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picture Coralyn’s father. She could barely recall her own
parents’ faces. They came to her like black-and-white pencil
sketches. She didn’t know anything about the past and she felt
lost in the present. How was one supposed to handle a
situation like this? Even at the best of times, how was one
supposed to handle grief and change like this?
She’d done the only thing she could think to do and had
taken Coralyn up to the shower. Helped her strip her clothes
off. She was wooden, like a doll. She’d done nothing under the
warm spray except stand there, hollow eyed. Finally, Giana
had stripped off her clothes as well and got in with her. That
had seemed to wake Coralyn up and she looked at Giana like
she’d never seen her before.
There was such wonder there, such curiosity, and even a
flicker of desire. Giana had only wanted to take care of
Coralyn, so she’d washed her hair, shampooing and
conditioning it, then she’d wrapped her up in one of the white
bath sheets and taken her to the bedroom where she’d found a
set of super soft cotton pajamas, shorts and a tank, and had
tucked her into bed. Giana expected the fallout from the day,
from the months leading up to it, and maybe even the past few
years, but Coralyn had fallen asleep almost immediately.
Giana stayed awake longer, watching Coralyn sleep. The
part of herself that had been so clearly at war had found peace.
The hardest parts were still coming.
“Tell me what to do,” she’d whispered, brushing back a
strand of dark hair from Coralyn’s pale cheek. “Tell me how to
help you. Tell me how to love you.”
She hadn’t. She’d gone on sleeping, her mysteries, her
secrets, everything that made her who she was locked inside of
