Indigo

origins. Sophie’s last rocks.

Who was to say that the next time I felt that surge of energy, saw blue, it would turn out like Sophie or Lucy and not like Lila Twopenny? Or who was to say it wouldn’t be something else completely unexpected?

As I stared into Sophie’s nine-year-old Girl Scout portrait, the rocks still in my hand, I knew that I understood nothing more than I had yesterday about this “touch,” as Lila Twopenny had called it. Nothing except that I now had reason to stay and dig out some more information, some knowledge.

I knew I would have to talk to not only Lila but also Rennick.

As I bit into the hearty roast beef sandwich, I savored the salty taste. I hadn’t enjoyed food—or anything— for so long. It tasted good.

And when the telephone rang, near dawn, not an uncommon thing to happen in a minister’s household, I didn’t pay it any mind. But then I heard Mom’s footsteps coming up the stairs. I braced myself. Bad news? Mrs. Twopenny? Had it just been delayed for a few hours?

Mom knocked on the door frame. I sat up, bracing myself.

“Mrs. Twopenny’s not in hospice anymore.”

“She died?” I croaked.

“No, sweetie!” Mom said, sweeping into my room and throwing her arms around me. “They can’t find the spots on her lungs in the MRI. Not on her liver. Not on her spleen.”

Mom released me, stood there, waiting for a reaction, something.

“Holy shit,” I said, not meaning to swear but not quite able to absorb her words.

Mom laughed, this loud, jingle-bell laugh, and hugged me again. Dad joined us, and there we stood, all three hugging, the photo album open on my bed to Sophie’s smiling portrait.

9

Chartrain had a cat, a little tiger-striped cat with an attitude. It roamed freely, and when I got to Mrs. Twopenny’s room the following day, the cat was curled into a ball at the foot of her bed. Mrs. Twopenny was snoring lightly.

I had heard of animals, even animals that lived in old folks’ homes like this, that could sense death and would often sit or keep company with a patient for hours or even days before the medical staff knew that death was imminent. So the sight of the cat kind of creeped me out. Maybe Mrs. Twopenny was still going to die from my handshake of doom.

The cat woke up lazily and saw me standing in Mrs. Twopenny’s room, gave me half a glance, and jumped off the bed, sauntering slowly out to the hallway. A nurse came in and checked a few things on Mrs. Twopenny’s monitor. “You’re kind of famous around here,” he said.

“Yeah,” I answered, feeling a blush creep up my neck. I averted my eyes. I could sense him watching me as he wrote some abbreviated nurse’s code on the whiteboard. And I had this weird feeling then, a twist in my gut. Because what had happened yesterday was crazy and miraculous. But it was mine. Even though I didn’t feel like I had control of it. It was on my shoulders—for better or for worse. For the moment it was a good thing.

But already, even though I hardly believed in my ability, there was a part of my mathlete brain worrying about malpractice insurance, trying to figure out how exactly I was going to live with this gift. Like, should I save all sick kids first, and old people last? Like some kind of supersensory triage? And how would I make those decisions? Fluck. Already I was wearing myself out with the logistics. Would I stay in New Orleans, or would I take my act on the road? I was already picturing circus sideshow banners with a caricature of me and my pointy chin smiling out at the customers. Or maybe I should just keep it all secretive so I wouldn’t get too famous. Work out of Mia-Joy’s basement or something. This was how a logical girl’s brain worked in a very illogical situation. Not exactly A=B, but A=I’m screwed.

Although much less screwed than if I were the angel of death.

Mom came in then with her cup of coffee and traded hellos with the nurse, and Mrs. Twopenny was startled by the voices. She bolted upright in bed. It made me nervous.

But she greeted me—and my mom—with such exuberance, I put my nerves about everything in the back of my mind. Mrs. Twopenny swung her legs over the side of the bed completely unassisted. She got up and hugged both of us, squeezing me tight with those same frail-looking arms and petite hands. She had color high in her wrinkled cheeks, her hair pulled back in a silver chignon at her neck.

I let her hug me, but I pulled back quickly. No field of energy drew us together today, but I was alert around her, my senses heightened a bit.

“Lordy! You are like my daughter Ruthie! I already called my Clara. She is coming down from Atlanta. She is going to want to meet y’all.”

She beamed at us, and although I had relaxed my silence rule and bent my touching rules, I wasn’t sure what to say now. I was unable to take credit here, unable to explain it, and frankly I couldn’t really swallow it. The whole healer thing.

“Miss Corrine, you realize you done fixed me?” Mrs. Twopenny said.

I looked at Mom.

“It’s a miracle,” Mom said, putting her arm around my shoulders slowly, as if asking permission. I let her and she pulled me close. Do I know this is safe now? I told myself it was. I wasn’t feeling any of the warning signs.

“It is a miracle!” Mrs. Twopenny said, sitting daintily on the edge of her bed, her hands clasped under her chin like a child. “That’s exactly what Clara said.” She turned to me then.

I didn’t know how to start. I had a lot of questions. First and foremost, could I ever expect to control this?

“What about your daughter Ruth?” Mom asked, sitting down in a visitor’s chair and pointing toward the rocker for me. I took a seat and listened.

“Ruthie, she’s gone.” Mrs. Twopenny did not look up.

“She passed away?” I asked, but I knew this from Rennick.

“And she was the one with the touch?” Mom asked.

Mrs. Twopenny nodded.

“Mrs. Twopenny,” I started hesitantly, “can you tell me how your daughter dealt with this? I mean, how did she control it?”

Mrs. Twopenny nodded again, brought her finger to her temple in a gesture that said she was thinking. “Couldn’t always bring it around. Ruthie would sometimes get so frustrated. It wouldn’t always come. And even if it did, it sometimes wouldn’t work. Too far gone, Ruthie would say. Too much for me. But we kept it a quiet secret. It didn’t set easily with some folks, you know.” Mrs. Twopenny lowered her voice. “Ruthie tried. She really tried. Until the end.”

Mom and I just nodded. It seemed both too much information and nothing at all. I wanted to ask how Ruth had died, but it seemed too private a moment for Mrs. Twopenny, who had yet to look back up at us.

“Does Clara also have the touch?” I asked.

“No, she does not, but she has her own gift. They tell me that is how it is with twins a lot of the time, with this supersensory business.” Mrs. Twopenny had finally looked back up at us, now that the topic had turned away from Ruth.

Mrs. Twopenny rang the nurse’s button on her bed rail, and Mom and I looked at each other. “Are you worn out, Lila?” Mom asked. “We can leave.”

Mrs. Twopenny shook her head. A nurse’s voice broke over the intercom. “Lila, can we help you?”

“Yes,” she answered, looking at us pointedly. “My grandson is wandering around out there by the vending machines. Can you send him in?”

“Certainly.” The intercom clicked, and Mrs. Twopenny leaned toward us conspiratorially.

“Rennick has the same gift as Clara. I reckon it is hard to describe to y’all, but he’ll do a fine job.”

Mom gave me a look then. Of the why-haven’t-you-told-me-this variety.