get away from me . I would just end up hurting other people. Someone else’s loved ones. Someone else’s Sophie.
I stayed in my room. Isolation.
But I also Googled things. Weird things like physio-electricity. Reanimation of crustaceans. I didn’t believe Rennick. But part of me wanted to.
I didn’t find any answers. Not even any leads. But he had me thinking.
It was late, and I sat on my bed eating cucumbers and ketchup—Sophie’s favorite.
I had absentmindedly sketched several pictures of Mia-Joy while I sat on my bed watching TV. But I hadn’t gotten her eyes exactly right. They flitted from one thing to another so quickly. She lived her life in eighth notes, bouncing here and there, staccato. And I hadn’t captured it.
I heard a click-clack then. I cocked my head, tried to figure out where it had come from.
Click .
I stared at the window. It sounded like it came from there. Click-clack . There it was. Someone had thrown something at my bedroom window. I froze for a second. What? I didn’t know if I should go see who it was or just ignore it.
Maybe because I had just been looking at her picture, I thought of Mia-Joy. Maybe she needed me. Was there something I could do for her—from a distance? I hesitated. I felt guilty that I hadn’t talked to her since Granny Lucy’s death.
Another rock. Click-clack .
I walked over to the window, peered into my backyard, which was bathed in only a small triangle of light from the nearby streetlamp. I saw a figure there. It looked larger than Mia-Joy. I squinted.
The figure waved, then beckoned. Before I realized who it was, I had this sense that I was watching one of the old black-and-white movies I loved. The streetlamp, the swoop of his gravity-defying hair, the line of his profile. He was the hero, the suave leading man. Lithe and broad-shouldered. Moving with confidence. Fred Astaire. I blinked and brought myself back to where I was, to who really stood down there in my yard.
It was him. Rennick. I stepped back and sat on my bed.
Son of a gun , I thought. Did he come for another kick in the nuts?
I wanted to be mad at him. I wanted to think he had pulled some big prank on me. But really, I was hoping there was some truth to what he had told me. Shown me.
But maybe his buddies were waiting in the bushes, ready to scare the shit out of the freaky Corrine Harlowe, who couldn’t shake anyone’s hand or give a high five. Or usually meet anyone’s eye. I knew about the snickers, the theories all the kids at school had about me. Germophobe. OCD. Schizo.
Rennick .
But there was a part of me that was curious. Could he know something? It was just so hard to trust myself, my judgments, anything.
I stopped still on my bed for a moment, reaching for my blue nail polish. What if I could control it somehow? Tame it. Not just be at its mercy. It was a singular thought. And because everything always seemed so out of my control, so beyond me, I hadn’t ever seriously considered it. Until that moment.
What if I learned to control it? What if the crawdad was not a fluke? Was that plausible? What if I could own this thing?
I thought of Mom’s quivering chin when she had broken the news about Granny Lucy’s death. The way she had come into my room later that night and asked if I thought I needed to see Dr. Claude again. “Because, Corrine,” she had said, “he can go through the medical reports again. Explain how Sophie died from cardiac arrest, likely brought on by the head injury. I mean, I thought we were getting somewhere.” She had waited for me to respond. I was surprised that I was so transparent, that she knew what I was thinking, but then again, that was Mom.
My silence answered her. She liked to believe we were getting somewhere.
“You didn’t have anything to do with Lucy,” she had said. “Corrine, I lost Sophie, and ever since, I lose you a little bit more every day. Your father and I can’t watch you do this!” Her voice had broken, and she
I stayed in my room. Isolation.
But I also Googled things. Weird things like physio-electricity. Reanimation of crustaceans. I didn’t believe Rennick. But part of me wanted to.
I didn’t find any answers. Not even any leads. But he had me thinking.
It was late, and I sat on my bed eating cucumbers and ketchup—Sophie’s favorite.
I had absentmindedly sketched several pictures of Mia-Joy while I sat on my bed watching TV. But I hadn’t gotten her eyes exactly right. They flitted from one thing to another so quickly. She lived her life in eighth notes, bouncing here and there, staccato. And I hadn’t captured it.
I heard a click-clack then. I cocked my head, tried to figure out where it had come from.
Click .
I stared at the window. It sounded like it came from there. Click-clack . There it was. Someone had thrown something at my bedroom window. I froze for a second. What? I didn’t know if I should go see who it was or just ignore it.
Maybe because I had just been looking at her picture, I thought of Mia-Joy. Maybe she needed me. Was there something I could do for her—from a distance? I hesitated. I felt guilty that I hadn’t talked to her since Granny Lucy’s death.
Another rock. Click-clack .
I walked over to the window, peered into my backyard, which was bathed in only a small triangle of light from the nearby streetlamp. I saw a figure there. It looked larger than Mia-Joy. I squinted.
The figure waved, then beckoned. Before I realized who it was, I had this sense that I was watching one of the old black-and-white movies I loved. The streetlamp, the swoop of his gravity-defying hair, the line of his profile. He was the hero, the suave leading man. Lithe and broad-shouldered. Moving with confidence. Fred Astaire. I blinked and brought myself back to where I was, to who really stood down there in my yard.
It was him. Rennick. I stepped back and sat on my bed.
Son of a gun , I thought. Did he come for another kick in the nuts?
I wanted to be mad at him. I wanted to think he had pulled some big prank on me. But really, I was hoping there was some truth to what he had told me. Shown me.
But maybe his buddies were waiting in the bushes, ready to scare the shit out of the freaky Corrine Harlowe, who couldn’t shake anyone’s hand or give a high five. Or usually meet anyone’s eye. I knew about the snickers, the theories all the kids at school had about me. Germophobe. OCD. Schizo.
Rennick .
But there was a part of me that was curious. Could he know something? It was just so hard to trust myself, my judgments, anything.
I stopped still on my bed for a moment, reaching for my blue nail polish. What if I could control it somehow? Tame it. Not just be at its mercy. It was a singular thought. And because everything always seemed so out of my control, so beyond me, I hadn’t ever seriously considered it. Until that moment.
What if I learned to control it? What if the crawdad was not a fluke? Was that plausible? What if I could own this thing?
I thought of Mom’s quivering chin when she had broken the news about Granny Lucy’s death. The way she had come into my room later that night and asked if I thought I needed to see Dr. Claude again. “Because, Corrine,” she had said, “he can go through the medical reports again. Explain how Sophie died from cardiac arrest, likely brought on by the head injury. I mean, I thought we were getting somewhere.” She had waited for me to respond. I was surprised that I was so transparent, that she knew what I was thinking, but then again, that was Mom.
My silence answered her. She liked to believe we were getting somewhere.
“You didn’t have anything to do with Lucy,” she had said. “Corrine, I lost Sophie, and ever since, I lose you a little bit more every day. Your father and I can’t watch you do this!” Her voice had broken, and she
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