Cat Patrick: Revived

Mason’s in the basement when I leave. Maybe I’ll make it back before he surfaces; maybe I won’t. Either way, seeing Matt right now isn’t optional. I slip out the front door into the crisp afternoon air, then button my jacket, surprised by the wintery chill. I walk two blocks and stop on the corner, only long enough to blow on my hands once before Matt arrives.

The seconds after I climb into his car and shut the door are like the silence between songs on your most emotional playlist. It’s a break in the action; the world stops spinning for a few beats. But you know something’s coming.

And then it does.

Matt puts his hands on my cheeks, cupping my jawbones. His powerful eyes are more intense than I’ve ever seen them. Captivated, I couldn’t look away even if I wanted to. He holds my face for a moment, staring. And then…

“Don’t die,” he says lowly, his voice cracking a little.

“I won’t,” I promise, hoping I’m telling the truth.

“I mean it,” he says. “I can’t take anything happening to you.”

“I know,” I say, grabbing on to his forearms, holding him holding me.

“Take your damn EpiPen to school,” he says.

I laugh, a quick exhale. “I will.”

“And stay away from bees,” he continues. “In fact, just stay inside.”

“Okay,” I say, laughing again.

“And…” Matt moves closer; his face is inches from mine. “Stay.”

It’s like a punch to the chest; tears fill my eyes. Matt’s expression is so raw, so brutally honest, I want to find a reason to look away.

“I can’t,” I whisper.

“I know,” he says.

He wraps his arms around me and pulls me into a tight embrace. I’m leaning sideways over the center console and the gearshift is digging into my hip and still, I’d stay like this for hours if I could. I’ve never been more comfortable. I’ve never been warmer. Here in Matt’s arms, I’m reminded again:

I’ve never belonged anywhere but here.

Nomadic as I am, I try hard to see the positives about our new hometown of Alameda, California. A little island between Oakland and San Francisco, Alameda is the sort of homey place that a person could really love… if her heart wasn’t stuck somewhere in Middle America.

And yet, I try. Touring the city, I make mental lists of Alameda’s pros:

1. The weather.

2. The updated main street, boasting places like hip clothing stores, an indie bookseller, and a vintage ice-cream shop all on the same block.

3. The intimate beach with a clear view of San Francisco’s skyline that Matt would love…

It’s hard to keep my head in this state. But Mason does his best to help.

When we drive into town two days before I start tenth grade for what I hope is the last time, he pulls into a driveway I mistake for someone else’s.

“Are you lost?” I ask, looking at the Victorian that could be a movie set.

“Nope,” he says, smiling and craning his neck to see the top of the three-story dwelling.

“Mason, are you messing with me?” I ask, eyeing the wraparound porch skeptically.

“I’m not messing with you,” he says, laughing. “It’s bigger than we need, but it’s a historic home and I like it. Plus, you never know—our family might grow someday.”

Before I have time to ask more about that last statement, Mason jumps out and heads up the front steps. He waves at me to follow.

When I walk through the door, I’m awestruck. For what Mason reports is over a century, this home was clearly loved. And why not? There’s dark wood trim and paneling along the grand staircase. There are built-in library shelves that make me want to live right in the sitting room. The kitchen is bright and airy, with modern appliances; the living room is massive. And there are five bedrooms. “I get my own bathroom,” I say. “And look at this closet!”

“You like it?” Mason asks sheepishly, as if the house is a gift he’s giving me. I guess in a way, it is.

“It’s awesome,” I say before taking a moment to look out each of my three bedroom windows.

“Even though it’s not in Omaha?” Mason asks.

I take a deep breath of California air.

“Even though it’s not in Omaha.”

On the night before school starts, I knock on Mason’s bedroom door. He’s in pajama pants and a gray T-shirt. He sets aside the novel he’s reading and gives me his full attention.

“I was just wondering how things are going with the investigation,” I say, lingering in the doorway.

“Oh, Daisy, there’s nothing new,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “They’re still thinking it’s going to take months to sort out. Apparently neither of them is being cooperative, and a lot is still unclear.”

“So the program’s on hold until they figure it out?” I ask.

“Unfortunately so,” Mason says. “All the files and lab equipment and the drug itself will remain under tight security until the director can determine whether anyone else was involved.”

“What do you think he’s going to do after that?” I ask. “Kill the program?”

“I suppose it’s possible, but not likely,” Mason says. “The director has a science background. My hunch is that he’ll take it under his wing and finish off the thirty-year commitment to tracking the bus kids. At that point, though, he might decide to bury it.”

“Why?” I ask, surprised. “Wouldn’t he want to move forward? Besides God going mental, the program’s been a success, at least so far.”

Mason swallows hard and looks away.

“Hasn’t it?” I ask.

“It has,” Mason says. “But you were right.”

I think back to what I just said, to what he could possibly be talking about. When I don’t say anything, Mason clarifies.

“Daisy, God caused both Nora’s death and the original bus crash that started the program. He actually bragged about giving Revive the push it needed. You were right. In fact, it appears from his program files that he was looking for another ‘bus.’ Another large group of people to be the second test group. He had schematics for places like amusement parks and movie theaters at his office.”

“Aquariums,” I say, remembering.

“Aquariums,” Mason says, realizing that I was probably right about the man under the ocean being God, too.

“How could anyone do that?” I ask, not because I’m particularly surprised but because I’m sad for all of us in the program, and for those of us who aren’t.

“He’d have to be a sociopath,” Mason says. “Which, I guess he is.”

“And what about Cassie?” I ask, horrified.

“We always knew she was a genius who graduated early and was recruited out of college,” Mason says. “But the truth is that it started much earlier than that.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, confused.

“Daisy, when God called Cassie Jesus that day in Texas, it wasn’t much of a stretch,” he says. “Cassie is God’s daughter.”

I gasp, then shake my head. Mason fills in the blanks.

“Her mother left when she was little, and I guess God saw that as an opportunity to mold Cassie into the person he wanted her to be,” he says. “When the director figured out their relationship through DNA tests, he went back through Cassie’s records more closely. She was rigorously homeschooled and never allowed to have friends. She was trained on weaponry and military tactics as a preteen. She was pushed into early graduation. Basically, she was bred to be an agent.” Mason pauses. “With a man like that raising her, she didn’t have a chance. She always wanted to please him, and I guess she never grew out of it.”

“Why do you think he placed her with us?” I ask.