Indigo (29 page)

And wasn’t that the biggest decision of them all? Behind everything in life? Wrapped up in every step of our journey? Every chance we took? Faith. The question and the answer.

A million yeses.

I fingered the blue stone. “Thank you,” I told Rennick, feeling the blush rise in my neck. “For the necklace, for visiting Sophie’s grave with me, for so many things.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, and he tipped my chin toward him.

I stood on my tiptoes, kissed him on the lips. He smiled. And the look on his face, it was … something. The tender, hopeful gaze of his eyes. What was it? Pride?

And in that instant, I knew. It was love.

I pressed my face into the hollow of his collarbone and inhaled his laundry-fresh scent.
So this is what it feels like
.

I bent down on my knees then, did what I came here to do. I said a prayer for Sophie, for her soul, for where she was; to God, or to that power greater than us, than me, than
the touch, greater even than lightning. “I love you, Sophie,” I said.

I opened my case, withdrew my violin in the chilly September sun. I stood up and played for Sophie, Mozart’s
Laudate Dominum
, which I couldn’t bring myself to play at her funeral. It spoke of love and loss, sadness and grief, but also hope and remembrance. Tranquillo. I played it all, my eyes closed. And I felt it all, with every note, with every push and pull of my bow, the symphony of emotions I held so close for Sophie, for all she meant to me, for all I wanted to tell her.

And when I finished, I opened my eyes, and I saw Rennick, his eyes closed too. He was feeling too. He knew what it all meant. He didn’t live only on the surface.

“It’s your voice,” he said. “That violin is your voice.”

I nodded. Because for so long, I had been silent. And I had so much to say. To everyone. To Sophie.

I sat on the grass, tracing Sophie’s name on her simple marble headstone. I spoke to her in my mind, told her I was sorry, told her I loved her, told her goodbye. I pictured her then, not on the rocks of that beach, but on Christmas morning, her curls a mess. Learning to ride her bike without training wheels. The elation on her face when she succeeded. Sophie living. Sophie jumping in. Sophie being happy.

This was what I held on to.
It was just a storm
.

And when I was ready, Rennick stuck out his hand to help me up from the ground, and I grabbed it, my palm thrust against his. And there it was again, that human touch,
that spark, that simple kindness, a helping hand when you really needed one.

Just like I had needed it so long ago, when Rennick first placed the crawdad in my palm. He didn’t have to care. He could have ignored my colors. He could have ignored me. He could have given up on hope. Given up on faith in the face of so many everyday deaths: apathy, fear, pride.

Sometimes that touch, that squeeze of a hand, that arm around the shoulders, it tells us that we are not in this alone. And for me, Rennick made all the difference.

We were in this together. I knew that.

We’d figure out what to do with the burning coil beneath my ribs, that power, always ready, always there. I would use it, I knew that, to help others. One day at a time. There was no big master plan that needed to be made. Not just one decision. But rather a million little decisions made each day, over and over. A million yeses.

This was my life. In flux. Always. The aura of my life being painted and repainted daily, unfolding itself as a thing of beauty in the process. With me working and learning and hoping, so that each stroke, each color, each decision might add a little more beauty, a little more peace, a little more hope. Adding up to a piece of wonder.

I took in a deep breath of the cool autumn air and held it there in my lungs.

The possibilities now seemed endless.

And I was caught off guard by my optimism, here, in the
moment. How impossible it had seemed such a short time ago, to be on the other side of the paralyzing grief of losing my sister.

But here I was. Here
we
were. It wasn’t the size of the circle; it was who was in it.

And that made all the difference.

So many thanks to those who’ve made such a big difference to me as a writer and to this story: Chuck and Judy Simonich, Caryn Wiseman, Chelsea Eberly, Suzy Capozzi, and the entire team at Random House Books for Young Readers.

To my circle—my colorful, lively, brilliant circle—I love you all so dearly. Thank you for your constant humor and inspiration: Cooper, Clarke, Maddie, Alex, Rebecca, Hannah, Jonah, Jacob, Henry, and, of course, Jack, Maia, and Zoe.

Last but not least, for Greg, a million yeses.

GINA LINKO
has a graduate degree in creative writing from DePaul University and lives outside Chicago with her husband and three children. She teaches college English part-time, but her real passion is sitting down to an empty screen and asking herself, “What if …?”