by Connie Lacy
Beginning with the top drawer of the chest, I rummaged through the contents. Her underwear and clothing were arranged with great care. There was nothing in the chest, so I moved on to the dresser. There were scarves, sweaters, stockings – all the things you’d expect, but no diary.
Opening the closet, I surveyed her wardrobe and shoes. Lots of greens and blues. I realized then that her house and her closet were devoid of warmth. She surrounded herself, and even dressed herself, in cool colors. Funny, how I’d never noticed that before. At least, not consciously.
Where would she keep a diary if she had one? I opened the drawers of the nightstands on either side of the bed. Expensive note cards, several pens, two small alarm clocks, a pair of reading glasses and two full-color gardening books along with several Jane Austen novels.
I glanced around the room. Was there anything to find?
On the dresser, there was a triptych frame with photos of me in it – one when I was a baby, one when I was about five, and my high school graduation picture. There was another framed photo of me, Dad and the Australian Shepherd I had when I was a kid. Funny that Mom would have that picture on her dresser. I strolled over and picked it up to look more closely.
My grandmother – my dad’s mother – snapped the photo the summer I was 10. Fourth of July picnic at Grandma and Grandpa’s lake house, red and white checked tablecloth on the picnic table, the lake in the background. Me scratching Boomer’s ears, Dad rubbing my head like I was a dog too. Big smiles. Why would Mom have a picture of her ex-husband on her dresser?
I whirled around, wondering where her photo albums were. The closet. Yes, I’d seen them. I opened the closet again and pulled four albums from a side shelf. The first one had recent pictures in it. Lots of photos of me. The second one was filled with pictures from when I was a child. The third album included pictures from before I was born. Pictures I’d never seen. Photos of Mom and Dad smiling in front of the Eiffel Tower. One where Mom was sitting on Dad’s lap, mugging for the camera. Holding hands on the beach. They looked so much in love. What the hell happened?
I opened the next one – the one with pictures of me as a baby and toddler. We looked like such a happy family then. The little blonde girl and her doting parents. And then I turned the page and there was a picture of Nana’s grave marker. Mom’s mother died when I was four. And that’s where I found a yellowed envelope with my name on it. Inside was a letter from my mother.
3.
“Dearest Jenna,” the letter began. I sat down on the bed. “First, let me say I’m sorry I’m not a better mother. I love you dearly and wish I could show it more. When you were very small I was able to do that. But my mother’s death ruined my life, although I don’t blame Mother.
“A few days before she died my mother revealed to me that she had inherited a gift from her mother. She called it “the vision-sight.” But I strongly disagree with her characterization. It’s a curse, not a gift.
“She explained to me that I would be able to see some people’s futures, and even their pasts, when I looked into their eyes. But only the people I care about, not strangers or casual acquaintances. And when she died, it was like a switch was flipped somewhere. I suddenly had this ability, even though I didn’t want it. Why it works like that, I don’t know. I wish there were some way I could avoid passing it along to you. But as you were growing up, it was obvious to me that you would inherit it when I die.
“So I have tried to be as healthy as I can, hoping to avoid burdening you for as long as possible. But I can’t see my own future, although I’ve seen other people’s. Unfortunately, it’s a painful experience knowing ahead of time what’s in the cards.
“It seems like you should be able to use this “gift” to make the world a better place, or at least to make people’s lives better. But I haven’t been able to figure out how to do that. I’ve never been able to prevent a tragedy, even if I’ve seen it beforehand. I don’t believe my mother was able to do so either. I think she knew my father would die in a car wreck and was tormented by not being able to save him. So I don’t have any sage advice on that score.
“What I’ve done is avoid looking into the eyes of the people I love because it’s traumatic seeing bad things happen that I can’t prevent.
“I’m sorry you’ll have to carry this millstone around your neck some day. But I do have one suggestion, and that is to throw yourself into some kind of creative outlet – something you enjoy. I have my real estate career and my garden, which I love. I’m sure you’ll also have activities that will be enjoyable and meaningful to you.
“My mother told me not to tell anyone about this. I can only imagine what would happen if word got out that we could “see the future.”
“Know that I love you.
“Mom”
I set the letter on the bed and rubbed my forehead, trying to make sense of it all.
Vision-sight. That’s what she said in the hospital. So, it wasn’t that she passed it to me there in the ICU. I would’ve “inherited” it even if I hadn’t been with her, I guess. It’s just that when she died, it passed to me, and I just happened to be looking into her eyes as she breathed her last breath. And in that split second, I had my first vision-sight. It was her life I saw. I wondered if she’d seen my life too when our eyes met.
And that memory from my childhood – Mom telling Dad “I just can’t look into your eyes anymore” – came back to me. Now I knew why. She saw his future and must not have liked what she saw.
I stared at the neat handwriting and wondered when she wrote the letter. There was no date on it. Did she plan on talking with me, not realizing she had so little time? A letter seemed so impersonal.
The chiming of the doorbell brought my train of thought to a screeching halt. It had gotten dark out. Maybe a neighbor was at the door?
It was Meg. Of course. Dad sent her to check on me.
Avoiding her eyes was tricky. I didn’t know how close you had to be with somebody to have that distressing vision thing, but I didn’t want to tempt fate. I was very fond of Meg. She was more like a friend than a stepmother. She was fun to be with, clever and pretty, with intelligent, mischievous brown eyes and short brown hair. I always thought she and Dad were a good match, ever since they started dating during my junior year of high school. They reminded me of a pair of fluffy-tailed squirrels, chasing each other up and down a tree trunk just for the fun of it.
“Your dad called and told me about your mother. He’s beside himself with worry.”
It was awkward standing there with the door open, staring at her baby blue sweat suit. So I stepped back and motioned for her to come in. She immediately wrapped her arms around me.
“I’m so sorry,” she said softly.
“Thanks.”
“Why don’t you spend the night at our house? I finished fixing up the guest room. Just got a new bedspread last week.”
I backed into the living room, putting a little distance between us.
“Tom’s trying to get a ticket to fly home,” she said, “but it might take a couple of days. Can I help you with any of the arrangements?”
“Arrangements? Oh, right – funeral arrangements.”
She stopped staring at me and looked around the room as though giving me a minute to steady myself.
“Your mother had very good taste in art,” she said, studying an abstract painting on the wall that looked rather like air bubbles in deep water.
And I guess it was because I was avoiding looking at her face that I suddenly noticed she’d gained weight. But I realized the weight gain was only in her belly. It threw me for a loop when I realized what that meant and when she turned toward me again, I stared directly into her eyes.
The vision hit me like a rough wave on the beach when a hurricane is heading up the coast. I staggered backwards, sitting hard on the couch. I saw Meg giving birth to a baby boy, my dad crying tears of joy; then happy scenes in the house and yard with the three of them; then Meg standing s
olemnly next to Dad’s hospital bed where he was hooked up to an I-V, his eyes closed; and then an image of her standing in the cemetery crying over his grave, holding her little boy’s hand. Good God! I covered my face and wept, slumped on the sofa, overwhelmed by this wretched vision of their future.
Finally, I realized Meg was sitting next to me, her hand on my arm.
“I’m so sorry, Jenna. I shouldn’t have said anything about the funeral.”
I let her think that’s what upset me as I tried to pull myself together. I was sick of this vision-sight bullshit, or whatever it was. And this was just the first day of the rest of my life! How did my mother stand it? All those times I thought she was so aloof came flooding back to me. She didn’t look directly at me because she didn’t want to know what terrible things lay in wait. Like this nightmare I was living through right now!
*
When I got back to my apartment Tia and Alex were talking and having drinks in the living room. It was obvious they were waiting for me. I nodded as I hurried past them.
“Sorry, guys,” I said. “I appreciate your concern but I’m totally exhausted.”
And I kept walking.
“Jenna!” Tia called, trailing after me.
“I’m going to bed.”
“Alex just wants to…”
“I can’t,” I whispered.
I ducked into my room. Just before turning off my lamp I checked my phone and found two emails – one from my dad telling me to call him and one from Midtown Theatre asking me to come in for a callback audition the next day. It’s what I’d been dreaming of. What a dreadful case of rotten timing.
4.
Breakfast was half a banana. I sat at the tiny pink Formica table Tia had bought online, sipping my coffee, trying to clear my head. They knew I wasn’t coming to school today. A substitute would help Maria get through the day. And my audition wasn’t until four.
I’d had bit parts at several local theaters but this was my first callback for a substantial role. In fact, it might be my big break. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed teaching, but the plan had always been to get a degree in something so I could support myself while I pursued acting. Of course, I tried not to get my hopes up too much about all that.
Still, I wondered if I was doing the right thing. I’d agreed to be there for the callback but doing it the day after my mother’s death made me feel like I was tailgating on a freshly dug grave. But would Mom want me to miss such a big opportunity? One thing about it – I didn’t know anyone at the theater well enough to have one of those damn visions. Which would be such a relief.
So maybe that’s what I should do – avoid being around people I cared for: Dad, Meg, Tia, Alex. Of course, I cared for my students too. God, how could I go back and look in Daisy’s eyes? What would I see there? I didn’t want to know. Especially if there was nothing I could do about it. I’d have to learn the tricks my mom knew so well – never looking people in the eye unless I didn’t give a hoot about them. The school year would be over in three weeks. If I could just hang in there that long. Bereavement leave would give me one week off. Then, I’d only have two weeks left in the classroom. I could practice not looking directly at the children.
*
At 3:45 I was pacing the burgundy carpet of the theater lobby. A blonde woman sat in a chair, studying her lines, mouthing them over and over to herself. She was dressed in jeans and a white top, which I thought was a mistake if she was trying out for the same part I was. I’d dressed in the outfit I’d worn to the first audition – a retro fifties dress with a full skirt and belted waist. It was pink with white accents and I was wearing white high heels. My lips were painted red and my hair was done in a French twist. A string of faux pearls and matching small earrings completed the look. The part they’d called me back for was the younger version of one of the lead characters in Rose and Lily, about two half-senile sisters.
Then it was my turn and I was ushered through the theater to the stage. The house lights were up so I could see a small cluster of people sitting near the front. The burgundy carpet of the lobby extended down the aisles, and the seats matched as well. A 1950s looking guy stood center stage, clearly a little bored, like maybe this was the umpteenth time he’d run the lines. Mid-thirties, about six feet tall, trim, dishwater blonde hair jelled into an early Elvis style.
He nodded as I joined him.
“Randall Hayes,” he said.
“Jenna Stevens,” I replied, trying for a friendly smile.
Bracing myself for the worst, I glanced briefly at his eyes and was tremendously relieved when nothing happened.
Of course, now that we were face to face, I realized who he was – one of a handful of actors who got most of the lead roles in local theater productions. And I knew why too. He was the son of an Atlanta developer whose philanthropy helped keep many local arts organizations solvent. It was expected he would get the roles he wanted. And he did.
Sam Novak, the director, was sitting in the third row with a couple of other people.
“So, uh… Jenna,” he called out.
I’d met him at the first audition. Young, but his glasses gave him an authoritative air. He looked almost foreign. Dark hair, blue eyes, five ten maybe. Attractive, but not Hollywood handsome. He was – how should I put it – asymmetrical.
“You ready?” he called.
I nodded, pivoting away from Randall for a moment and then whirling around again.
“What do you mean you don’t like being a father? It’s a little late for that!” I said, giving him an angry look.
“Look, Rose,” Randall said, sighing with realistic exasperation, “you’re the one who wanted kids. Not me.”
“We made that decision together. I certainly didn’t ambush you,” I said, seething.
“I didn’t say you…”
“But you implied…”
“Listen, babe,” he said, “I’m a good provider. That’s my job and I do it well. Your job is to raise the kids. I mete out the punishment now and then, but you’re the one who wanted children.”
And before I knew what I was doing, my hand slapped his face.
“Hey!” he cried, touching his cheek.
“I’m sorry,” I said, dropping out of character. “I don’t know what came over me.”
And then someone was applauding and I looked up to see the young director nodding his head and clapping slowly.
“Do me a favor,” Sam called out, looking down at a notebook on his lap, “wait for me in the lobby, uh… Jenna. I’ll be done in, say, fifteen minutes.”
Thirty minutes later, my presumed rival hurried back through the lobby, looking like she was trying not to cry. Fifteen minutes after that, Sam moseyed toward me, pulling a sport coat on over his tee shirt and jeans. He tucked his horn-rimmed glasses in his pocket and motioned with his head for me to walk with him and we strolled down the street to a coffee shop. He ordered a black coffee and I got hot tea.
“Just wanted to get a feel for where you’re coming from,” he said once we were seated.
He looked younger without the glasses, making me wonder how he got this directing gig.
“Where I’m coming from?”
“Yeah.”
I wasn’t sure what he wanted to know.
“Why’d you slap his face?”
“He deserved it.”
“So, you were rewriting the script?”
I sipped my tea, trying to figure out what to say. If he wasn’t interested, he wouldn’t be talking with me. But I didn’t want to scare him off being… whatever might scare him off. So I shrugged. Then he shrugged and raised his eyebrow.
“Okay, Rose.”
I swallowed and opened my mouth but nothing came out.
“Yeah, you got the part,” he said.
Elated. Depressed. How could I be both at the same time? But that pretty much summed up my state of mind. Who could I share the news with? Two days before, I would’ve called Dad, Tia, Alex… and Mom. Not anymore.
*
Because my mother was such an organized person, arrangements had already been made for her cremation. So five days after she died a box containing her ashes was delivered to my apartment by Federal Express. Dad said he’d help me plan a memorial service when he got back but who would come? She kept her distance from everyone and now I knew why. In retrospect, it seemed like she tried her best to find fault with people to make sure affection didn’t sneak up on her.
And then her lawyer called to tell me she’d left everything to me – the house, which was paid for, a savings account, some investments, and the proceeds from her life insurance policy. It hadn’t even occurred to me.
I was sitting on our little balcony facing the setting sun when I heard Tia in the apartment. The box with Mom’s ashes rested on the chair beside me. Then the sliding door opened slowly behind me and I moved the box so she could sit down, but continued gazing at the trees.
“Jenna?”
It wasn’t Tia. Alex sat down in the other chair. I closed my eyes to avoid meeting his, then opened them again and gave a tentative glance in his direction, focusing on his Adam’s apple. He was Korean American and had the most beautiful dark eyes, which were now, unfortunately, off limits.
“Hi,” I whispered.
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah.”
He scooted his chair closer and took my hand and kissed it. I remembered how lucky I felt when he first asked me out. He was like a dream come true. He could talk about anything and he was witty too, which made being with him so much fun. But ever since my vision of Tia and him in bed, well, I guess you could say I’d crossed him off my list.
“I’m here for you,” he said softly.
That’s when it really hit me – not only the loss of Alex in my life, but of my life itself. This gift, this curse, made me feel like I was looking through steel bars in a prison cell.
