Matylda, Bright and Tender

by Holly M. McGhee

  I saw it all again then — Guy, jumping off his bike, charging that dog, charging that dog with his arms overhead, a knight, not worried about anything but me. . . .

  His body on the road.

  Bike day, long-gone Guy day, that moment on Witchett . . .

  He wanted me to love Matylda, just the way he did.

  But I wasn’t good at doing that. I couldn’t do that. I didn’t do that. Guy, my best friend, who made my cherry pie taste like screams . . .

  I woke up every day wishing I could do it again, wishing I could ride with him to Total Pets to get the D3, to make sure Matylda stayed strong, wishing we could see the flowers, until I remembered the car that didn’t stop, the car that couldn’t stop in time, the forever-long horn blaring. . . . And then I was right back there on Witchett.

  I got it — I was always gonna be on Witchett somehow, was always gonna hear that crash — loud or quiet I’d hear it. I was supposed to hear it; it was part of me. Okay, dying day, you can stay.

  I sat there with my hands on the hat, feeling the softness, holding myself. I missed him so much. I loved him so much.

  My voice came then, a whisper, riding on air, a message going out.

  “I can’t do it your way, Guy; I can’t keep my promise. Will you stick with me anyway? Do you hear me?”

  “Do you want waffles?”

  I looked up. Mrs. Hose was in the doorway. “I heard the noise,” she said. “I didn’t know who it was.” She stood there, her face, her eyes, her arms — full of so much love, so much sorrow, so much missing.

  She’d lost him too. . . .

  “I’m glad you came, Sussy,” she said. “So glad it’s you.”

  I went to her, and she folded me in.

  “This hat’s so soft,” I said. “I’ve never felt a hat so soft.”

  “Blanket yarn,” she said, pulling me tighter. “I knit those,” she continued, “hoping . . . hoping somehow he’d know I wanted to keep him warm —”

  I started to take the hat off; she’d made it for him, not me.

  She pushed it back down. “You keep it,” she said. “He’d want you to have it. He’d want you to stay warm, too.”

  “I’d like to wear it,” I said.

  We were hardly breathing, hugging so close, just the two of us — her terrible emptiness and her enormous love, right next to mine . . . and I burrowed in deeper, our feelings all together now, my world bigger with her.

  Loosening our hold after a while, I picked up the waffle iron. “You want to have waffles?” I asked. “I think he’d like that.”

  “That child,” she said. “He never did tire of waffles.”

  I brought the waffle iron downstairs, and Mrs. Hose started mixing up the batter. “How hungry are you?” she asked.

  “Very hungry,” I said. “So hungry.”

  Mrs. Hose put the waffles on the table, with syrup and butter. But she didn’t set a place for Guy, only for the two of us.

  “He’ll find them,” she said. “He knows where they are.”

  I finished my waffles and went home, to my room, pulled the comforter off my bed, the comforter I’d used to cover Guy. There was nobody there. Nothing there but worms.

  I went to the vivarium, but I couldn’t see Matylda under all the stuff.

  Gently, I began taking things out — everything I’d thrown in — carefully, slowly. When I got to the bottom, there, underneath it all, lay the warrior who’d won fifty battles, the warrior of the ancient face and starfish toes. Matylda of the Bright and Tender Skin. She’d dropped her tail. The manual said that lizards dropped their tails to throw off predators, because the dropped tail wiggled around as if it were alive, and the lizard could fool the enemy and have time to get away. But Matylda hadn’t gotten away.

  Standing by the glass, I watched her, with her little tailless body. Her stump.

  I was the predator.

  The stump was hard to look at, and I could only think about how I’d treated her. All she wanted was to be loved — that was the wish she made after her final battle. I’d tried to love her the way Guy did; I’d tried to love her enough for us both. And I failed, and I ended up hating her and hurting her, ended up hating and hurting Guy, too.

  Minutes going by, standing there, speechless, staring, knowing she’d lost her tail at my own hand, remembering and not remembering. I’d buried her alive in mouse and hamster accessories, buried her alive, nearly killed her, came close, so close.

  And as I watched her there, without her tail, I could feel my heart — it was getting so big — so big with love . . .

  I wanted her to live.

  I wanted her to live and live and live and live and live!

  We could grow up together, her and me. . . .

  Not everybody got to.

  I picked up her tail, held it in my hands, no longer part of her. My hands, capable of so much destruction.

  I didn’t hear my parents come in.

  But there they were, in Matylda’s mirror, coming toward me. . . .

  I couldn’t escape.

  Set my eyes on the tail.

  Could feel their fingers on my shoulders.

  Couldn’t look up and couldn’t turn around — could feel their eyes . . .

  On the tail, on the toys, on the tank.

  On the worms.

  On me.

  They could see everything.

  Breathe.

  And I breathed, long and deep . . .

  Now turn.

  I turned, my eyes meeting my mother’s and then my father’s — one to the other and back.

  Their eyes — afraid and confused and alive . . . fierce and brave and ready . . . their eyes were fear, their eyes were hope, their eyes were love . . .

  They were my eyes, too.

  I reached my arms around them, and I could feel my dad’s breath as he let it go, a stream of air —

  Then the doorbell rang, several times in a row, and someone was knocking.

  “I’m off my shift!” Mike hollered. “I figured out where —”

  I threw the tail on my bed and ran downstairs, as fast as I could, had to get to him first. My parents didn’t know how I got the stuff. I opened the door.

  “Please don’t tell! PLEASE DON’T —”

  “Hey,” he said softly, stepping back. “It’s okay. I just stopped by to make sure you’re okay.”

  His kindness took me in its hold.

  “Hi,” he said.

  My parents came to the porch as I went to Mike.

  “I stole everything . . . I — I — I thought she’d love me,” I said. “If . . . if I just — I took the mealies and the waxworms and the supers and the ham — I . . . I thought I could make her love me,” I said. “All the toys —”

  Caught my breath.

  “I took the hamster ball,” I said. “I — you were with the fish — the toys — my pack — the worms . . . I took it all — you were — I could have killed her,” I said. “I almost —”

  Mike’s arm was around my shoulder . . . my parents, me, and him — we stood on the porch together.

  “I must owe you. I took SO —”

  Then I could hear my father, from that day so long ago, even as he stood right there.

  Breathe.

  Remember to breathe.

  And I breathed in, as slowly as I could — and I let it out the same. . . .

  “How can I make it up?” I said. “What can I do? There must be some —”

  “Hey,” Mike said. “You lost your friend . . . you lost your friend, and I didn’t know what to do.”

  Mike kept me in his hold, not letting go.

  They’d all wanted to help me when I couldn’t be helped. I looked at my dad, my mom, Mike. . . . They’d seen the terrible, awful things I could do, and they were still by my side —

  Breathe.

  “The stuff,” my dad said. “We’ll cover it, of course . . .”

  “Can I do something?” I said to Mike. He’d come to check on me,
even after I ran. He was looking out for me, and I hardly knew him. This guy, this salesclerk from Total Pets. . . . “Cleaning tanks? Crickets? Checking worms? Anything? Please?”

  “I’m just happy you’re all —”

  “Please?”

  “If you want to that badly,” he said, “I could use some help.”

  “Not with the fish, though,” I said. It just came out.

  “Everyone starts with the fish,” he said. “No exemptions.” And I felt a little smile, creeping, creeping out, making its way onto my face.

  Mike told us the tail would grow back as long as I kept the vivarium clean.

  I didn’t know about Matylda or Guy, though — didn’t know if they could forgive me, too. So much to say and so little to say. I went upstairs and put my face to the glass. Matylda came over to me, her body so short now, and we were almost touching except for the glass, No-Tail Matylda of the Strawberry Stump.

  “Not going to fight it anymore,” I said.

  She was listening.

  “Your tail will grow back,” I continued. “It won’t look quite the same, but it’ll be a tail.” She had an expression on her face like she knew — we’d both lost and won at the same time, but with love, not like in Monopoly. As if she understood that I had to almost lose her to know how much I loved her. I loved her my way. From the beginning, there had been a wisdom about her. She, more than anyone, knew that love sometimes came with a price.

  “I love you, Matylda,” I said. And I breathed in and I let myself go, and my lizard girl met me there with her gaze, both of us softened to the world. “I can’t do it his way,” I said, “and it might not be enough to cover us both, but I’ll give you all I have.

  “I’ll never be the same, either,” I said. “You and me, Matylda with a y, we’re different now. I can’t love you with a wagonful of flowers, ’cause I’m not Guy. But I love you anyway.”

  And she bowed, the same way she had when I first found my words, under the towel that day so long ago, and I think she was telling me I’d get all she had, too. I bowed back to her then, my mind open to the world and the secrets it held.

  Sky grey, weather still warm.

  “Your tail’s coming back,” I said to Matylda. It wasn’t too long since it had dropped, and I was keeping crickets out of the vivarium just in case they wanted to nibble. Mike said they might do that. Had to make sure her new tail grew strong. The pink tissue inside had grown first, with all her spots still there, the bumpy yellow skin covering after, the black spots on the outer skin lining up with the ones inside. She was healing, but you could tell something had happened. That was right — we wouldn’t forget this, either of us. We each had a new identity, but only together with who we’d been before. We were all between two worlds, when I thought about it.

  I’d cleaned up the vivarium the day I nearly killed her, after Mike left, swept up the worms, changed my own bed, too. Didn’t want my mom to do it anymore.

  Recycled the toys — couldn’t use them again after that. Didn’t want them — didn’t need them.

  But I saved the tail, keeping it safe, in my jewelry box.

  “It’s time to bury it,” I said to her.

  My parents were there in the yard when the Hoses arrived — Mike, too. I’d invited them all. I was glad they’d come to join us; we all belonged together. Mrs. Hose looked different, like she could be sad and happy at the same time. I put my hands on both sides of my hat; it fit perfectly, coming down below my ears and not too tight. I was wearing it for all of us, even Guy. Somehow, I knew he was sticking with me, even though I’d broken my promise. There was forgiveness in the air.

  “I’ve got a spot picked out,” I said. Mrs. Hose followed me, and I went down on my knees, smoothing the ground with my same hands, my own strong hands, Matylda of the Bright and Tender New Tail on my neck. There, in front of the honeysuckle, sweet-smelling vine, sweet-tasting vine, I dug a hole; the earth smelled good, rich and moist, deep. I didn’t dig down too far, just far enough to make a memorial and keep it close. I placed the tail there, as a little sun poked its way through the clouds, a little golden spot in the greyness.

  My head down, I closed my eyes, and there was Guy, at the top of Matylda’s mountain — I was with him; she was on my shoulder. We were on bicycles, and the road widened before us and we cycled down, the spokes spinning within the wheels, beautiful silvery flashing, turning, carrying us as we pedaled, all three together, all one.

  Guy took his hands off the handlebars and cupped them over his mouth. I LOVE YOU, SUSSY, he shouted, FOREVER AND ALWAYS. I knew it was Guy, and my heart felt like it might explode with joy; despite everything, he still loved me. Despite everything, he believed in me. Despite everything, he was still around.

  CAWOOOOOOHAH! I yelled back to Guy, I LOVE YOU TOO! my words carried by the wind, my hands firmly on the bars, my feelings sure. I felt Matylda’s starfish toes holding tighter, I felt her trust, and I felt her love, right on my shoulder.

  “I love you,” I whispered, turning to her, my breath warm on her face as she snuggled up tighter on my shoulder.

  “He’s here,” I told them all, turning outward. “For always. I know that now. Sometimes the world’s an imperfect circle.” I opened my arms. “It’s still a circle, though.” Adjusted my hat. “Good-bye and hello,” I said, trampoline in the corner of my eye. I could see a day, not too far away, the lunch-table boys and me, with Guy in the middle of it all, jumping up to the sky, where all the birds were singing, no ceiling out in the yard.

  I put some dirt over the tail. Stuck my cherry-pie spoon in, firm and upright, so we wouldn’t forget where we buried it.

  Stood up then, my warrior still close, back-stepped my way to Mrs. Hose. Her arms circling round, welcoming me.

  Survivors all.

  Me and my hat, Mike, the Hoses, my parents, Matylda.

  And Guy.

  Not alone, not good-bye . . .

  Not here, but here anyway.

  Thank you to Michael, Charlotte, McGhee, Marshall, and Foster — my family. You saw me in my sorrow and joy and tears and hope and you didn’t run away — instead you came closer and helped me be brave. And especially you, Charlotte — the oldest, you’ve been with us the longest — you were a light — a beautiful voice saying Go On.

  I couldn’t have gone on, though, had I not had the company of some people with incredibly kind hearts — you kept me going with your words at different points as I tried to find my way: Sunyung Ahn, Jenny Brown, Kate DiCamillo, Caitlyn Dlouhy, Meg Leder, Karla Greenleaf-MacEwan, Jandy Nelson, Kathy Nuzum, David Small, Christine Snell, and Jeanne Steig.

  When I finally did have a draft, it was for you, Joanna Cotler — you were waiting, arms open, welcoming those pages. Then you gave me your attention, belief, spirit, love — and your extraordinary art, which is so full of life and freedom and beauty.

  Kathi Appelt, I can never thank you enough for taking a turn in the director’s chair, for the “Kathi treatment,” for your love and generosity — you floored me time and time and time again. Sister sister sister!

  And my kinfolk, who are my roommates and my colleagues and my dear friends — you were passionate readers, thinkers, supporters — in it for the long haul: My agent, Elena Giovinazzo — you waited and believed, and then read it again and again and believed, newborn Robby kitty notwithstanding. You are steady in the rockiest seas — a shining shiny star. Courtney Stevenson — so new to this game — and at the same time so sure and helpful. And Heather Alexander, your glorious, buoyant words came right on time.

  Hilary Van Dusen, my editor: from the first, you loved this story as your own, and you never hesitated to give me your time and your insight — no matter was too small. I cherish your guidance and humor and logic — your scientific focus and your deep understanding — your wisdom and belief and dispatch.

  Rachel Smith, interior designer — thank you for your attention and artistry (and your hand-drawn spots). Matt Roeser, thank you for this amazing
jacket.

  And to all the Pippins I work with as a literary agent — thank you for inspiring me, as you do the work and make the world bigger and brighter with your words and pictures.

  Last, my joy, my gratitude, my infinite wonder — to Margaret Klenck. You heard it first and you heard it last and you heard it in the middle . . . you listened with fierceness. Thank you for holding my story safely these years . . . and so much more.

  I believe in the magic of this world.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2017 by Holly M. McGhee

  “Let Time Go Lightly” copyright © 1976 (renewed) music and lyrics by Stephen Chapin. Used by permission of Stephen Chapin.

  “First Lesson” from Letter from a Distant Land by Philip Booth copyright © 1957 by Philip Booth. Used by permission of Viking Books, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.

  First electronic edition 2017

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number pending

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