by Connie Lacy
VisionSight
A Novel
Connie Lacy
October 2015
~~~
Atlanta, GA
Copyright © 2015 by Connie Lacy
Cover design by James at GoOnWrite.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior written permission of the author, except for brief quotations in book reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.
Contact the author
Email: [email protected]
Website: www.ConnieLacy.com
Facebook: www.Facebook.com/ConnieLacyBooks
For my brown, green, hazel
and blue-eyed family
~~
Also by Connie Lacy
The Shade Ring
The Time Telephone
1.
It happened in the drive-through on my way to work. Just as I set my cup in the drink holder an odd sensation swept over me. It was like the aroma of coffee whispered a secret to the neurons in my brain that raced to my fingertips, causing them to tingle as I gripped the steering wheel. And I knew something momentous would happen that day. But I had no idea it would begin with a phone call from a number I didn’t recognize. A phone call that would send a tremor through my life, changing it forever.
I’d always had strange premonitions. They weren’t specific, though. It was more like a flash of intuition that something was just around the corner. But as I sipped my cappuccino, squinting into the morning sunshine streaming through my windshield, I had no clue whether I was about to win the lottery or run head-on into a MARTA bus.
The school day started routinely enough. Two students absent. One who should’ve stayed home but didn’t. Maria, my wonderful, bi-lingual teacher’s aide, played her guitar and led the children in some songs as I took care of paperwork. Then we did our Fun With Math activity.
And just as I was getting the kids lined up for P.E. and helping Luis tie his shoe, my phone vibrated. Normally I would’ve let it roll over to voicemail but I thought it might be Alex. We’d only been dating a few weeks but there was no denying I was falling hard for him. I’d also auditioned for a part in a new play at the Midtown Theatre and had my fingers crossed for a callback. And, of course, I was already on alert for something out of the ordinary. But when I pulled the phone from my pocket I couldn’t identify the number.
It was the hospital calling.
*
“Jenna, just do what you need to do,” Maria whispered, brushing her long black hair out of her face. “I can handle the kids. Get going! It’s your mother, for Christ’s sake.”
I realized one of the children was holding my hand. I looked down into Daisy’s round face and brushed wisps of stringy blonde hair out of her eyes. She was my little sweetie and seemed to sense something was wrong.
“Miss Stevens?” she said.
I gave her hand a squeeze, gathered my things and stopped by the office on my way out.
As I drove, I debated whether to call Dad. My parents divorced when I was little but they were still friends. I decided to wait till I got to the hospital and had more information. The nurse had given me only the barest details. Heart attack on the elliptical machine at the Y. Ironic – my mom, the health nut, would have a heart attack while working out. She was the one always nagging everyone else to eat fruit and vegetables. And she definitely practiced what she preached as though her life depended on it.
When I passed the street where I grew up, I tried to remember my father being there with Mom and me. Only one memory came to mind. At least I think it was a memory and not a dream. I remembered the two of them sitting at the kitchen table and her saying “I just can’t look into your eyes anymore.” No yelling. No drama. Just those quiet words. And I thought what a weird thing for Mommy to say to Daddy. He has such warm, green eyes. I couldn’t imagine anyone not wanting to look into those eyes. When Dad saw me in the doorway he picked me up and carried me back to bed where he sang me a song. A song about sunshine.
I thought about her as I drove. I loved my mother but she was always busy with her career. She was a real estate agent and a good one, I think. President of the Realtors Association and a board member with the Chamber of Commerce. Quite the businesswoman. But she’d always been so aloof – multi-tasking when she talked with me, making notes, typing a report, searching online. And our conversations were always direct and to the point. When I needed warmth or humor, I went to Dad’s house.
I turned left at the steakhouse where we celebrated my graduation from college. What an awkward evening. I was basking in everyone’s attention and feeling pretty good since I’d already been hired to teach kindergarten at Cliffdale Elementary. They were making toasts in my honor but Mom was working on her third margarita, and with each one, her voice got a little louder and her eyes a little more glazed. Then she stood up, held her glass high and cleared her throat.
“All right, people. It’s my turn.” And she looked in my general direction but I had the feeling she was looking at my hair, not my face. “Okay, Jenna, here goes. May the wind always be at your back, may your glass be ever full, and may you always have clear vision as you look to the future.” And she cackled like she’d just told a side-splitting inside joke.
But as the others raised their glasses, Mom turned hers up, drained it and plopped down again in her chair, embarrassing my grandparents almost as much as me.
“Is that an Irish toast?” Dad asked.
“Well, they don’t call me Anne Kelly for nothing,” she said and waved our waiter over to order another drink.
*
I pushed “5” after getting directions to the ICU and watched the elevator doors close. They were those mirrored doors that forced you to look at your reflection. I combed my hair with my fingers, smoothing out the tousles. People said I resembled my mother when she was young. The same golden brown hair, same height – five six. But my eyes were green, like Dad’s, not hazel like Mom’s. I liked to think my personality was more like his too. I checked my outfit just before the doors opened. Grey slacks, white blouse, blue jacket. Professional looking. Mom would approve.
She was hooked up to a collection of tubes and wires. There were instruments beeping quietly beside her bed. I stood for a moment, adjusting to the environment, like letting your eyes get used to the dark. Her chest was rising and falling so I knew she was breathing.
Then a doctor in blue scrubs appeared. He was a tall, middle-aged man with a surgical mask hanging from his neck as though he’d just come from surgery.
“Any change?” he asked the nurse trailing behind him.
“No change,” she said, checking a monitor by the bed.
“I’m Dr. Knox,” he said, shaking my hand and nodding. “You’re the daughter?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not going to beat around the bush. Your mother’s had a major heart attack but we’re doing everything we can.”
“Is she going to…” I said, but my voice caught in my throat.
“Well, I don’t have a crystal ball but you need to prepare yourself for the worst. Do you have any relatives you can call?”
“My dad,” I whispered.
He nodded.
“Any questions?” he said.
He waited a few seconds but when I didn’t reply, he bustled from the room, the nurse following him as though they were attached by an invis
ible cord.
I approached the bed, looking down at my mother’s pale face. Her hair, always styled just so, was now plastered to her head. She had no lipstick or makeup on, which looked so unnatural. She was only 52 but suddenly looked much older. I thought about holding her hand but just stood there. That’s when I saw her eyelids flutter. She opened her eyes for a second before closing them again. A moment later she opened them once more. She turned her head so she could see me better and swallowed, fixing her gaze on my mouth. She said something but it was too muffled for me to make out the words.
“I’m here, Mom,” I said, keeping my voice low.
I reached for her hand. Her grip was weak.
“Jenna,” she whispered.
I leaned closer, straining to hear.
“Important,” she said, her eyes shut tight like she was in pain. “Sight.”
“What?”
“Vision.”
She gripped my hand more tightly.
“In my room,” she said.
I was trying to figure out what she was talking about when she pulled me closer and grasped both of my hands in hers. Then she breathed deeply, and as she let out her breath, she stared into my eyes. I felt a hot current travel through my hands, up my arms and through my body. My eyes were locked onto hers – I couldn’t look away. It was as though I was witnessing scenes from long ago – events from her life. Like watching a herky-jerky movie, disjointed episodes fast-forwarding from one to the next. I saw her rushing into the emergency room and finding her mother holding her father’s limp hand, and bursting into tears when she realized he was dead. Then she was with a handsome young man – yes, my father – and kissing him. Next, I saw her giving birth. The baby was me. Then she was looking into her own mother’s eyes, a frightened expression on her face, as her mother died. Finally, I watched as she held onto a bar, obviously in excruciating pain, and then there was blackness. I gasped as the terrifying scenes passed before me.
At last I could see the hospital room again. I was still holding her hands in mine, but now they were limp. And although her eyes were still open, it was obvious they could no longer see. My mother was dead.
2.
Naturally, my dad was out of the country. He was an epidemiologist with the CDC and they sometimes sent him to the ends of the earth to do research or help out when there was a disease outbreak. This time, he was in Africa. I called and left a message about Mom, telling him I was okay because I knew he couldn’t just pack up and fly home. But to tell the truth, I was shaken. It was like I’d lived through an earthquake so violent that it rearranged the furniture of my mind, jostling connections and altering electrical activity.
My brain couldn’t wrap itself around my mother’s death. She was always in control. How could she let herself die like that? Of course, that was just the kind of thing Mom would say. Like when she accused a salesman at her company of coming down with a cold because he didn’t wash his hands enough and didn’t eat healthy. Or when she judged that the receptionist “wouldn’t have arthritis in her knees if she’d lose some of that weight.” No allowance for luck or genes. It was inconceivable that my mother, of all people, would die of a heart attack.
If I’d had a clue what fate held in store, maybe I would’ve tried to be closer with her. I don’t know. The more I thought about it though, the less plausible it seemed. Mom was just so… distant.
But maybe she’d reached out to me there at the end. I was still reeling from those final moments. It was such an eerie, terrifying experience – her life flashing before my eyes. What the hell was that all about? Was it my imagination? A hallucination? It was like our minds had been linked for a moment. I didn’t understand it.
It was nearly noon when I trudged up the stairs and unlocked the door of my apartment. Thankfully, Tia wouldn’t be home from work till after three. While she was my best friend and roommate, I wasn’t ready to face anyone. Talking would take way too much strength.
I turned off my phone, locked my bedroom door, lowered the shades and lay on my bed. I studied the room for a moment – the room I’d been so proud of when we moved in two years ago. It was all white and yellow, like you’d see in a decorating magazine, and I suddenly wished it were dark blue. I closed my eyes and took a slow, deep breath, trying to relax my body.
Then I was peering into a pair of grey eyes where I could see giant waves topped by foamy whitecaps. I was in a boat being tossed on rough seas and there was pounding, pounding, as though the hull of the ship was about to splinter. I knew there was no way out of this storm. The ship would sink with me on it. There was no one to save me and I couldn’t save myself. I sat straight up in bed, a scream stuck in my throat. But the only sound was a gurgling as I struggled for air, holding my hands to my face, knowing full well they were my mother’s eyes.
And I realized Tia was knocking on my door.
“Jenna, you all right?”
I let her in and sat down on my bed, staring at the floor.
“Your dad called and said he couldn’t reach you and he was worried and I was worried and when I got here your door was locked and I was, like, scared, you know?”
I rubbed my temples.
“Your dad says he’s leaving his phone on and you should call him right away. He’s, like, bordering on frantic.”
I nodded my head without looking at her, and lay down again, lacking the energy for anything more.
“Jenna,” she said, more quietly now. “I’m so sorry about your mom. Is there anything I can do?
I shook my head.
She walked to the side of the bed. I opened my eyes and looked up at her. She was fidgeting, examining her long fingernails. We’d been friends since elementary school, but now I was reminded how truly striking she was. She was the quintessential beautiful black woman – large, almond-shaped brown eyes, perfect skin, her hair done in short, soft ringlets. She was tall and slender and looked like she belonged on the cover of Elle or Essence, not teaching a class of second graders. When she realized I’d opened my eyes, she met my gaze.
The breath was knocked out of me as I was seized by a series of images – once again like a movie fast-forwarding at great speed. First I saw Tia drunk at a party; then having sex with my boyfriend Alex; I saw her hiding liquor bottles behind a shoe rack in her closet; then I saw her looking heavier and older sitting at a bar with a strange man. The next scene was Tia holding a tiny baby in her arms in a hospital room. And then there was a horrifying scene where she stumbled drunk into the kitchen, put a frying pan on the stove, poured oil in the pan, lit the burner and then wandered into the living room and passed out on the couch. I could see flames and smoke and knew that Tia, and whoever else was in that house, would not survive. And then my vision went dark and I was released.
My hands covered my face. It was like I was losing my mind – suffering psychotic delusions. My body felt like I’d just lifted a car, my head was throbbing and I was breathing hard.
“Jenna, what’s wrong? Are you sick? Can you hear me?”
Afraid to open my eyes, I just held my hand up, trying to get her to stop talking. I didn’t know how to answer. I was not all right. Why was I having these waking nightmares? Was this what it was like taking a psychedelic drug? Had I accidentally ingested something without my knowledge?
The doorbell rang and she disappeared. Then I heard Alex’s voice in the living room.
The exertion of getting up to lock my door left me dizzy. But there was no way I was letting her bring Alex in my room. I remembered the vision of the two of them in bed together. I think it was her bedroom here at our apartment. The sheets were pink, like hers. It was all too disturbing.
“Jenna?” she called through the door. “Alex is here.”
“Not now.”
I shuffled into my bathroom and washed my face. I had to clear my head. Had to figure out what was going on. I thought back to what happened in the hospital room as I splashed my face with water. The craziness began when Mom held my ha
nds in hers and looked in my eyes. What was it she said? Something about vision. I thought she was incoherent, just babbling nonsense. But she told me to look in her room.
*
The weeping willow swayed in the breeze as I pulled into the driveway, as though in mournful greeting. I helped Mom plant it when I was five, shortly after the divorce.
A lamp was on in the living room when I walked through the front door. I punched the code, turning off the security system, and looked around. You would’ve thought the house was on the market – it was immaculate. No dust, nothing out of place. You could drop in on my mother any time, day or night, and find everything in perfect order. She had a maid come by once a week, but Mom was just a neatnik, bordering on obsessive compulsive.
The living room was decorated in greens and blues, with paintings on the walls that she found at local art galleries. In fact, the whole house was done in various shades of green and blue, making me feel like I was standing on the bank of a secluded pond, surrounded by thick forest.
She’d always been proud that she lived in historic Decatur, which she thought was more prestigious than an Atlanta address, although in most people’s minds, it was just a suburb of the larger city.
I mounted the stairs, heading for her bedroom, which was spotless like the rest of the house. But the room smelled like Mom – like the slightly fruity cologne she always wore – making me feel like I was invading her privacy. The queen size bed was covered with a pale blue duvet, a sea-foam green bed skirt peeking out below. A small bedside lamp gave a soft glow to the room but I turned on the overhead light as well.
What was I looking for? A diary maybe? I scanned the room, wondering where to start. The mahogany dresser and chest of drawers gleamed in the light – they were obviously polished every week. Mom’s large jewelry box sat atop the dresser. She never wore expensive jewelry but was careful to wear tasteful jewelry with all her business suits and outfits.
