Nothing.
Louder: “Ally.”
She turns around and it must be the way I look because she comes running.
“Are you—”
“Here,” I say. I shove what I hope is the hard drive at her and step fully into the back yard.
“Jess, your shoes,” she says.
“No time.” I’m already walking to the edge of the brick patio stretching like a giant doormat away from the kitchen entrance. I am searching the yard for Julia.
I find her colorful blur twirling again. She is out by the fence and I can’t see anything around her that is of danger. But I know better than to let that assumption stop me. Something can fall from the sky at any second. Some insane driver could crash through that white fence. Hell, little Julia could be having a heart attack from all that twirling.
I run through the soggy grass, my socks soaking up the cold rainwater, curling my toes. I run and Ally follows. Not too close, yelling “Everyone back up, please!” She knows to do crowd control and create as much distance between me and the others as possible. I have no idea if it works. I can’t afford to focus on anything but Julia.
At this point I am running across the yard, arms out to grab her. Julia must see me coming and stops twirling for long enough to scream and run in the other direction. It isn’t until I hear her screaming “Mommy the clown! Mommy!” that I realize I am the one terrifying her, a clown with what must be a manic expression, rushing at her, full speed.
“Damnit, come here!” I yell unable to pretend like this was anything but urgent. “We don’t have time for this.”
And of course I am right. But as a clown chasing her, growling obscenities, what else would she do but scream harder and run faster? And I hear Ally yelling. Something unclear, directed at Regina. People always want to rush in and save their loved ones from dying, but it only ever gets in the way and causes more causalities. After all, I can only replace one person at a time.
Death is different for everyone. And I see it differently for everyone.
Sometimes I see death as a tiny black hole created inside a person, an empty swirling vortex that sucks all the warm, living colors out of a person, leaving nothing behind that can survive.
Sometimes a hot-cold chill settles into the muscles in my back and coils around my navel before yanking me down into oblivion.
Then there are deaths like Julia Lovett’s.
A death where I just have to throw myself out there and hope it works out. No vision guidance. No conscious effort on my part. Just faith that being who I am, what I am, the exchange will happen.
Julia reaches the fence just as I grab ahold of her. I clutch her against my scratchy polka-dotted jumper while she screams and flails. I try to say soothing things: “You’re okay. It’s fine! Calm down!”
All lies of course.
Because then it hits us.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kory M. Shrum lives in Michigan with her partner Kim and a ferocious guard pug, Josephine. She’d love to hear from you on Facebook, Twitter, or her website.
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Dying for a Living (A Jesse Sullivan Novel) Page 27
