Indigo

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 holed 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.

When I first spied the ornate cherrywood casket, a wave of guilt, slow and powerful, washed over me. I fought back the tears, and I dug my fingernails into my palms. This was why I was going to have to isolate myself. This was why I was not going to give in to my parents’ demands anymore. I had to quarantine this, whatever it was, firing up and coming to life in my chest. And I knew the first glance of that beautiful coffin would be forever burned into my psyche. Just like so many memories of Sophie. This was the why of it.

When the service was over, the procession began, the New Orleans–style funeral, with Granny’s casket being pulled by a horse-drawn carriage through the Quarter to her family crypt. We followed on foot through the streets, her family loaded down with flowers—calla lilies, her favorite—and Mia-Joy’s brother’s band played old, lilting hymns, with Stone on sax, accompanied by a tambourine, a snare drum, and a trio of gospel singers, call- and-answer style. There was an older gentleman with a bright white beard, a bald head, and the deepest bass voice, giving foundation to all the instruments. I watched him and tried to get lost in the music.

A hundred people, at least, walked in the procession, and I gladly hung back, with Mom giving me a few glances to make sure I was joining the group. I walked by myself, watching the old singer, trying not to let the guilt overpower me, trying to swallow back the urge to run away and hide.

When the parade strolled by the Union Passenger Terminal, it kicked on then, fiery and alive in my chest. I lost my footing for a second, and then I ducked into the station, deciding I couldn’t go to the cemetery, couldn’t do this anymore. Every cell in my body seemed to be alert, crackling with energy, as I hustled into the waiting area and collapsed in one of the sleek, wooden chairs. Could I possibly run? Just hop onto a train and get out of here?

I watched the seconds tick away on the large Art Deco clock above the ticket counter. Electrical?

I cracked my knuckles and read through the departure times. A ten-thirty train to Chicago was the first one going anywhere far. I could leave here. Although I wouldn’t be looking up any old friends, maybe I could visit Sophie’s grave before I decided where to go, what to do with myself—as if I could answer any of those questions. Ever.

It wouldn’t solve it. I knew that. I couldn’t run away from this.

I would just rest here for a minute and then walk home or catch a trolley, once I knew that the funeral procession had passed. I slunk inward and kept my eyes low, thinking. I thought about Annaliese and Cody back in Chicago. How easily Cody had let me shut him out after Sophie’s funeral. How hard Annaliese had worked to help me. How I wouldn’t let her.

I couldn’t dwell on it. I had been right to push them away.

Brahms. The same four measures, over and over. The deep bass accompaniment. A minor. Guilt.

Solitary confinement. That was the only answer.

Because even though I was sure of my curse, of my power, I couldn’t end it. I couldn’t end me. There was still too much inside me, too much of my mother’s daughter that could not contemplate that. I knew, deep down in that dark place of truth, that someday, maybe someday soon, I might be able to contemplate it, but not now. And for that I was grateful.

The air around me tightened and shifted in a tangible way, and I looked up, expecting something. I didn’t