Gina Linko: Indigo

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?