Color Blind

by Sobel, Sheila;

  The dinner bell sounded; it was time for the first seating. I was famished. Inside, we gave our dinner tickets to the steward who, with a flirty little wink at Kate, led us to a nice table by the window.

  He took our drink order, pointed to the stack of plates at the buffet, and said, “Help yourselves, beautiful ladies. I’ll be right back with your beverages.”

  It was indelicate of me, but I pretty much piled one of everything from the buffet onto my plate before returning to the table. Kate’s plate was overloaded as well. Over in the corner, on a small, raised stage, the jazz quartet played mellow music during our meal. In between mouthfuls, I talked about school, about money, about our new extended family. After dessert, I lay down my fork and finally talked about my dad.

  Until I said it out loud to Kate, I hadn’t realized the depth of my anger with my dad for dying. For leaving me alone, without support, either emotional or financial. I’d been pissed off beyond all reason every day since he died. It was fairly obvious that, to date, I hadn’t handled myself very well. To make matters worse, I’d been wrong about everything. My dad did have a plan in case of emergency, he just ran out of time before he could tell me.

  When I finished, Kate said, “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For helping me understand you a little better.”

  “Does this mean I don’t have to go to grief counseling?”

  Kate rolled her eyes, “Let’s just say you’ve made great progress tonight . . . Listen, while we’re clearing the air, are you okay if I talk about your mother now? I think I can help you understand her a little better.”

  I hesitated before answering. “Okay.”

  “Dad used to think Julia was something special. He always said she was like lightning in a bottle, impossible to contain. He had great aspirations for her, wanted her to be a lawyer, follow in his and Grandpa’s footsteps by taking over the firm one day.”

  It was my turn to be a good listener, but hearing this stuff wasn’t easy for me. It was work to be still and focused.

  “When Julia got pregnant with you, she was trapped. Since abortion was out of the question, Mom hid her in a home for unwed mothers and told their friends she was spending time abroad studying at the Cordon Bleu. Which, by the way, had always been my dream. Our parents wanted her to give you up for adoption. They actually considered you to be nothing more than a minor impediment to the future they had mapped out for their precious daughter. Life at home became unbearable, the arguments were frequent and bitter. Julia wanted to keep you. In her mind, adoption was out of the question. Finally, against our father’s wishes, Mom brought both of you back from the home for unwed mothers and kept you hidden from public view while she tried to sort things out. Dad was adamant, you had to go. It wasn’t long before Julia left everything and everyone behind.”

  Wrapping my arms around myself, I stared at her, unblinking, holding back any tears.

  Kate continued, “Julia was miserable, frightened. She couldn’t keep you and raise you on her own. She wouldn’t give you up to strangers. On the morning of her eighteenth birthday, she did the only thing she could think to do. She got up at dawn, put you in the pram, left you on your father’s front porch and disappeared. It wasn’t until later we learned she’d joined the Army. That’s when our parents went to her room, removed all evidence of her, gave her clothes to charity, and stored the rest of her things in a trunk tucked away in the attic.” Kate took a deep breath and a sip of water.

  “Go on.”

  “It all went downhill from there. Our parents went their separate ways. Not literally of course, they stayed together for appearances’ sake. My father became a huge fan of daily three-martini lunches. My mother gave endless afternoon card parties, serving her guests large pitchers of icy cold mint juleps. They both began to smoke. They both embraced vices they had previously looked upon with disdain.”

  “And you?”

  “Me? I developed good coping skills. I never complained, I kept to myself, kept my distance. Most important of all, I held on to my dream. I never made it to the Cordon Bleu, but graduated from the Culinary Institute of America instead. I stayed in New York after graduation and worked my way up in high-end restaurants until Dad died.”

  “Are you still angry with my mom?” I asked.

  “I was. But you changed that for me.”

  “How?”

  “By helping me understand that by leaving you with your father, she gave you a better start in life. As difficult as it was, she did what she thought was best for you. Turns out she was right.”

  The dinner bell rang once more, it was time for the second seating and they needed our table. Kate and I resumed our positions at the front of the boat.

  We talked until we docked. By the end of the cruise, Kate had approved of my idea to have Gumbo microchipped and to pre-pay a cell phone for Angel. She said if I could get the balance of our family tree finished either tonight or in the morning, we’d go see Simone and Angel after her shift ended tomorrow afternoon.

  It had been a good day—more than good, actually—but I was worn out and ready to go home.

  “I don’t feel like walking home,” said Kate. “If we get a carriage, the driver can let us out in front of the house.”

  “You read my mind.”

  We ambled over to the first carriage, made our request of the driver, and climbed in. Soon Kate dozed off, with her head on my shoulder, snoring softly.

  The carriage driver pulled to a stop at our gate, bid us good night, and rolled away into the darkness, searching for his next fare. I locked up the house while Kate went upstairs to bed. It was time for me to do the same.

  Before bed, I booted up my laptop and checked my e-mail. There was one from Sam with the combination for the trunk locks. I went back into the hallway and opened the trunks. The first trunk held the rest of my clothes. The second trunk contained the balance of my belongings, as well as my father’s personal mementos. A jewelry box, two framed photographs, and two small blue leather photo albums were neatly tucked away in a corner. I removed my father’s things and left all of my stuff for another time. There was no rush to unpack. I wasn’t going anywhere.

  I closed the trunks and brought his things into my room. One silver-framed photograph was of me and my dad, taken on my birthday last year. I immediately placed it on the dresser. The second photograph was one I’d never seen before, of my mother and father dressed in formal attire. Junior prom? I set it aside. The first photo album was older, yellow with age. I flipped page after page, fascinated as my dad’s and some of my mom’s life, from elementary to high school, unfolded before me. The pictures stopped at about age seventeen. I never knew he had these pictures or an album of himself and my mother. I guess it was too personal and too painful to share with me.

  The second album began with baby pictures of me and continued until Dad’s birthday party, taken not long before he died. I set both albums aside, opened the lid of the brown leather jewelry box, and began to empty the contents. Dad had never worn much jewelry. He had a sports watch, a daytime watch with a black leather strap, and a beautiful gold special-occasion watch. They were all inside.

  I removed the gold watch, clasped it to my wrist, and admired it. It was a little too big, but it looked good, and it made me feel good; it made me feel close to him.

  There were three pairs of antique gold cufflinks, which had belonged to his father. It was nice that Dad kept them, even though I’d never seen him wear a shirt with French cuffs. I wondered if they could be made into earrings.

  Nestled inside a gold-trimmed red leather box was a gold Cartier ballpoint pen. I remembered the day he bought it.

  He said, “It makes me feel important to have one good writing instrument. Everyone should own at least one.”

  Now I did.

  I was ready now. I got up and placed the photo albums, prom picture, and jewelry box on the dresser. I retrieved his letter, settled into my comfy chair, took a deep br
eath, and began to read his final words to me.

  My Dearest Daughter,

  There is so much I would like to say to you, but don’t know how. Obviously, if you are reading this, something unforeseen has happened to me that neither one of us is prepared for.

  I did what I could to provide for your future. Sam will give you the details when everything is settled. You will have some financial stability, but not as much as I would have liked. For that I apologize. I wish I could have done better for you.

  You are the best daughter a father could ever hope for. You are sweet, kind, smart, funny, and courageous. You are, and always have been, the most precious gift.

  As you make your way in life, please do not base your decisions on what you think I would want you to do. Base your decisions on what you believe will be in your best interest.

  The best life recommendations I can give you would be the following:

  #1 Be Self Loving

  #2 Pursue Your Passion

  #3 Follow Your Heart

  #4 Trust Your Instincts

  Please be kind to Kate. You don’t understand it yet, but you need her in your life. I know you are feeling terribly alone. Remember that you aren’t. You have family and you will make new friends.

  Your mother may come back into your life one day and, if she does, I hope you will be able to show her your compassion instead of your anger. Be the kind-hearted person I know you to be.

  At some point in a letter like this, I should probably advise you to let me go. I should tell you to get on with your life. But, knowing you the way I do, you will do that only when you are ready. For your sake, I hope it is sooner rather than later, as prolonged despair can only hurt you.

  There is so much joy ahead for you in life, even though you feel no joy today. Know that I am, and always will be, here as your guardian angel, your spirit-guide. I’m sure this brings you little or no comfort in your time of grief. Maybe it even sounds a bit lame. But hey, what do you expect? I’m your dad, and dads are traditionally lame.

  I will miss you, my sweet April!

  Love always and always watching,

  Dad

  It was such a beautiful letter, so typical of Dad. Short, to the point, no wasted words or sentiments. It was precisely what I needed from him. I tucked the letter back inside the envelope, slid it under my pillow, crawled beneath the sheet, and fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.

  Chapter Forty

  I awoke refreshed and ready to get started. I wanted to bring the family tree as close to completion as possible with our information, so we could go visit Simone and Angel later today. I missed my little friend. I hoped her mother wouldn’t turn me away. I didn’t have many friends and not much family. It was important to me to do this, to bring us all together. I hoped everyone else agreed.

  I found Kate bustling in the kitchen, fresh cookies cooling on the counter and a pink bakery box waiting to be loaded.

  “Wow! How long have you been up?”

  “Not long. I keep cookie dough in the freezer for emergencies. I thought we could take a box with us today, a part of our peace offering.”

  “Um, uh . . . I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  When I came clean about using a box of her baked goods as subterfuge for visiting Simone and absconding with Angel into the swamp, Kate stopped what she was doing and put the box back in the butler’s pantry.

  Frustrated, she turned to me. “Have you always been this way?”

  “What way?”

  “Challenging. You’ve been more than difficult ever since you stepped off the bus. I’d like to know if you’ve always been this way or if it’s just a part of your grieving process.”

  I hesitated, “Well, I must admit, my actions have been a little over the top since I got here, but the short answer is No. I was a good girl with an ordinary life.”

  “Good to know,” said Kate, as she pulled another sheet of cookies from the oven. “I can drop these off at the police station for Detective Baptiste and the boys in blue before we go to see Angel and Simone.”

  “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

  “I’m off today. I traded shifts so we could do this. While you finish your work on the family tree, I’ll take care of the cell phone for Angel and pick up a gift certificate for microchipping Gumbo. By the way, the landscape company owner is back from vacation. She wants to pick up BG as soon as possible.”

  “Darn. I love that little goat. I’ll miss her.”

  “Me too . . . Hungry?”

  “Not really. I think I’ll just take some juice and yogurt upstairs and get to work on the tree. I also need to activate my phone.”

  “Let me know if you need anything.”

  Upstairs, I took care of the phone first, sent Miles a Good morning! text and got to work. I logged into my Ancestry.com account and was surprised to see leaves with new hints. I read through the hints, saved the pertinent ones to my shoebox. I began to add the family details Kate provided. Though the tree was far from complete, I was making progress. I could easily understand how people could lose themselves evaluating information; the census records, the birth/death/marriage records—it’s all there to be researched. Everyone’s lives are well documented, now more than ever with social media. I sat back and admired my work in progress.

  If my assumptions were correct, my mother’s side of the family descended from Marie Laveau’s illegitimate daughter, Delphine, who had been raised as white and had married a wealthy white man. I believed Angel’s side of the family descended from Delphine’s daughter, Liga, the very dark skinned baby who was raised by her grandmother, Marie Laveau. I wouldn’t actually know if my logic was sound until we saw Simone. I had done as much as I could do alone.

  I was ready to make my presentation.

  I printed the family tree and got up to get my laptop case. I opened the armoire and saw that Marguerite’s Voodoo doll had fallen out of her gift bag. The sightless button eyes stared at me, but I was no longer frightened. This little piece of herb-filled fabric had led me on my journey, to a new beginning, to my new family. I set the Voodoo doll on my dresser. It belonged there, right next to the photograph of Marie Laveau.

  I packed up my laptop, the charger, and the hard copy of the family tree and went downstairs to wait for Kate, but she was already home. After dropping the cookies at the police station, she had picked up the gift certificate for the vet and purchased the phone for Angel.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  “Ready.”

  The day was spectacularly beautiful and we drove with the top down. The traffic was light; it didn’t take long to get to Simone’s house.

  The house looked different, better. New front steps had been installed, a new railing surrounded the porch, and half of the house was covered in fresh paint. A concrete mixer sat next to their broken sidewalk and new shingles were stacked nearby. Last but not least, there was a pink bicycle propped up by the newly screened front door.

  Angel flew out of the door, with Gumbo loping behind. Simone stood in the doorway. I couldn’t read her expression.

  “You came, you came! I thought I’d never see you again!” She threw herself at me, her hug nearly squeezing all breath out of me. Angel pointed at her house. “Look what your boyfriend and his friends did for us! He got a bike for me! He said he traded with a neighbor for work they needed done. You oughta hang on to him!”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Simone opened the screen door and came out onto the porch. She looked none too happy, “Why are you here?”

  “I came to apologize to you. And to Angel. I came to say I’m sorry for deceiving you, for putting Angel in harm’s way. None of what happened was her fault. I’d like to make amends. I need to make this right.”

  “Last time you came, you lied to me and you lied to my Angel. You took her away and filled her head with stuff about us bein’ cousins. That wasn’t right, not right at all. Now go on, go away!”


  “Okay, I’ll go. But, first, would you please take a look at this?”

  I handed her the copy of the family tree. Neither Kate nor Angel spoke. Neither one wanted any part of our exchange.

  “Five minutes. You get five minutes. Come sit while I look at it.”

  Five minutes, then ten, then fifteen minutes passed. The silence was profound. Simone set down the printout, got up and went inside. She returned less than a minute later, carrying a well-worn black book, which she handed to me.

  “Open it.”

  On the cover, stamped in flaking gold letters, was HOLY BIBLE. I opened the fragile leather tome and gasped. Inside the cover was a fading, handwritten family tree. This was Simone’s family Bible, passed down through generations. I traced my finger lightly over the discolored parchment. Listed at the top of the tree, in bright blue ink, was Angelique (Angel) Lacroix, next in line was Simone Lacroix. No father had been entered for Angel, no husband for Simone. I read through the scrawled, barely legible, faded names and dates until I reached the beginning of the tree: Liga Laveau, daughter of Delphine, grand-daughter of Marie.

  I was at a total loss for words. I handed the Bible to Kate and gaped at Simone.

  “I guess we’re never gonna get rid of you now. You’re family!” Simone turned to Angel, “Baby, go set two more places for lunch.”

  I gave Simone a bear hug and said, “Thank you. Thank you, Cousin Simone, for helping bring us all together!”

  “Oh, Lord, what’ve I gotten us into?”

  Simone and Kate stayed on the porch and visited, while Angel and I set the table and got lunch ready. We had lots of food and lots to talk about. None of us knew where this new information, this new family, would take us, but we knew it would take us there together. Simone was right. There’s no gettin’ rid of me now.

  Kate and I stayed long into the evening. Kate helped Angel and Simone with the new phone. Gumbo slept at my feet. I booted up the laptop, but couldn’t get into my Ancestry.com account since there was no Wi-Fi. Note to self: need a plan for a computer and Internet service for Angel. I grabbed a pen and paper and began to takes notes from the details in Simone’s Bible. I’d add them on Ancestry.com later.