VisionSight: a Novel

by Connie Lacy

  “Nice,” I said, although I was already trying to think of a way to get out of it.

  “So mark your digital calendar – Friday, six o’clock. Of course, Meg wants you to come over here for dinner one night too. How’s Wednesday evening?”

  “Well, sure, I…”

  “Great! See you Wednesday.”

  Dad sounded so happy. I could only guess they wanted to show me the baby’s room.

  I’d finished my salad and my second drink when the doorbell rang. I found Brian smiling at me on the front porch in shorts and a tee shirt.

  “Didn’t want to scare you again. Just dropped by to tend the garden.”

  “Of course. How’s it going?”

  “Very productive. Soil’s good. Probably a lot of mulch in it. I’ll walk around the house. Didn’t mean to bother you.”

  “No bother. In fact, I’d like to see it. Come on through.”

  So he followed me to the back door. It was still very warm outside, even though the sun was setting. He attached the sprinkler to the hose and set it up. But before turning it on, he removed the fencing and picked four big ripe tomatoes and then replaced the wire.

  “Two for you and two for me,” he said.

  “Good deal.”

  And he proceeded to pick several bell peppers, setting them on the patio table. Then he checked some other plants along the side of the garden.

  “Come take a look,” he called.

  So I wandered out to where he was standing and was stunned to see several small watermelons.

  “They’re Garden Babies, for small spaces. This one’s ready,” he said, thumping the largest of them. “You like watermelon?”

  “Sure.”

  So he broke the stem and carried the melon to the patio. He detached the sprinkler from the hose and washed the melon before setting up the sprinkler again.

  “Want a slice?” he said.

  “Why not?”

  So I dashed inside, got a long knife, three plates, a stack of napkins, and a couple of forks and knives. He sliced it open on one of the plates. It was bright red inside. He cut the halves again and put a slice on my plate and one on his. I took a small bite and it was perfectly sweet and juicy.

  “Wow!” I said, wiping juice off my face with a napkin.

  I ate the entire piece as he devoured the rest of the little melon.

  “Best watermelon I’ve ever eaten,” he said, patting his stomach.

  I had to laugh, I don’t know why.

  “This is why I like gardening,” he said. “Real food is good for the soul.”

  “Real food,” I repeated, nodding my head. “By the way, thanks again for coming to see the play last week. I can’t believe you and Amy drove all that way.”

  “It was worth it. And Amy’s right, you’re an awesome actress.”

  “I really appreciate that. Still, it was a long drive. And I was so surprised when I realized who she was. So she took you to see the Atlanta play before you and your partner rescued me that night?”

  “Yeah. I knew who you were.”

  “So that’s why you guys were so helpful.”

  “Well...”

  “What did Amy tell you?”

  “Just that you were a good person, that you were very kind to a couple of kids who didn’t have any friends.”

  I tried to think back, to recall who she was talking about. There was Tia, of course. Yeah, Tia. She didn’t have friends when she moved here. And for some reason, the other kids didn’t like her. Thought she was snooty and smart-alecky. A couple of kids, he said. Who else? I remembered a girl named Olga who moved here from Russia. She could hardly speak English and the other kids thought she was dorky. No one would invite her over. So I did. And we became good friends. I really missed her when she moved to California when her dad got a better job there.

  “So how much older are you than Amy?”

  “Four years. But she’s the smart one.”

  I laughed.

  “Well, I gotta go,” he said. “I’m picking up a friend to go shoot some baskets.”

  He pulled a string bag from his pocket and put the produce in it, turned off the sprinkler and recoiled the hose while I cleaned up the table.

  “Will you be home for a while?” he asked.

  “Couple of weeks.”

  “And then?”

  “Thinking I might head to New York.”

  He nodded.

  “Well, is it okay if I stop by and do the yard work and gardening when I have the time?”

  “Of course. I promise I won’t call the cops.” And I chuckled.

  He waved as he walked around the corner of the house.

  Nice guy, I thought. Nice sister. And I tried to remember why Amy and I hadn’t become friends. We’d been in the same classes some years. I remembered her in my second and third grade classes. Then again in fifth grade. In middle school we shared some classes too. But she had her peeps and I had mine.

  *

  “So you’re going to follow this guy to New York?” Dad asked.

  He was grilling salmon and veggie kebabs while Meg and I sat in patio chairs. She was drinking iced tea, I was drinking Chardonnay. We had already set the picnic table, which looked festive, as Meg put it, with a pink-checked tablecloth. Bowls of sliced peaches and potato salad were waiting in the fridge.

  “He’s got a part for me,” I explained again. “It’s a really great character.”

  “Are you sure about this guy?” Dad asked.

  “Sure of what?”

  He carefully rotated the skewers as small trails of savory smoke wafted skyward.

  “I just mean – is he a good guy? Can you trust him?” Dad said.

  I wasn’t going to tell him about my own doubts, that I wasn’t sure I wanted to stay with Sam, that I wasn’t sure about someone who said I had to love him first before he loved me, that I wasn’t sure about anything anymore. So all I said was “yes.”

  “So you need to buy some furniture when you get up there?” Meg asked.

  “Thank you,” I mouthed silently behind Dad’s back.

  So the conversation shifted to more mundane things. But a short time later when we’d moved to the table and were enjoying our picnic supper, Dad mentioned seeing Mr. Spencer.

  “You know, when I saw Louis the other day, he told me you’re working on a family history, that you asked him to recommend a genealogist. You didn’t tell us about that.”

  “Well, I just wanted to find out more about my ancestors.”

  “Have you discovered anything interesting?”

  “Well, I haven’t gotten the genealogist’s report yet but she’s told me a few things. In fact, one day she walked with me through the Decatur cemetery showing me some headstones of Mom’s relatives.”

  “You know, that’s a great idea, Tom,” Meg said. “I’d love to have a family history done of my family. And maybe we could piggy-back onto Jenna’s leg work on your side of the family. Wouldn’t that be great to share with the next little bud on our family tree?”

  She patted her belly and grinned.

  He nodded enthusiastically as he heaped a second spoonful of potato salad on his plate.

  Of course, that only made me nervous because the focus of my research was all about disease, not who begat whom.

  The tour of the baby’s room came after supper and before the ice cream. Meg and Dad were so proud of the nursery. The walls were baby blue with puffy white clouds painted on a pale blue ceiling. Adding to the effect was a cloud mobile above the crib. There was also a floor-to-ceiling tree decal in one corner so that it looked like a park in there. The furniture was white and there were touches of Winnie the Pooh.

  Meg showed me tiny overalls, booties, toys, the high-tech baby monitor, the newborn diapers stacked neatly on the changing table and all kinds of other baby stuff. Her belly was getting big now and she was wearing actual maternity clothes. She glided over to stand next to Dad and they wrapped their arms around each other, both of t
hem looking the picture of health and happiness. But I couldn’t help wondering whether cancer cells were spreading through my dad’s body at that very moment.

  24.

  Dinner at Mr. Spencer’s was a potluck affair. Meg volunteered to bring baked, stuffed squash and blueberry peach cobbler. I told him I’d bring some to-die-for tomatoes from my garden, well, from Brian’s garden, and I’d stop and get a nice bottle of wine on the way.

  Looking at my reflection, I decided I was overdressed in black slacks and a silvery top. So I changed into teal capris and a pale aqua shirt. I sipped my drink as I made up my mind. Just right, I thought, adding white sandals, small white earrings and coral lipstick, leaving my hair on my shoulders. I finished my drink and poured another. I didn’t want to be early, that’s for sure. Carrying on a conversation with Mr. Spencer, Tia, Dad and Meg would be a challenge and I needed my strength.

  I washed the four plump tomatoes I’d brought in that afternoon. I was careful not to leave the fencing open this time. I wasn’t going to let any more squirrels abscond with Brian’s garden bounty. I looked at the clock: 5:15 – time to leave. So I gently placed the tomatoes in a grocery bag, finished my drink and popped a piece of gum in my mouth.

  Since it was a Friday afternoon, the package store was busy. I made a beeline for the wine section. Since I was no expert, I would just spend more than I normally would. I was moving quickly, dodging other customers when I turned into the wine aisle and nearly ran into a young woman moving as fast as I was.

  “Scuse me,” I said.

  She let out a little squeal, clutching a bottle of wine.

  “Jenna!”

  She was wearing skinny white jeans with a bright print top that left her tummy bare and large hoop earrings.

  “Tia!” I said, struggling not to meet her gaze.

  “I’m taking a bottle of Cabernet to Dad’s,” she said, sounding like she’d been caught cheating on a test. “To go with the pot roast.”

  “Yeah, I had the same idea. But I’ll choose something different.”

  “Good.” She paused for a few seconds and then backed away. “Well, I’ll see you there in a few minutes.”

  “Okay,” I said, trying for a friendly, casual tone.

  And she scurried off. I paid forty bucks for a bottle of Merlot and was on my way.

  The reason Mr. Spencer was having this family dinner was obvious. He wanted to broker a peace treaty between me and his daughter. I would play along and do my best to make everyone happy. These were people I cared about.

  When I pulled into the driveway, Tia’s car was parked behind Dad’s SUV, which was behind Mr. Spencer’s car on the left side. So I pulled into the driveway on the right. I remembered when the Spencers closed in the carport to expand their living room and figured they might be watching me right now through the windows directly in front of my car. I summoned my courage, along with my bag of tomatoes and the bottle of wine, and forced myself to the front door.

  “Jenna!” Mr. Spencer cried, pulling me into a warm embrace. “Come on in. Your Dad and Meg are here. And Tia just arrived.”

  I followed him through the living room to the kitchen, which was a mouthwatering hub of activity. I handed the wine to Dad who pumped his eyebrows at me after checking the label. And I pulled out the tomatoes, which everyone went on and on about.

  “Have you taken up gardening?” Mr. Spencer asked.

  “I can’t take any credit,” I conceded. “My yard man is in charge of the garden. He just gives me fresh produce.”

  “Wow!” said Meg. “There’s nothing like a homegrown tomato!”

  Bowls and platters of food were whisked to the dining room table, which was decorated in an African motif – zebra striped plates encircled by a rim of deep red, and matching small red bowls. The tablecloth looked like a brightly colored African rug. As Meg gushed about the décor, I was breathing a sigh of relief that there was a wine glass at every place. We took our seats and Mr. Spencer poured the wine, except for Meg, of course, whose glass he filled with water.

  Mr. Spencer took the seat at the head of the table opposite Tia on the other end. I sat across from Dad and Meg.

  “So, Jenna,” Mr. Spencer said, passing the platter of roast beef to Meg, “your dad tells me you’re headed for New York!”

  “That’s right,” I said, putting my napkin in my lap.

  With prompting from Dad and Meg, Mr. Spencer asked me about the play I was being cast in next, the Brooklyn theater where Sam was hired, where we would be living, my experience in Steel Magnolias and what that theater was like. All this, as we gorged on Mr. Spencer’s perfect roast and potatoes, Meg’s spicy stuffed squash, fresh, home-cooked green beans that somebody made, thick slices of the best tomatoes in the world, buttery rolls Tia had brought and some pretty good wine, if I do say so myself. I was working on my third glass when I decided that was enough about me and asked Tia what she was up to.

  “Well, I’ve got a modeling gig next week.”

  “Tell everyone what kind of photo shoot it is,” Mr. Spencer said, grinning mischievously.

  “It’s for a toothpaste ad.” And she flashed her perfect white teeth.

  “And tell them about your last photo shoot,” said Mr. Spencer, chuckling and shaking his head.

  “I was a jeans model.”

  “From the rear,” her dad added, laughing again.

  I could feel Tia’s indignation rising.

  “How’d you get the jobs?” I asked.

  “Through a modeling agency.”

  “You should check into that too, Jenna,” Mr. Spencer said. “You’ve got the looks for modeling.” And he turned again to Tia. “Maybe you could put her in touch with the right folks at the agency.”

  Tia screwed up her mouth for a moment and then pasted a tight smile on her face.

  “I’m not really interested in modeling,” I said, trying to rescue her. “That’s a different skill set from acting.”

  She cleared her throat but said nothing and her dad steered the conversation to Meg and Dad’s baby. They made self deprecating jokes about being middle-aged parents and rushing to have a baby before they had grandchildren.

  Mr. Spencer pushed the button on the coffee pot and I refilled my wine glass as we adjourned to the living room, which was decorated in creams and tans with bright splashes of color and a wall of abstract jazz posters. As we took our seats, he opened the door of the hutch and pulled out a large, expensive leather photo album.

  “I thought you all might be interested in looking at this,” he said. “It’s the result of months of research by my friend Ethel Robertson, who is a certified genealogist, along with the results of DNA testing we had done. Ethel traced some branches of our family back several centuries.” He handed the album to Dad and Meg and gestured for me to sit beside them on the couch so I could see. “I found it fascinating to see where my ancestors came from,” he said. “Very surprising too.”

  “What surprised you most?” Meg asked.

  “That I’m nearly as white as I am black,” he replied. “Who knew?”

  “Tell them where our ancestors came from,” said Tia.

  “Well, the least surprising revelation is that I’m descended from slaves brought over from Liberia and Ghana. But the most surprising bit of news is that I have ancestors from Germany and Ireland. And I found out I have Creek Indian ancestry too, which, for some reason, I find very gratifying.”

  “Wow!” said Meg, as she paged through the album with Dad on one side and me on the other. It was filled with old pictures, copies of old newspaper clippings, obituaries, and copies of census entries. “We’ve been talking about doing a family history too.”

  “Yeah,” Dad said, “I thought maybe we could share some of the information Mrs. Robertson has come up with for Jenna and ask her to research Meg’s family.”

  “I actually ran into Ethel last week,” Mr. Spencer said, looking at me. “She was telling me you’re very interested in family diseases, whi
ch is something I never thought to look into.”

  “Diseases?” Dad said, giving me a look.

  “Well, you know,” I said, “since Mom died young.”

  I couldn’t believe Mrs. Robertson would tell everyone about my research. Wasn’t there such a thing as attorney-client privilege or something for genealogists?

  “Has she discovered anything interesting?” Tia asked, “Like a family history of insanity?”

  “Tia!” Mr. Spencer cried, a look of extreme humiliation on his face.

  Everyone gaped at her as she lounged in an overstuffed chair on the other side of the room, a wine glass in her hand. But I burst out laughing.

  “Insanity!” I said, rising from the couch and making my way to the kitchen where I refilled my glass with the last of the Merlot.

  “Yes, insanity!” she said.

  She was right behind me, hands on her hips in that angry pose I’d seen so many times. I wondered how many glasses of Cabernet she’d had.

  “You’re, like, following the casting couch to New York,” she said, “and abandoning the guy who really cares for you and telling your family and friends to go screw themselves. So, yeah, I’d say it’s a safe bet that insanity runs in your family.”

  “Tia!” Mr. Spencer hissed, rushing into the kitchen. “Apologize this instant!”

  “No way,” she said. “She needs to apologize to me. She dumped me as a friend. She won’t even look me in the eye. She, like, abandoned me, her best friend in the world.”

  “Tia…” her dad said.

  “She never returns my calls, never comes to see me, never even gives me a teensy, weensy thought!” she said. “And then she looks down her nose at my modeling work and acts all holier than thou because she’s an actress!”

  Then she snatched my wine glass out of my hand.

  “And…” she continued, nearly yelling now, “she accuses me of being an alcoholic! But look who’s had – what is it – fourteen glasses of wine?”

  I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help it – I reached for the glass to take it back and she splashed the wine in my face. My eyes stung and I squeezed them shut, causing my head to swim. I felt like I was falling. Someone handed me a paper towel and I blotted my eyes and face, aware of angry voices around me. God, I needed to get out of there! That’s all I knew. So I pushed past everyone and grabbed my purse, sprinting for the front door. Dad called my name as I stumbled toward the driveway but I kept going. I cranked the car and slammed it in Reverse to get the hell out of there and hit the gas. But instead of backing out of the driveway, the car zoomed straight for the house! I tried to find the brake but it all happened too fast. I screamed as the car hurtled forward, crashing through the living room wall.