Indigo

7

I woke up and my hands were itchy in that way they sometimes got. They couldn’t sit still, tapping out invisible rhythms on my palms or air-playing some invisible fiddle. Normally, I could practice the nerves out of my hands. I would grab my violin, and within the first few minutes I would just settle in, become completely still, aside from the motion of my bow on the strings and the flutter of my fingers from one string to another. In those moments, I felt so bold and sure about my place in the world.

I missed the violin. I missed feeling good about myself.

I didn’t even get out of my pajamas, just clicked in the next tape from Mom. My hands needed something to do.

This was a new lady. Room 232, the tape said. Lila Twopenny. Her voice shook, like older people’s sometimes do, but I could quickly tell that although Mrs. Twopenny was at the end of her days, she still had her mind. She spoke articulately about dancing in a ballet company, working as a bit actress in seven films. And as she got going, her voice trilled like a songbird.

She talked about her husband, Dodge, and her children, all girls. One named Nancy who died as an infant. Two other girls, Clara and Ruth. Twins.

I drew the delicate line of her nose, the upturn at the end, the high-arched eyebrows.

“Ruth had the touch,” Mrs. Twopenny said. My ears perked up, as well as the hairs on the back of my neck.

I held my pencil still, very still. And then I hit REWIND, listened to that line one more time. “Ruth had the touch.”

“Yes?” This was my mom’s voice on the tape, interviewing. Soothing, a little bit sleepy.

“She had what they said was a healer’s hand. That’s what we called it back then. We didn’t have any science to explain it away. Plus it made it easier for us all to believe in miracles like that.”

Mom had perked up now. “What miracles, Lila? Can you tell me?”

Mrs. Twopenny cleared her throat, and I heard objects scuffling around on a table—getting a drink of water maybe? “I reckon Ruth knew at a young age. It hit her around twelve, I would say. She would heal right quick when she got scratched climbing the old oak down by the pond. But the first time I really stopped and paid attention was when Clara broke her wrist falling off of Dodge’s old white mare, Lucky. I pressed them bones in my own hand, could darn near feel the separation of the big bone in her wrist.” Mrs. Twopenny paused here, and I could picture her showing my mother where on the arm it occurred. I realized I was clamping down on my own wrist, feeling the bones, guessing whether it was the one near the thumb or the pinky.

“We lived in Georgia at the time and rode all the way into Macon to get that bone set by a doctor who knew what he was doing. At the time, I thought it just so sweet that Ruth held Clara’s hand, her wrist, with this serious- type expression on her face the whole way. It was right bumpy. A long ride in the back of our truck. Anyways, we got to the hospital and Clara’s wrist was completely healed. Those medical doctors done looked at me and Dodge like we was crazy.”

“Huh,” Mom said. No one spoke for a long moment. Finally, Mom asked what I was thinking. “Were there other times?” Her voice was respectful, not necessarily believing.

“Oh sure,” Mrs. Twopenny said. I was thinking of the crawdad. Of Rennick. “Ruth couldn’t always fix things. Didn’t know exactly how it all worked, could only do it when she saw blue, never did quite know what that meant but …” Mrs. Twopenny’s voice got very small now.

My mouth fell open. I dropped the pencil. She saw blue.

“Our old reverend called her a witch,” she whispered.

Mom said something. Something about how God works in mysterious ways, but I didn’t hear it.

I rewound the tape, listened to it again, and then I let it play out. Mrs. Twopenny talked at length about her daughters, her life, and it was interesting, but no more talk of the touch. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Saw blue. The touch.

And then, near the end of the tape, she talked about her grandsons. Two of them.

Cale and Rennick.

It was easier to track him down than I thought it would be.

Holly, one of Mom’s favorite nurses, answered the phone at Chartrain. “Does Mrs. Twopenny have a grandson that’s my age?”

“Yes. Rennick. He lives with his grandfather, Mrs. Twopenny’s husband. Why?” Holly sounded like she had maybe said too much. I knew there was always the patient confidentiality stuff.

“Nothing, Holly. Thanks.”

I used Mom’s laptop, found the Twopenny house.

And even though I knew that it would be easier to call him, I didn’t want to. I had to do this in person. This was too huge. He knew stuff. Major amounts of stuff. I was convinced of that now. His mother had the touch, or whatever you wanted to call my curse.

I started up my mom’s minivan, glancing behind me at the empty seat that Sophie used to ride in. She used to love to sing in the backseat of the car. Mom and Sophie had had this ridiculous fascination with all things Elvis. I could picture Sophie singing along with him in her car seat—her high little voice teetering over the lyrics of “Jailhouse Rock.” I sighed and typed Rennick’s address into Mom’s GPS.

I found the Twopenny house easily. It was out in the country, past the Garden District, near the Audubon Zoo in the woodsy part near Lake Calhoun. The road had ancient live oaks lining each side of it, bending toward each other in a canopy of kudzu. The street turned from pavement, to gravel, to really just a worn path, and then I could see a cluster of four houses ahead at the end of the lonely cul-de-sac. The Twopenny house was small, painted an obnoxious yellow, but it looked well maintained, happy, if that’s possible. And it was nestled right at the edge of the lake.

I walked up the white-painted porch steps and knocked three times on the door. No answer. I hadn’t been counting on this. I took a deep breath and knocked again. Nothing.

But I knew that I couldn’t just leave. I would lose my nerve, and he knew things. I had too much to talk to him about. Too much to ask. Too much that mattered.

I sat down on the porch steps and decided to wait. It was hot and clammy out, but the porch offered a little bit of protection from the sun. I cracked my knuckles and waited, making a mental list of what I had to ask him.

Your mother had the touch?

How can I control it?

What is it?

Who else do you know who has the touch?

How do you know it’s electrical?

I got up, brushed off the seat of my shorts, and walked along the side of the house, peered into the backyard. The far side of the property backed right up to the lake, with a small patch of woods to the west. A gorgeous little arbor sat down near the lake, with an old-fashioned swing hanging from it, magnolias creeping up on all sides. A chipmunk stopped in its path near a live oak, standing up on its hind legs to inspect me.

“Hi,” I said, and it scampered off. I walked into the backyard, eyeing the large vegetable garden, and noticed that even though the gardens seemed overgrown in general, they were all blooming and thriving like crazy, overtaking every possible walking surface—the sidewalk, the modest lawn, the small fountain near the shed.

I heard a voice then, and splashing. My first instinct was to turn around, go back to my car. But then I saw a figure, large and brown, toward the edge of the lake. My first thought was, How did a bear get down here in Louisiana?

But a tennis ball came flying past me into the yard and the bear followed it, and by then I had put together that this was no bear, but just a behemoth of a dog. It was taller than my waist, its width ridiculous. Paws the size of oven mitts. It ran right past me, chased down the tennis ball. Then it stopped and shook itself, covering me in lake water.