot . . . breathless, the winner. . . . But I wasn’t on the mountain; I was in Carter’s backyard, surrounded by eight zombies, sixteen eyes watching me . . . they were zombie eyes, and they were growing bigger and bigger and bigger . . . and I was scared, and the eyes grew legs — getting longer, growing growing growing they were giant round eyes with long black legs marching toward me closer, closer . . . closing in . . . circling circling tighter tighter closer closer closer — STOP! RETREAT! GO BACK! GO BACK! GO BACK! GO —

  “SUSSY! Are you okay, Sussy?” Carter’s mom asked. She was right by my face, gently shaking my shoulder — her mouth so close I could see the spaces between her teeth. “Are you okay?”

  I looked at her. Then I looked around the circle. The marching eyes . . . they were gone; the giant round eyes, the eyes with legs closing in on me — they weren’t there anymore. It was just Carter and the others, watching me, looking at me, waiting for me —

  Breathe.

  And I breathed, long and slow, in and out, the way my father showed me that day in my room when I needed my clothes.

  Breathe.

  Now talk.

  “I’m okay,” I said to Carter’s mom. “I was just . . . just . . . out of breath. Had to rest. . . .”

  “Of course you’re out of breath. You ran so fast. You won the game, Sussy! You won!”

  Carter’s mom clapped, and everybody joined in. I was the winner. She put her arm around me. “You get to be the zombie now!”

  I couldn’t be the zombie. I was afraid of the marching eyes that weren’t there anymore. They might return. I didn’t want to see those eyes.

  I backed out of the circle, away from her, from them, from my fear. . . . One foot, the other foot, turning forward, faster now, going going going going away from the zombies — Carter’s mom calling me, once, twice . . . her voice fading out, my feet keeping going.

  My dad was at the door when I got home. “Already back?” he asked. “How was it?”

  Answer. Don’t tell him about the marching eyes.

  “I won zombie tag,” I said. “But I didn’t feel like staying.”

  He knelt down, my height now, eye to eye. “You went,” he said. “That was brave.” Then he whispered, “And you won the game without even wearing my tie.” He was trying to be funny, but I didn’t feel funny.

  When I got upstairs, I went to Matylda. “I swerved and ducked like you,” I said. “I was the last one standing. But I didn’t get to make a wish —”

  I stopped talking then, because there, on the windowsill, a ladybug landed, touching down as if Guy and I were on the watch again. I hadn’t seen one since he died; maybe it meant some good luck was coming — big luck or little . . . it might be coming.

  “Matylda?” I said. “Do you think you can love me, even if he’s not here?”

  I put my hand in the vivarium, flat against the carpet.

  She came on and moved closer, onto my wrist, looking at me, touching me, maybe saying yes . . . and I felt a little firework go off inside, a tiny sparkler lighting up, from my belly straight to my heart.

  “Can you feel it?” I said. She spread her starfish toes. “Can you feel the sparkler?”

  We’d been going to Long Beach Island the first week of August since I was little, every single summer, and Guy had come with us the last few. We rented the same house every year, one back from the ocean, in Beach Haven. So when my parents told me it was that time of year, the time for some sun and sand and corn dogs and gelato, and they said they knew it would be hard to go without Guy but we were going to do it together, I knew that I didn’t have a choice.

  I didn’t want to go to Long Beach Island without him. I didn’t want to stop at Lucille’s for chocolate-covered pretzels and maple creams without him, and I didn’t want to go on the Drop Zone, either. He wouldn’t be beside me when the ride dropped down, with no warning, again and again and again. He wouldn’t be beside me for corn on the cob or steamers; he wouldn’t be there to show off his three-step husking method or tell me to watch him drown his steamers in a pool of butter.

  I didn’t want to play Yahtzee without him. I learned the game at our beach house, and I taught it to Guy. He thought the dice would give him what he asked for, so he always brought them right to his mouth and whispered, “I have faith in the dice.” If we somehow rolled a Yahtzee — five of one kind — we had to do a dance. I ran like a deer and did split leaps; Guy turned into a wild turkey, flapping his arms and waddling around, right on the beach. I’d never get to see him whisper to the dice or do another Yahtzee dance.

  “Then I have to bring Matylda,” I said to my parents.

  “Oh, honey,” my mom said, “we can’t bring a lizard to the beach. The owners won’t —”

  “I have to bring Matylda,” I said again, louder. We were in the living room, and my mom came over then and sat next to me on the red couch. “I have to bring Matylda,” I said, flat and loud.

  She put her arm around me. “Honey, you —”

  “Don’t touch me,” I said, standing up. “I have to bring her.” I backed away from my mother, toward the stairs. “She’s coming,” I said. “I won’t go without her.” I was in reverse, going backward up the stairs, holding the banister. “You can’t make me. You can’t make me!” I was calling down from the landing now. “I won’t go!” I went into my room, and I picked up the vivarium. “It’s not too heavy!” I yelled down. “And
she only needs water and food. She won’t make a mess. She’s coming with us. Tell me she’s coming with us. She’s coming, she’s coming —”

  My mom appeared in the doorway, me standing there, vivarium in my arms. My feet stayed planted as she moved toward me, holding out her arms to me and Matylda. And as she took the tank from me, my arms were jelly . . . I felt so tired. “Yes yes yes yes, Sussy-girl,” she said. “Yes, she can come. Of course, she can come.”

  She set the vivarium on the bureau, and I went to her, so tired, so tired from holding the tank in my arms, so tired from trying to go on, from trying so hard to go on without my friend, from having to go on without him. “Promise?” I whispered. “’Cause I won’t go without her, Mom. I can’t go without her.”

  “I promise,” she said. “You don’t have to go without her. Yes, she can come.” And she laid me down on my bed and tucked my covers around me, and I closed my eyes . . . so tired.

  We went a few days later, me and Matylda and my parents — her vivarium next to me in the car, its own safety belt buckled. My dad left the crickets in the soda-bottle trap with a few extra figs and brought the whole thing along. The crickets could eat the figs during the week and we would feed Matylda when she was hungry. I packed some worms, too, just in case — I wanted her to have the same variety at the beach that she now had at home.

  I unpacked my duffel and looked at her there in the same twin bedroom I’d shared with Guy. It came to me then that she’d never know what the beach had been like with him unless I tried to show her. I could do that.

  So I said, “Let’s go! Let’s uncover the secrets of the ocean!” I put on my swimsuit, the same suit as last year, a navy-blue Speedo, built for exploring the water.

  “Let’s bring her to the beach!” I said to my parents, who had their suits on, too. Faster than a jack-in-the-box, my dad was carrying the vivarium across the ramp that led over the dunes, with me and my mom behind, the beach mostly empty in the late afternoon of a cloudy day. I chose a spot near the back, and my mom laid out our blanket. My dad set the vivarium down in the middle.

  “Do you like the ocean?” I said to Matylda. “Do you see the waves?” She shook her head.

  “Can you hold her up so she can see me swim?” I asked my dad.

  “It would be my pleasure,” he said. He looked happy.

  And running into the water, I submerged my whole self at once — the cold was easier that way. I looked back, and my dad was walking toward me at the shore, vivarium in his arms. My mom was coming in too, up to her knees, getting used to the water inch by inch, like always.

  “WATCH ME, MATYLDA!” I yelled. “I’M A FISH!” I dived through a wave, popping out the other side, jumping up, showing her my hands, then diving through again. “I’M A FISH!” I yelled, frothing about, showing her my fins. My mom had reached me now. “WATCH THIS!” I yelled to Matylda, even though she couldn’t hear — she’d know it was for her. And me and my mom held hands, and we rose up over the wave, so smooth, and up again over the wave.

  And then I jumped on Mom’s back, remembering how she first taught me to swim in the ocean, showing me everything was okay, even when the water crushed me and went up my nose and out my ears. It was salty and good and fresh. “Here we go!” she said, and we rose up together, and I was high on her back, waving to Matylda, still there in my dad’s arms.

  “THIS IS HOW YOU DO IT!” I yelled. “WATCH!” My mom and I bodysurfed in, our timing perfect, riding on the water right up to the sand, right up to where my dad was standing.

  He was so strong, still holding the vivarium there, and my mom was so strong with me on her back. I felt so strong too, and proud, showing Matylda the ocean the way Guy would have done.

  “Your turn, Dad!” I said. “Put her down, and you go in!” I sat with Matylda, on the blanket, while my parents swam. They loved to go way out and swim together.

  “Did you see me?” I asked her. “Did you see me be a fish?”

  She got onto her log, right before my eyes, and she wiggled off.

  “Are you being a fish?” She did it again.

  “You are,” I said. “I have so much more to show you! The docks and the sunset and the water park.” I thought of Guy and what he would have done.

  “I’m going to show you the moon tonight,” I said. “How it hangs over the ocean, and I’ll tell you the story of the astronauts who landed there.”

  “Listen,” I said to her, quieter now. “Listen to the waves. They have their own rhythm. Can you hear it?” And as we listened there, I remembered how Guy would call for me, beckoning me out to the sandbar to jump and ride the waves with him. And the thought filled me up because even though I missed him, I was doing right by him and Matylda. Pounding waves on the shore, the rhythm of summer, of me, of Guy, of my parents still swimming out there, and of Matylda now, too.

  “Do you hear the pounding?” I asked her. She looked at me and nodded. “The ocean,” I said. “It’s pounding for all of us.” I felt close to her.

  “Can I pick you up?” I asked. She lifted her belly, just a bit, so that I could get my hands around her. She was letting me pick her up. I brought her to my face, careful not to squeeze too tight.

  I closed my eyes and made a wish then, with her in my hands, so close to me. I wished for her to know, with every single pounding, that I’d take care of her like Guy did, that she was safe with me, that she could trust me, that we’d get through. That I couldn’t bring him back but we’d get through.

  My mother knocked on my door when she got home one night, not too long after Long Beach Island. She carried a shopping bag full of new clothes.

  “For a change,” she said, brushing the front of my sunflower shirt.

  I wasn’t going to change my clothes. I didn’t want to wear something else; my shirt was what I had on the last day I was with my best friend — this shirt and my red capris, neatly stitched around the tear.

  “Listen,” my mom said. “I know it sounds silly, but sometimes a simple change on the outside can make you feel new.” She set the big shopping bag on the floor. “I know you love that shirt,” she said. “With that big sunflower.”

  “That’s not why I like it,” I said.

  The room was quiet for a moment.

  “It’s just . . . well, look,” she said, holding up a turquoise shirt with a frog on it. “Have a look. Think about it. Look at this embroidery.” Underneath the frog it said BULL.

  “And it’s very funny,” she said. “A bullfrog!”

  And then I was back with Guy, on a field trip at school, a hike we took at a nature conservatory. Guy fell behind the group, and nobody could find him for a while. The chaperones were concerned, and then we all heard, “CAWOOOOOOHAH!”

  “That’s him,” I told everyone. “I’ll get him.” And I ran to Guy, who was standing by the stream, not on the trail, gently poking a giant bullfrog with a fern.

  “Come back,” I told him. “Everyone’s looking for you.” I grabbed his hand and he gave the frog one last little poke, and it sprang off its rock and made a joyful splash.

  I smiled at my mom then. How did she know I’d like this silly shirt, that Guy would have liked it, too? I grinned.

  She kept talking. “Shorts to go with it,” she said. She held up the shorts, celery green, and I was still thinking about Guy, missing him but smiling too. “What a nice complement to the turquoise,” she said. “Land and sea.”

  The frog shirt made me happy, remembering people trying to find Guy, and he didn’t even notice, too busy watching that frog, with its big belly and strong legs that could send it so high in the air. No wonder Guy loved frogs.

  My mom kept talking, on and on. “And wait till you see this skort. Now, I know you’re not a fan of skirts, but a skort . . . you can do anything in this.” I nodded, my mind in the air with Guy and the frog. I felt so happy, thinking about him and that trip; I felt like I was up in the air, too!

  “Celery may be the trend,” my mom said, “but purp
le never gets old. And this cherry top. These sleeves,” she said. “Not really short, not really cap. Just right. And overalls! They’re back. New jeans, too. I didn’t go too nuts,” she said. “Levi’s. Nothing designer —”

  “CAWOOOOOOHAH!” I yelled, interrupting. “I’LL TRY THEM ALL!” I felt free. It didn’t make sense that something on the outside could make me remember Guy with happiness, not sadness, lift me up that way. But it did. “Cawoooooohah,” I said, softer now.

  “Oh, Sussy,” my mom said. “You will?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes, I will, Mom.”

  “Oh — oh, Sussy. That’s good.” She closed the door so I could change in private.

  “Jeans first,” I said to Matylda, and I put them on and called my mom in.

  “They’re perfect,” she said, admiring her own ability to buy the right size. “You’re lucky you have me. You may never have to visit a dressing room. Overalls next.”

  Matylda was watching me — there hadn’t been so much activity in my room in a long time. I put on the overalls. They had lots of pockets.

  “Ready,” I said.

  “Adorable, Sussy,” my mom said. “Those are going to come in handy.”

  The skort and cherry top fit too. Then I tried the celery-green shorts and the bullfrog shirt, and I felt like running to Guy at the stream and poking that frog together. I felt so close to him right then, my fingers going over the bumpy surface of the frog on my shirt, remembering Guy and the field trip the whole while, almost as if he were with me. I went around each embroidered letter then, the smooth floss so nice, so silky.

  My mom knocked on the door again. “One last thing,” she said. “Sandals. You’ve never seen sandals like this.” She brought in a pretty pair of flip-flops with decorations on the straps. “Go ahead, try them.” I put the sandals on. “Fabulous!” she said. She picked up the box and headed toward my closet.