by Stacy Adams
Yasmin shrugged and sat next to Indigo on the love seat.
Indigo picked up her plate and took a big bite. She let the taste fill her mouth and gave Yasmin a thumbs-up.
“I’m not trying to be as big as this house by the time Brian gets back, but thanks, little sis.”
They ate in silence and tried to solve the puzzles along with the television game show guests who were spinning the wheel and raking in the cash.
“Isn’t this what old people do?” Yasmin whispered. “Can you take me to the mall?”
Indigo laughed out loud, but pinched her lips together when Aunt Melba frowned and Mama shushed her.
Her brief conversation with Brian half an hour ago had lifted her spirits. He wasn’t going to leave her. At least he hadn’t sounded like he had one foot out of the door.
She was nervous about going into the newsroom tomorrow, for the first time since her chat with Claude, but Brian’s reassurance had calmed her. As long as the newspaper gave her a chance, she’d be able to do her job despite this minor setback.
She and Yasmin polished off their cake just as the show was ending, and Indigo realized that, like her sister, she was bored.
“Where are your little girlfriends this evening?” she asked Yasmin. “You aren’t usually trying to hang out with your older sister. Where’s Taryn?”
Yasmin yawned. “Taryn’s on punishment for talking on the phone too late last night.”
Mama peered at Yasmin over the rim of her reading glasses. “You are too, so why are you making her look bad? I’m the one who caught you guys, remember?”
Indigo tried to suppress more laughter. Mama was more ornery than she remembered from her flashbacks to her teenage years.
“How late were you guys on? Were you talking to each other?”
Mama answered for Yasmin. “I happened to get up at four a.m. to use the bathroom and check on Melba. They had a six-way call going, with another girl and three boys.”
“Yasmin!” Indigo said in surprise, and then, under her breath, “We’ll talk later.”
Indigo saw the look of frustration on Mama’s face and felt bad. Mama was doing her best to rein in Yasmin, who thought she knew everything. She needed to be helping, not playing devil’s advocate.
“When you do what you’re supposed to do, little girl, then I’ll help you do what you’d like to do,” Indigo said.
Yasmin rolled her eyes and pushed herself off the sofa.
“Where are you going? To your room to sulk?” Mama asked. “I have to use the bathroom,” the teenager said sullenly, without turning around.
Indigo looked at Mama, whose eyes were following Yasmin down the hallway.
“Don’t worry, Mama, you’ll get through it with her just like you did with me.”
Mama parted her lips to speak, but changed her mind. Melba had put both hands on her walker and had pulled herself into a standing position. Every day she was getting stronger, and her speech was steadily improving too. Indigo was seeing glimpses of humor return.
“See . . . my . . . arms? . . . Angela . . . Bassett . . . arms?” Melba said slowly, between breaths. She looked at Mama and motioned toward the bedroom with her head. “Come on . . . Irene . . . Help . . . Miss Daisy . . . down the hall.”
Indigo watched the two sisters move arm in arm slowly toward the bedroom. They had cackled like hens earlier in the day when their brother, Rachelle’s father, Herbert, called to check on them. They urged him to come for a visit while the two of them were still under the same roof.
“You can stay with us, and we’ll let Charles hang out with his friends,” Mama had teased. “It’ll be just like old times, when we were growing up and your sisters drove you crazy.”
Indigo stretched out on the love seat and propped her feet up on one end. Daddy was out tonight, at a deacon’s meeting at St. Peter’s Baptist. Besides that monthly commitment, bowling, and an occasional movie, there wasn’t much else to do in Jubilant.
She ran the events of the day through her mind, especially Brian’s call, and the relaxed evening she’d had with her family. It felt good.
Next week about this time she would be recovering from laser surgery, but she would be okay. In her heart of hearts, she knew it. Otherwise, she was wasting her time in prayer.
She wished, just like everyone else in the world concerned about their future, that she could see how this would all end. Maybe getting married was the path God was nudging her to take after all. The date was already set and Brian was a good man, not to mention all of his other attributes.
Or was God using this minicrisis to test her resolve, to see just how badly she wanted what she always called her lifelong dream?
Indigo was convinced that God didn’t always make his children struggle to find answers. Moses’s orders were put right in his path. Where was her burning bush?
18
It didn’t take a fiery symbol to see that Claude wanted her gone. Even a fourth grader could have read his body language.
Legally, he’d be liable if he forced Indigo to leave because of a medical condition, so there was little he could do. But what he could do, he did.
When she returned to the office two days ago, his disdain had been obvious.
“Let me see your letter,” he said and held out his hand. He took his time reading the note that Rachelle had crafted on her optometry practice letterhead. It explained that Indigo’s eye issues were being resolved promptly and in a fashion that would not prohibit her from serving as a professional photographer. She noted the brief amount of time Indigo would need to recover from laser surgery.
“This makes it all sound so . . . simple,” he said. “I’ve never heard of a quick fix for glaucoma.”
Indigo shrugged. “I don’t think laser surgery is a quick fix. It’s a temporary reprieve that keeps me from having to use the prescription eyedrops several times a day, or having to wear glasses. It will have to be repeated as the pressure returns, but it’s a solid remedy at this point and will allow me to do my job with no problem.”
She paused, but continued when Claude looked skeptical.
“I apologize again for not being proactive about the issue with my eyes. I assure you that you don’t have to worry about any more issues when you send me on assignments in the future.”
But apparently he was worried. Rather than assigning Indigo photos to shoot, Claude had her cropping other photographers’ shots. Or she was filling the role of administrative assistant, running between the photo department and various editors’ desks, dropping off prints for them to review.
Today was Friday, and all morning she had fielded calls from the newspaper’s archive librarian and the general public.
Around lunchtime, when she heard Claude ask photographer Roger Simon for the new cell phone number of a freelance photographer he hired sometimes to cover breaking news, Indigo’s radar went up.
“Claude? Is there something going on that you’d like me to shoot? I’ve got my camera in the car.”
Claude glanced at Indigo and looked away. “No thanks, Indigo. You’re doing fine.”
He turned back to Roger. “Get Max on the phone. I need him to hustle to Fifth and Monroe streets as quickly as possible. There’s a water main break and it’s causing some problems in that neighborhood.”
Indigo bit her bottom lip in frustration.
She did a quick mental calculation—today was the end of her fifth week. She had five weeks left in her internship, but clearly she wasn’t going to be allowed to learn anything or contribute to the team.
She was scheduled to be off work on Monday for her laser surgery and planned to return on Tuesday or Wednesday. It was looking like that needed to be reconsidered.
“I’m taking my lunch break,” she said and grabbed her purse.
Indigo left the building by a side entrance and strolled around the block, but her stomach was flip-flopping too much right now to eat.
A small park was located diagonally across from the
newspaper, and people sometimes ate lunch there or took breaks to feed the pigeons. She wandered over to a wrought iron bench located under a cedar tree and pulled her cell phone from her purse.
“Hello, Daddy?”
Indigo explained what had happened.
“I don’t want to be unprofessional and just walk out,” she said. “On the other hand, why stay and be treated this way?”
“The first thing we’re going to do is pray,” her father said.
Indigo would do whatever might help. She tucked her purse into her body, gripped the phone, and closed her eyes while Charles Burns led their talk with God.
“Give her clarity, Lord, and let no harm come to her for moving on. Let what seems to be her downfall lead to her greatest victory. We ask for it in your name, Jesus, and we believe it is done!”
“Amen,” Indigo said and opened her eyes.
Daddy was thorough. “Now, young lady, you remember who you are and do what you would normally do in a situation like this.”
Indigo sat back on the bench and thought about it. She knew what she would “normally” do, but could she be that bold today?
“Then,” Daddy continued, “you go back in there with a smile on your face and type a nice letter of resignation or farewell, or whatever you want to call it. Bring your camera home and find something more meaningful to do with your time.”
Indigo was stunned. This couldn’t be coming from the Charles Burns she knew, the one who had worked at the same car dealership for thirty years and took whatever nonsense he had to, to take care of his family.
“I don’t know, Daddy . . .”
“You know I’d never tell you to quit a job over some nonsense, or in a rash way, Indigo,” he said. “Do what you think is right. But God doesn’t want you casting your pearls before swine.
“You’re not in a situation right now where you have to support a family or keep a roof over your head,” he said. “Your mama and I still have you covered—for now. Don’t go in there and burn bridges—you never know who you’ll need later. But you can respectfully and humbly tell them you’re moving on.”
Indigo ended the call and bought a sub sandwich from the only sidewalk vendor she’d ever seen operating in the city. She forced the sandwich down and then crossed the street, strode to the employee parking lot behind the Herald, and jumped into her Honda. Since she had nothing to lose, she was going to follow her heart.
Minutes later, she pulled up to a meter on Fifth Street.
Water spewed from an exposed pipe in the middle of Fifth and Monroe and was steadily rising, threatening to flood some businesses. She retrieved her camera from the back of the SUV, along with a pair of socks and sneakers she kept in a gym bag.
When she was ready, she surveyed the area to determine which position might yield the best photos. The three photographers already there—a man holding a black camera similar to hers and the others from two regional TV stations—were positioned across the street from where she now stood, shooting the water as it spewed upward.
Indigo noticed a stairwell off the side of the building behind her that led to a low roof. In downtown Jubilant, this four-story building qualified as a high-rise.
She turned and jogged up the steps. When she reached the landing that led to a terrace roof, she slowly climbed onto the roof and walked toward the edge that faced the flooding intersection.
Perfect. Not only could she see the waterspout, she was able to capture images from a few side streets, where worried business owners huddled and waited for emergency crews to fix the problem. She zoomed in on a kitchen and bath design store, which was already flooding, and showed the water seeping beneath the doorsill.
Half an hour later, Indigo had captured tons of great shots, and she realized she had done it without hesitation. She wasn’t sure whether the prescription drops had kicked in or whether her eyes were working properly on their own today. Regardless, she had no problems focusing and snapping image after great image.
Indigo climbed down slowly, no longer doubting what she needed to do.
When she returned to the newspaper, thankfully, Claude and Roger were both out. She positioned herself in front of a computer and quickly downloaded the pictures she had just shot, printing her three favorites—pictures she knew that none of the other photographers could have possibly captured from their positions.
She tucked the images in a folder and resumed her duties for the day—answering calls and assisting Claude however he requested.
About an hour later, just after two p.m., the photographer she had seen standing across the street from the water main break swaggered into the photo lab and sat in front of one of the computers as if he belonged there.
Claude, who was just returning from a lunch meeting, approached him from behind and clapped him on the shoulder.
“Did you get some good stuff, Max?”
So this was the favored photographer, Indigo mused. He looked about five years older than she and wore his confidence like an expensive cologne. His oatmeal complexion and jet black curly hair indicated that he could be biracial, Hispanic, or Native American.
“I always do, Claude. Let me download some of the pictures and let you choose.”
While he worked, Indigo began drafting her letter.
Just after six p.m., she packed her plaid shoulder bag and stopped by Claude’s desk. He was standing in front of his chair, poring over a series of picture prints spread out before him, chewing on the end of an ink pen.
“Got a minute?” she asked.
Claude nodded. “Come on in.”
“I have something for you,” Indigo said.
She watched Claude while he read the letter.
June 28 will be my last day as an intern for the Jubilant Herald. I have enjoyed my tenure and have learned to value various aspects of photojournalism. Thank you for this opportunity.
When he raised his eyes, Indigo saw the mixture of triumph and relief.
“Some things work out for the best,” he said. “Don’t feel obligated to work two more weeks. You have surgery next week. Just take this time off to recover. We’ll pay you through next week and consider ourselves even.”
Indigo wanted to tell him she knew better. But at least she wasn’t leaving without her dignity.
“Whatever you’d like, Claude,” she said.
Before she turned to leave, Indigo opened her shoulder bag and pulled out the folder holding the photos she had printed from the water main break. She laid them on Claude’s desk, next to her letter.
“I took a little time during my lunch break to make sure my skills are intact,” she said. “Just so you know, the eyedrops are working, and despite the diagnosis, I’m going to be fine. Good luck to you and your staff. Thanks again for this opportunity.”
With that, she left the office and walked to her car without looking back.
Once she had settled into the driver’s seat, she sat there for a moment, wondering how, in a matter of weeks, she had gone from summa cum laude graduate to a suddenly unemployed intern with a chronic eye disease.
Her life was just getting started, and already, she felt like a loser.
19
This couldn’t count as surgery.
Dr. Yolanda Woodman dimmed the lights in the exam room and scooted her roller seat in front of Indigo. She pressed a floor button with the tip of her shoe that lowered an instrument attached to the ceiling. When it was positioned between the two of them, she sat up straighter and smiled at Indigo.
“Ready?”
Indigo sighed and shrugged.
“Keep your eyes open and hold them steady,” Dr. Woodman instructed. “I’ll start with the right eye, but I need you to keep both of them open.”
A beam of blue light appeared, and Dr. Woodman aimed it at Indigo’s dilated pupil.
The only discomfort Indigo felt came from trying to maintain her stare for two minutes.
“There,” the ophthalmologist said. She sat back in her chair f
or a few minutes before positioning the instrument to zap the other eye.
When she was done, she kept the lights low. Dr. Woodman’s assistant put drops in Indigo’s eyes and gave her a pair of flimsy paper sunglasses to block the light.
“We’ll monitor you for about an hour before we send you home,” the cheerful young lady said. “Step down from the exam chair carefully and sit in this wheelchair; I’ll take you next door to the postsurgery room, where you can stretch out on one of the cots and nap if you’d like.”
The wheelchair ride was quick. Indigo climbed onto one of the low beds, with help from the assistant, and lay back. She relaxed and folded her arms across her belly. If this brief, but focused, work paid what Indigo believed it did, she needed to switch careers. Indigo knew the specialized procedure required expertise; still, she couldn’t help but marvel at its swiftness.
God, let this work. No more eye problems, please? You said ask and you would answer. I’m begging you to preserve my eyesight.
Those clichés were always true—you didn’t miss your water ’til your well ran dry; it was easy to take something for granted if you had no reason to doubt that it would always be there.
She wasn’t going blind and prayed that the glaucoma would never get to that point. But the diagnosis alone had been enough to fill her with dread. Getting it at age twenty-two versus sixty-two made a world of difference.
While the laser surgery was a gift that would soon give her freedom from having to use prescription eyedrops, the reality that she had a condition that needed to be managed for the rest of her life was still overwhelming.
Dr. Woodman felt certain that Indigo wouldn’t have problems pursuing her photography goals.
“We’ll monitor you every six months—every three if that’s what makes you comfortable. I’m in this with you,” she had promised. “Don’t let this little hiccup keep you from living life.
I’m looking forward to seeing your photographs in some amazing places.”
Yet, as Indigo rested on the thin cot and felt herself drifting to sleep, she couldn’t help but fret.