Indigo Page 3

  Black. I don’t remember anything that happens. I lose time.

  But when I come to—later, much later—I am lying awkwardly on the rocks, Sophie nearly on top of me, both of my hands on her face, one on either cheek. It is raining hard now, thunder clapping and rolling right above us. The waves roll in, slapping us with cold lake water. It is later, much later, and I am dazed.

  What happened?

  We are both soaked to the bone, and it is cold. My teeth chatter, and I begin to cry when I see that Sophie’s teeth are chattering too. She is okay! She opens her eyes, and they register me next to her. I’m so happy. I’m so relieved.

  “Sissy,” she whispers.

  Sophie sits up. I sit up too, but my head feels woozy, too big, and the air around me gets that crackle in it again. My skin begins to feel heightened, stretched differently on my body.

  A burning begins in my chest, an unnatural sensation. It’s prickly and growing—electrical yet not really. I bring my hands to my chest and take a deep breath. Everything in my vision turns a little bit lighter, tinged with blue.

  I turn to Sophie, ready to say something, ask her if she feels something. She is shaking. And I think: shock.

  But I see her eyes roll back again. Another seizure?

  Without thinking, I reach toward my baby sister and I place my hand on her cheek, a comforting gesture, a big-sisterly gesture, a loving gesture.

  I see blue—that very specific indigo blue—all around me. All of a sudden, everything is bathed in it. Sophie’s face, the rocks below us, the cloudy sky, my hands. And the current, the charge running through me, it surges. No, it explodes inside me, inside my chest, down and out each of my limbs, inside my head and out my eyes, through every cell.

  Then the surge grows bigger even, louder. Crescendo. Everything vibrates around us. And I am blind.

  Everything goes white. I can feel Sophie fall away from my hand. I worry about her head hitting the rocks again, but I can’t see. I somehow grab her with both arms, and I get her, hold her. I feel her body shiver, shake, and then it goes limp. And I can’t see her, and it’s still surging through me, and I pass out.

  I’m awoken by a paramedic in the back of an ambulance. I know before anyone even tells me. Sophie is dead. I feel it. I did it.

  I shook my head and brought myself back to here, now. Back to my kitchen. And Mia-Joy’s last chance to say goodbye to Granny Lucy. It took several deep breaths to uncurl my fists, to stop gritting my teeth.

  I pushed away the thoughts that I had done the same to Granny Lucy as I had to Sophie. I shook my head against the idea. I hadn’t felt it in the Rawlingses’ kitchen, not before I passed out, not when I regained consciousness. I hadn’t felt it stirring or churning in my chest.

  Panic danced at the edges of my consciousness, for Mia-Joy, for her family. Because I knew what it was like not being able to say goodbye.

  I had to go. I made my decision. You cannot hug Mia-Joy, cannot touch her, even if she cries. Even if she reaches for you, desperate in her time of need.

  I ran upstairs, pulled on some shorts and a T-shirt, threw my hair in a ponytail, and took off for the Lurie Cemetery.

  It was a short walk of about ten minutes to Lurie. I had gone there tons of times, even once to do a séance with Mia-Joy when we were around twelve, but that had been during the daylight. It was dark tonight. The air, thick and muggy yet considerably cooler than earlier, held the now-familiar scents of magnolias and salt water. Once in a while, the breeze would bring a few sad notes from a saxophone playing at the Mint Julep, the only jazz club within walking distance of my house.

  The streets in my neighborhood were not completely dead, just quiet, with occasional laughter floating from the restaurants near the cemetery. An old, wrinkled banjo player sat on a street corner, although at the moment, he wasn’t playing anything except for the timely tune of his snoring, his head lolled against the nylon back of his old lawn chair, his banjo resting hopeful on his knee. A group of teenagers passed by him, laughing and talking, oblivious to him and me.

  I walked by quietly, hoping not to wake him. I took these sites in around me with quick sideways glances, careful not to meet anyone’s eyes. It was habit now. I didn’t even have to think about it. It had required a lot of practice at the beginning, right after Sophie, because I had not come by it naturally.

  At the corner of Manderly and Lurie, a young couple strolled arm in arm toward me from the bank of cafés across from the cemetery. I heard laughing and the clink of glasses coming from the veranda of the nearest bar.

  I crossed the street, tried to look invisible, and stole around the side of the wrought-iron entryway to the cemetery. I eyed the mausoleums and monuments, the architecture of the white crypts, the gargoyle statuary, the intricate wrought-iron crosses.

  Recently, I had been here to sketch, by myself, of course. But it wasn’t much of a secret that Liberty kids would be here on a Saturday night in the summer. Even I had heard about it.

  I opened the wrought-iron gate and it creaked only slightly, although I was aware of how much creepier the place seemed at night. A stone gargoyle startled me as I turned the first corner toward the crypt of Madame Vallion. I knew that’s where they met. I knew there would be beer, probably the cheap kind in quart bottles, probably someone with a joint. Mia-Joy was, of course, in love. And Jules Jackson hung here, so Mia-Joy would be here, batting her eyelashes, trying to get his attention, and, of course, succeeding.

  I got a little turned around near the stone crypt with the graffiti-style portrait of Jesus, but I figured it out pretty quickly. I was calming down now. I realized that I was much more comfortable with all these dead people, all these resting souls, than the idea of having to interact with real people, alive people.

  I walked along quietly and heard the first murmurs and laughter in the distance. A firecracker shot off and nearly knocked me over with surprise, but once I realized what it was, I headed toward the low bass of party music, the people, specifically Mia-Joy.

  And now that I was nearing her, I realized that I needed to figure out what to say. I knew that it wasn’t an unexpected thing for a ninety-year-old woman to die, but I also knew what was about to happen for Mia-Joy. I was delivering that moment you forever divide your memories between—the before and the after.

  I pictured Mia-Joy’s face as I scuffed my feet against the gravel on the walkway. I thought of all the little ways she had helped me in the past year. At school, how she had let me eat at her lunch table without any of the pressure to talk or fit in. How she stuck up for me once in a while to keep the kids from really laying into me. I didn’t often witness her doing it, but I knew she—my association as her friend—was what kept them at bay.

  Back in Chicago, I’d sat at the cool table. I had the upper-classman boyfriend. The right kind of clothes. The newest cell phone. I would’ve probably teased the new me too. At the very least I wouldn’t have stuck up for the new me, the damaged me. I didn’t like that truth, but there it was.

  I had learned so much since then. Or unlearned it.

  Mia-Joy existed above all the high school bullshit. She sat at the cool table, yeah. She got the cutest guys. But she had friends, like Yo-Yo Craig and Ella Stanley and me, who maybe didn’t fit the norm. Along with her lip gloss, her obsession with boys, and her too-short skirts, Mia-Joy had her own mind.

  And her loyalty never wavered. That day on the quad when Chrissy Jones had brought the—

  That’s when I nearly bumped right into him. The stranger from the Crawdaddy Shack. I turned the corner at the Montaigne Mausoleum, the largest one, with the white gables and turrets. I turned it with my head down and my thoughts on Mia-Joy, and there he was, coming right at me. If he hadn’t said hello, I would’ve smacked right into him.

  I looked up, startled. The shadows of the cemetery kept me from seeing his face completely, but there was no mistaking that hair, his slim, broad-shouldered silhouette, the drawl in his greeting.

 
“Hi,” I said, my voice surprising me.

  A few yards down the path, I saw shadows move and separate. A group of kids turned toward us. Someone spotted me, and I heard the voices, the calls for Mia-Joy. The group parted, and I watched Mia-Joy come through it, walking toward me quickly.

  The stranger stepped aside, and Mia-Joy picked up her pace. “Corrine?” And then she was there, right in front of me. “It’s Granny?” she said. I nodded. She turned to a girl behind her, Mary Louise from physics. Mia-Joy said a few words to her, then began to walk, retracing the path I had just taken. “Is she gone?” she asked, turning, her stance rigid as I hurried to follow her. “Tell me I’m not too late. I never should have come out here tonight. I should’ve known better. Tell me she isn’t gone yet, Corrine.”

  “Not yet,” I said, picking up my pace to catch up with her.

  “Thank you, God,” Mia-Joy said under her breath, and started running. I let her go. I had done my part.

  I stopped for a second before I realized that he was right behind me. The other kids, they had gone back, had lost interest. But this stranger, here he was, a few feet behind me.

  When I turned around, I stole a quick glance at his face. We were under the far reaches of a nearby streetlight, so I could see the line of his jaw, the curve of his brow. But mostly I averted my eyes. Why I didn’t just ignore him and keep on my way, I couldn’t really say, but tonight had been full of firsts.

  He reached out his hand then, like he wanted me to shake it, and I instinctively took a step back.

  “I’m Rennick Lane,” he said, and waited, but then he let his hand drop back to his side. When I didn’t answer he said, “You’re Corrine. Mia-Joy told me.”

  I nodded, stole another glance at his face. Big teeth, rabbity. But in a good way. “It’s nice to meet you,” I said, surprising myself once again.

  “I think maybe it’s you,” he said.

  “Me?” I said. He took a step closer to me, and I could smell cologne. No, deodorant maybe? Or laundry detergent, something fresh. And then it happened again, the hairs on the back of my neck prickled.

  I backed away.

  “Mia-Joy’s pump. You’re electrical.”

  “What are you talking about?” I said. I knew Mia-Joy had an insulin pump. But what did I have to do with that?

  “I heard her telling that other girl. How it’s messed up. Tell her to go back to shots. See if it fixes itself.”

  I studied him for a second. Those eyes. They were so direct and unflinching. “You tell her,” I said, suddenly annoyed. I was leaving now.

  That was enough. All I could take. I turned on my heel and walked away quickly, agitated. On the way home, I consoled myself with the thought that I had helped Mia-Joy. I had hopefully given her a few last moments with Granny Lucy.

  I was electrical? I didn’t know anything about Mia-Joy’s pump. I pushed it from my mind. I had enough to think about, feel responsible for. Could I possibly be the cause of—?

  No. I couldn’t go there.

  Granny Lucy had suffered a massive stroke. She was still alive that next morning. But it didn’t look good. I heard Mozart in my mind again at this news. Concerto No. 2. The harps and flute joining in the first sonata. It had always sounded like hope to me.

  “And Sarah’s worried about Mia-Joy,” Mom said as she clicked away on her laptop, trying to eat a bowl of cereal, answer her email, and talk to me, all before making it out the door before eight a.m. “She had another incident with her blood sugar.”

  I stood by the counter waiting for my toast to pop up. Frozen.

  Although I told myself not to, I had spent most of the night dissecting Rennick’s comment about Mia-Joy and her insulin pump.

  Mom closed her laptop, put it into her bag, took her dish to the sink. “I really have to go.” She stopped and looked at me, slowed herself down. “I love you, Corrine,” she said, and blew me a kiss.

  She turned and left out the back door.

  My toast popped up, startling me. I left it in the toaster. What am I doing here? Am I just going to wait around until I know for sure I hurt someone else?

  I tried to shake the thought out of my head. I sat down and took a few deep breaths, my pulse pounding in my temples. Had I caused this with Granny Lucy? Had she touched me?

  Was I hurting Mia-Joy somehow? Her pump?

  Or—and this thought hit me like a lightning bolt—did it work in other ways that I hadn’t even let myself consider? Was it cumulative? Was I like some kind of radioactive bomb, and people around me only had a certain threshold?

  My God. I couldn’t even face this possibility head-on.

  Or was it something else? Was it connection—emotional, mental, or something else entirely?

  Electrical?

  Did it come off of me in waves somehow?

  And hadn’t I slacked? Hadn’t I let myself become intertwined with the Rawlingses in a way that I would never have considered six months ago?

  I had been careful, so careful for months. Nearly six months. Long enough for the shock of it to wear off a little bit, long enough to lull me into thinking that maybe I was just exaggerating this whole thing, or imagining it.

  But here I was.

  In that moment, I had no doubt that my interaction, my presence, had caused all of this somehow. A=B. Occam’s razor, right? The simplest answer was the truth.

  “No!” I said, looking around the kitchen for something to take my anger out on. I ripped the toaster cord from the wall, picked the whole thing up, and threw it at the fridge as hard as I could, giving a little shriek as I did it.

  I picked up my phone, texted Mia-Joy quickly, trying not to think too much. Could Rennick be right? I couldn’t risk it. Your pump is messed up? Switch to shots. I typed.

  I ran upstairs, reached under my bed. I touched my violin case, felt the fine layer of dust on the top. Part of me needed to play right now. I sat back on my heels, considering, and let out a sigh. It had been so long. Would I be terrible? Would I even recognize myself in the music anymore? I thought inexplicably about the old yellow sponge.

  When I had first started playing by ear, with the Suzuki method in first grade, Mrs. Smelzer had given us each a sponge to use as a shoulder rest. I had loved cutting that sponge into just the right shape, using a rubber band to hold it on to my oily, dilapidated rental violin. I thought of the shape of it under my chin, the tension of the strings under my fingers, the vibration of the bow against my hand, the smell of the rosin. Why haven’t I played since Sophie? I wondered. Could I really answer that? Because it seems selfish to feel happy without her.

  “Happy,” I said out loud to my empty room, and my voice sounded brittle and alone. I grabbed my sketchpad off the bed and opened it to my most recent drawing. Mr. Lazette’s nearly finished portrait stared up at me. Grizzled and round-faced, he looked a little bit like Santa Claus, but with a more serious mouth.

  There was something final in his stare. I didn’t like the way he looked, like he was saying goodbye. Was he next? Was he going to die?

  Because of me? Some thin thread of connection?

  I had to cut my strings. To absolutely everyone.

  I plopped myself onto my bed, pictured myself leaving, running off to some remote place. There would always be people. But I had an iron will, didn’t I? Hadn’t Dad always teased me about that since I was a little girl? How I had sat at the dinner table with my mouth clamped shut well into the night, determined not to eat my peas. Dad had given in eventually, with me nodding off, sitting with my arms crossed, a determined scowl on my face. I didn’t give in. Not me. Never me.

  I felt a pang of guilt when I thought about the petty fights with Annaliese or Cody back in Chicago, the squabbles with Sophie over whose CDs were whose, over stupid things. I never caved. I was stubborn and childish.

  I could keep people away from me. I could quarantine myself. If all it took was willpower I could do it.

  I faked a stomachache that day and the next, and I hol
ed up in my room. When Mom came in with the news of Granny Lucy’s death, that finality, I took it like a punch in the gut.

  I struggled for my breath for a few seconds, and Mom moved toward me like she was going to comfort me somehow. “No,” I said forcefully. I sat up, scooted away from her. “No,” I repeated ferociously. Logically I knew that Granny Lucy’s death might have had nothing to do with me. I knew that. She was old and sick.

  But … I wasn’t sure. And what was I going to do? Just keep on going until I was sure I killed somebody off? Like Mia-Joy?

  Mom left me alone. I had a stomachache, a real one, for the next two days. Again, I didn’t leave my room.

  “I’m not going,” I said.

  “You’re going to Lucy’s funeral,” Dad answered back through gritted teeth. “This bullshit has gone on long enough.”

  I agree, I thought wearily. “I’m not going, Dad.”

  “And if I make you?”

  Fear flashed across my face. Dad grabbing me, throwing me over his shoulder. There wasn’t much that would scare me more than Mom or Dad deliberately grabbing my hand, forcing physical contact. Dad must’ve seen the fear.

  “Corrine.” Dad wavered. He was a big guy, a forceful-looking man with a square frame and a personality that got things done, but I knew he didn’t want to scare me. It wasn’t in his nature. “Corrine,” he said again.

  Mom spoke up, her calm demeanor breaking. “Corrine, you loved Lucy. This is just a … crime. Let her stay, Paul,” she said to Dad.

  “Leslie,” he started, but Mom turned then, burying her face in his shoulder, and my stomach churned. Dad gave me a hard look. I thought of how the funeral itself would be a reminder of Sophie’s, how Mom would have to relive it. And I gave in. I didn’t want to be that bullheaded kid. I would do this for my parents, and then that was it.

  “Okay, I’ll go,” I said. “Give me a minute.”

  In the end I went, but on my terms. I stood in the back of the church for the service, away from Mia-Joy and her family. Away from everyone. I watched my parents as they gave their condolences. I studied the curves of their backs, their downtrodden shoulders matching Mia-Joy’s parents’, and all I could think was, At least they have each other.