Color Blind (2 page)

Kate opened the door, “Coming?”

I picked up my backpack, reached for the other bag, trudged up the brick walkway and followed her inside.

Kate left her keys and handbag on a marble-topped antique hall table and headed up the stairs. I followed.

“I hope you'll be comfortable here . . . You'll have your mother's old room.”

“Seriously?”

“This house has been in the family since my great-grandfather, but not to worry, it's been brought into this century for the most part. I have Wi-Fi and satellite television. I even have indoor plumbing! Let's get your bags put away, then I'll go start breakfast. Last one on the right. Your room connects to my office with a bathroom, but it's all yours, I have my own. I've emptied the armoire and the dresser for you.”

“Was that my mother's?” I asked, looking at the four-poster bed.

“Yes, and it was our grandmother's before her. Most of the furniture in the house has been here forever. The mattress is new, though. By the way, you lived in this very room for a brief period, before . . .” Kate lowered her eyes.

“You mean
before
she abandoned me?”

Kate ignored my remark and pointed towards the bathroom, “There are clean towels if you want to freshen up. I'll go rustle up some breakfast.” She turned to go, but stopped at the door. “Welcome home, April. I hope you can be happy here.” She closed the door behind her.

I left my bag by the armoire, tossed my backpack onto the bed, opened the window, and turned on the ceiling fan. I flopped down into a comfy overstuffed floral wingback chair. Tired, angry, confused, and maxed out, I closed my eyes and drifted off. A short while later there was a quiet rap at the door. The aroma of bacon and coffee wafted through the house; my stomach rumbled in anticipation.

“Breakfast is ready.”

I rose, stretched out the kinks, and headed to the bathroom. I threw cold water on my face and fastened my unruly curls with a clip before heading downstairs. I was a mess. My clothes were damp, wrinkled, and beyond needing to be changed, but I didn't care, I was ravenous.

Kate's kitchen was straight out of one of those slick architectural design magazines, furnished with a combination of high-end stainless steel appliances, well-worn cookware, and at least one of everything from Williams-Sonoma. Twin ceiling fans drew air in from the window over the sink, cooling the room. Looking out the window into her private courtyard, I saw a wrought iron dining table with matching chairs and a fountain burbling at the back. I opened a door that led to a screened-in porch filled with white wicker and more potted plants.

“You must be starving,” said Kate.

She had set her vintage table with fresh flowers and linen napkins held in place by engraved silver rings. Fresh biscuits, nestled in an antique silver biscuit server, had been placed near a crystal bowl filled with chunky strawberry jam and a plate of molded fleur-de-lis butter pats.

“Please sit,” said Kate, sliding fluffy Denver omelets next to perfectly crisped bacon.

I sat, sipped my fresh-squeezed orange juice, and watched Kate.

“Do you always eat so formally?”

“Most of the time I do. It was the way I was brought up, though I rarely eat in the dining room. I prefer to eat in the kitchen. I enjoy the whole process; there's something visceral about the food prep, the table prep, and the satisfaction of a good meal.” She patted her hips. “Maybe a little too much satisfaction,” she laughed. “Eat. Before it gets cold.”

Kate poured two cups of coffee and joined me at the table, handing me one of the steaming mugs.

“Tell me about yourself. I know so little about you.”

“Well, whose fault is that?”

Kate shrugged her shoulders, “You're right. I could have made an effort over the years, but didn't. Your mother and I aren't the closest of siblings, in case you hadn't noticed.”

“I noticed.”

Kate studied my face. “You remind me a lot of Julia. You have her eyes and those curls . . .”

“I'm
nothing
like her.”

“. . . and her temper,” Kate continued. “She was just about your age when she got pregnant; not much older when she disappeared. Our parents never forgave her. According to them, her sort of behavior just didn't happen in ‘good' families.”

“If yours was what was called a ‘good' family, I'd sure hate to see a bad one.” I pushed my plate away.

Kate bristled, “I'm sorry your life has been so disrupted, but that doesn't give you license to be rude.”

“Disrupted? That's what you call it? Really? Clueless. You are
absolutely
clueless.”

Kate stiffened. Her face flamed. “Life sucks sometimes, April. Deal with it. I did. Growing up was no picnic for me. You weren't the only one my sister abandoned. I was only thirteen. I had to live with the fallout from her bad behavior
all by myself
.”

Now I stiffened, stared unblinking at Kate.

Kate matched my stare. “And now, here you are and once again, I get to deal with the consequences of her conduct.”

I wanted to bolt, but had no place to go; tears threatened to flow.

Kate scrutinized me and debated, but said nothing. She rose from the table, handed me a tissue and asked, “More coffee?”

I nodded and looked around the room. “How can you afford this place?”

“Inheritance. Dad left pretty much everything to me.”

“So, they hated her to the bitter end.” I wrapped my arms tightly around myself and slouched in the chair.

“Not completely. Dad set up a trust fund for you.”

That got my attention. “I'm
rich
?”

“No. When you turn eighteen, you'll have enough money for college, maybe even a car.”

“I never knew.”

“Me neither, not until after Dad died.”

“How did they die?”

“Mom had liver cancer; Dad died a year later from lung cancer. Too bad you'll never get to know them. Then again, you're probably better off.”

“Why?”

“Let's just say they were good, God-fearing, churchgoing folks with strong opinions of right and wrong, who thought their morals were above reproach; forever judging others harshly, but never themselves.”

“Self-righteous right-wingers from a red state. Perfect.”

Kate's face darkened; she turned inward. “What my parents failed to come to grips with is that every family, especially the judgmental, ultra-conservative ones, always has a skeleton or two in their closet.”

“Skeletons? What skeletons?”

“Our deep, dark family secrets, things that were never discussed, not in front of the children or polite company. Secrets and lies, lies and secrets,” answered Kate from a deep, dark place of her own.

“What are you hiding from me?” I stood quickly, the chair legs scraping the hardwood floor.

Kate snapped out of it, arched an eyebrow and stared at me. “I've said too much already.”

“So, you're just going to leave me hanging?”

She loaded the last dish and closed the dishwasher. “Go unpack. Get settled in. Get some rest. You need it more than you realize.”

“I can't rest. You loaded me up with too much caffeine,” I accused.

“The coffee was decaf. If you let yourself unwind, even a little bit, you'll crash. Here's your house key and my cell and work numbers. I'll be back tonight around nine,” said Kate, collecting her handbag, car keys, and chef's jacket.

“You're leaving me alone?”

“It's what you wanted isn't it?” Kate softened. “April, listen to me. You need time to process everything that's happened. Be nice to yourself. Take a shower. Take a nap. Read. Surf the Net. Do whatever you can to relax. I've gotta go.”

I watched Kate drive away. Now what? Barely 9
A.M.
and the house was already stifling. Kate had opened the windows and turned on the ceiling fans downstairs, but it wasn't helping. I looked around for an air conditioning control, found none.
Who updates a house and doesn't add central A/C? Lame, really lame.

With nothing else to do, I wandered from one immaculate room to the next, checking out Kate's house. The living room, shaded by the porch, gave the appearance of being cooler than it was. The floor-to-ceiling walk-through windows were draped in a soft ivory fabric that matched the sofa and chairs. A gold-framed mirror over the fireplace added light to the room. Muted but expensive-looking antique rugs covered gleaming hardwood floors.

The absence of family photographs screamed issues.

I flipped the switch in the formal dining room. Soft light from a crystal chandelier danced in another gold-framed mirror over another fireplace. A polished mahogany table for eight, a matching marble-topped sideboard, silver candelabras, and vases with silk flowers filled the room.
No wonder she doesn't eat in here, it's as stiff as a funeral parlor.
I studied a small Impressionist painting hanging over the sideboard. The signature looked like
Renoir.
Judging from the rest of the house, I doubted it was a knock-off.

The house felt like old money. It also felt like . . . I couldn't quite describe it.
Empty?
Staged?
Everything felt displayed, ready for its close-up.
Weird.
Either Kate didn't use any room besides the kitchen or she was OCD and couldn't live with anything out of order. Or maybe a little of both. I opened doors, snooped through the downstairs closets, found nothing out of the ordinary. A powder room off the entry hall had hand towels that were so flat and straight, I wondered if she ironed them.

Circling back to the kitchen, I opened a door to a butler's pantry. The glass-fronted cabinets held a collection of silver serving pieces and china dinnerware. A ring with a spare set of Kate's car key, house key, and a small flashlight hung from a hook by the light switch. In the sunroom, another ceiling fan drew air in through the screened windows; it was much cooler out here. A basket filled with cooking magazines sat next to the loveseat; no
People
or
Cosmopolitan
for Kate. This room was more comfortable, more inviting. I pictured Kate hanging out here, cozied up on the overstuffed sofa cushions reading her magazines, while something simmered on the stove.

In the private courtyard, bright green grass peeked out between the uneven, worn bricks of the centuries-old floor and dark green ivy crept up the high brick walls. A single, large magnolia tree sheltered the entire area. I could feel history here in the quiet solitude of this, this . . . sanctuary. I didn't know what else to call it. It was so beautiful, so serene. Except for the addition of brightly colored cushions on the ancient black wrought iron furniture, nothing had changed here for a very long time. I felt oddly comforted and sat, decompressing, until the tiredness hit me like an oncoming Metro car. It was way beyond time to go lie down.

I took a bottle of water from the fridge and climbed the stairs to my room. It didn't take long to unpack my stuff. I slid the suitcases under the bed, removed my laptop from the backpack and plugged it in to charge, ditto my phone. I flopped down on the bed and watched the ceiling fan spin. If I hadn't been in such a foul mood, I would've thought this was a pretty nice bedroom. I'd never had a room this elegant before. It was a tasteful, feminine room with antique mahogany furniture, pastel floral fabrics, and white lace draping the windows and the four-poster bed. There was no trace of its former occupant, which, for some reason, made me sad.

I tried to picture my mother growing up in this room.
What kind of toys did she have as a little girl? Did she have posters on the wall when she got older? Did she study herself in the mirror, playing with hairstyles or trying out new dance steps? Did she have a phone of her own, or a television?

What was she like as a pregnant teenager in this room, in this bed, at my age, with me on the way?
Folding my hands over my own abdomen, I wondered what life was really like for her.
Was she happy? Was she angry? Was she frightened? Did she love my father? Was I nothing more than a mistake? Am I the booby prize in a contest between raging hormones and religious beliefs?
I never got the full story from either my father or my mother. They always said we would talk about it when I got older, when I was better equipped to understand. What a load of nonsense. Now it's too late. I will never understand her. I will never forgive her.

Long-buried resentment surged through my soul, threatening to sink me even further than I already was. I shut my eyes to the pain and before long, fell into a deep, fitful sleep. Skeletons laughing and singing “
Secrets and lies, lies and secrets
” danced in my head. I slept the sleep of the miserable, tossing, turning, tossing some more.

Around half past five, I awoke disoriented, drenched in sweat, desperately thirsty, and with a pounding headache. I reached for the bottle of water. It was warm, almost hot; barely drinkable. The air was so thick with humidity, I couldn't breathe. I needed to get out of the house. Thirty minutes and a stinging cold shower later, I dressed in loose clothing, slipped into my sandals and headed out the door. At the gate, I stopped dead in my tracks. Where on earth was I going? I didn't even know where I was. Right or left? Left or right? I decided to follow a group of tourists passing in front of Kate's house.

I shadowed the tour group as they made their way up Royal Street. I tried to pay attention to my surroundings, noting street signs as we shuffled along. I needed to be able to find my way back before Kate got home. The group halted at a small Victorian-style hotel surrounded by a cornstalk wrought iron fence. As the out-of-towners snapped their photos, the guide gathered everyone close and began to weave her story.

“The Cornstalk Hotel was built in 1816 as the home of our first Chief Justice of the Louisiana Supreme Court 'n' author of the first history of Louisiana, Judge Francois Xavier-Martin.