Color Blind (11 page)

“Why do you have to be the one to tell me? Why didn't my own mother talk to me about any of this? I wouldn't have cared! She's my mother! I'm her daughter! I'm supposed to be family. I should have been told!”

“And what a family we are! Self-righteous parents, a runaway sister, and a bratty niece . . . For what it's worth, I planned to talk to you about everything eventually. You needed to get acclimated first. You needed time to grieve for your father. You needed time to adjust to a life with me. God knows, I needed to adjust to having
you
in my life. Still do . . . Honestly, I'm surprised this photo was packed away with the others. Our parents did their level best to bury Mother's heritage.”

“If they kept everything so well hidden, how did you find out?” I asked, pacing faster now.

“Ironically, the same way you did. I found this photograph and wanted to know who she was. My mother, who was more than one mint julep over the line, told me in a moment of unapologetic candor. She was neither proud, nor ashamed, just matter-of-fact. The shame, well, that was all on our father. He was a dyed-in-the wool racist. I doubt he would have married her if he had known. He lived by the one-drop rule.”

“What's that?”

“It was a law which stated that if a person had one drop of black blood in their family, they were considered legally black.”

“Why don't I look black? Or you, your skin is as fair as mine. We couldn't be more white. I don't understand any of this.”

“It's simple genetics. Dominant characteristics of race can disappear after only three or four generations. Look it up on the Internet if you don't believe me. Read up on Thomas Jefferson and his slave Sally Hemings. Marie Laveau had as many as fifteen mixed-race children. Even if she had only half as many, that's still a lot of opportunity for interracial relationships over the years.”

“What about the Voodoo? Is that inherited, too? Is that why the lady in the shop . . . ?”

“What lady in what shop?” asked Kate.

“Nothing, never mind. Forget I said anything.”

“What lady? Answer me!”

“Everything about my life just sucks! I hate New Orleans! I hate living with you! I'm done.” I headed for the door.

“You know what? I don't much care for you. Or your bad attitude. I don't want to live with you either,” Kate shot back.

I stomped out of the kitchen, watching as Kate picked up one of the Voodoo books and threw it across the room. When it hit the wall, her grandmother's beautiful antique mirror fell to the floor, shattering into a million pieces.

I grabbed my purse from the hall table and flew out of the house. The wind was almost gale force, the rain came down in sheets. Streets were empty, no carriages or cabs were in sight.
Perfect, just perfect
, I thought, slogging my way up the sidewalk fighting against the high winds and heavy rain.

I didn't have a plan. I didn't know where I was going. I didn't know how far I'd gone until I arrived at the Voodoo shop. The storm raged all around me. Soaked to the skin and in need of shelter, I turned the knob. The door was locked. A razor thin stream of light shined at the back of the shop; somebody had to be inside. I rapped on the door, but nobody answered. Finding an unlocked gate next to the building, I went through and followed a muddy path to the back porch. I stopped before knocking.
Is this what I really want to do?
When the back door swung open, the decision was made.

“Welcome, Miss April. Come in out of the storm before you catch your death.”

The wind gusted, blowing stinging rain into the back porch. I scuttled through the doorway like a drowning rat in search of a dry hole. I couldn't get any wetter, but I could get dry. The woman disappeared into a small room and returned with a stack of fluffy towels.

“Dry yourself. I will find you something to wear.”

I rubbed my face and toweled my hair, worked my way down my arms and legs, kicked off my sandals, and dried my feet.

“Here, put this on,” she said, handing me a long multicolored dress.

“Is there somewhere I can change?”

“In there,” she said, pointing to the bathroom door. “I will go fix some tea for us.”

Closing the door behind me, I looked in the tiny mirror, thought about the crash I heard after I left Kate's kitchen, and wondered briefly if she was okay.

I am a mess, no doubt about it. My life is in shambles. I have no friends except maybe Miles, if I haven't scared him off. I have no family except Kate, if I haven't scared her off. Seems to me that at this point in my life, the only ally I have is this Voodoo woman. What does that say about me?

There was a rap at the door.

“Are you all right, Miss April?”

“Coming,” I said, slipping the soft, flowing fabric over my head. I opened the door.

“Let's have some tea; you can tell me what brought you to my doorstep this night. But first, wrap your hair, it will dry faster,” she said, handing me a thin, brightly colored towel.

Gathering my curls into a knot, I wrapped the turban tightly and was freaked out by my reflection. I looked exactly like a white Marie Laveau. Queasy and lightheaded, I glanced in the mirror again. I didn't look anything like her, it was only this outfit and my overactive imagination. I removed the head wrap, left it on the counter, and followed the woman. Sliding the woven fabric aside, the shopkeeper guided me through the door. The dimly lit room was filled floor to ceiling with all things Voodoo: statues, draped fabrics, and hand-crafted dolls were scattered everywhere. Candles shimmered in crystal votive holders, the stale scent of long-extinguished incense lingered in the air. If there was a window anywhere, it was hidden. Large cushions for devotees surrounded an altar littered with offerings, like the ones I'd seen at Marie Laveau's crypt. A china teapot and two delicate cups had been placed on a table near the altar. The woman motioned for me to sit down.

“I have tea cakes if you are hungry.”

“No thank you,” I said, settling onto a soft, oversized cushion.

Pouring the tea she said, “I hope you like chamomile.”

“I do.”

“I added a few herbs of my own. I hope you find it pleasant,” she said, handing me the steaming cup.

“Do you own this place?”

“Yes. I own the building; I live upstairs and have the shop down here.”

“What is this room?” I asked, taking in my surroundings.

“This room is used for private events. Please tell me what brings you to me this stormy night, Miss April.”

“I don't know. I just came.”

“For what purpose?”

“I have questions.”

Marguerite studied me and smiled. “I had a daughter about your age, very much like you. Oh, did she have a mind of her own! So smart, so inquisitive. She very much wanted to go to college, to study cultural anthropology as I had done. She wanted to go to Africa, to do good works.”

She paused, lost in her past. “She was taken from me, in a car crash, my husband, too. Life can be so fleeting, so devastating.”

I nodded my head in understanding.

“But you know that already, for you have suffered a great loss,
n'est-ce pas
?”

I nodded again.

“You have questions, my child?”

“I looked you up on the Internet. You're not an ordinary shopkeeper. You're a Voodoo high priestess, aren't you?”

She tilted her head, but did not answer.

“Can you tell me if after someone dies, it's possible to contact them? Is that what Voodoo does? Like a séance or something?”

Marguerite searched my face before replying. “Is that what you want, to contact someone who has died?”

“Maybe. I'm not sure. I was just thinking that . . . Yes, I do. I need to contact someone.”

“In Voodoo, we can make contact with spirits, the
Loa
, through ritual.”

“What kind of ritual?

“There are many, but for you, a spiritual cleansing or healing ritual would be necessary to unblock your energy if you have had a catastrophic life event. Perhaps a death in your family? When your positive energy is released, it will be possible to have a psychic connection with the one who has passed.”

I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing.

Marguerite continued, “Miss April, there is something we can do now if you like. Would you be open to a Tarot reading? I can perform a three-card interpretation for you—one card each for your past, present, and future.”

I hesitated, then nodded yes.

“Shall I begin?” she asked.

Again I hesitated, but nodded yes.

Marguerite rose to get her Tarot cards. She handed the deck to me and said, “Shuffle until you feel the energy is right.”

Not sure what energy I was supposed to feel, I shuffled several times and handed the cards back to her. The building shuddered as the storm's violence intensified; the lights winked out. In the shadows of the flickering candles, Marguerite appeared more sinister than sincere. Totally creeped out, but fixated all the same, I held my breath while the high priestess split the cards into three separate piles.

Turning the top card from the first stack face up, she tapped it once with a well-manicured finger. In a deep, somber voice she said, “
DEATH
. This card represents your past.”

The Death card! Oh my God! This can't be good.

“For you, my child,
DEATH
signifies an uninvited change in your life, your fear of the unknown . . . Shall I go on?” she asked.

Unable to speak, I nodded a yes.

Turning the top card from the second stack over, she tapped it with her polished nail and said, “
NINE OF SWORDS
. This card represents your present. It is the card of anxiety and sorrow. You despair, yet you seek comfort and spiritual healing.”

I was stunned. The first two cards were disturbingly accurate about everything happening in my life.

“Last one?” she asked.

“Yes,” I squeaked. I needed to know what the future card held for me. Marguerite took the top card from the third stack and turned it face up. She tapped one last time.

“
JUDGMENT
. This last card suggests you will soon make reckless decisions. A trial by fire awaits, to unshackle you from your fears. In the end, you shall be freed.”

“What does that mean,
trial by fire
? I don't understand.”

“My dear child, it is a metaphor. You have faced and will continue to face challenges. You will continue to be tested. Ultimately, you will be released and restored.”

My mind raced to process what Marguerite had said. My voice trembled when I asked the high priestess, “Do I need to be . . . do I need to be
spiritually cleansed
?”

“That is for you to decide, my child.”

Confused, scared, unable to make any decision, I composed myself as best I could and changed the subject.

“I, uh, I have another question for you. In the bag of Voodoo things you gave me, there was a note from you that said if I wanted to delve deeper, I should come to you. What did you mean?”

“Miss April, when you came to my shop that evening, I felt an energy from you, a connection of sorts. Have you dabbled in Voodoo before?”

“No! The only thing I ever knew about Voodoo came from hokey old movies I watched with my dad on popcorn nights . . . My great, great, great, great grandmother did, though. She more than dabbled. She was a queen.”

Marguerite fell silent. “Who was your maw-maw? There is only one real queen, you know.”

I gazed deep into her pale gold eyes. “Marie Laveau.”

She smiled. “Ah, yes. Marie Laveau was not
a
Voodoo queen, she was
the
Voodoo Queen. She set the standard for all who have followed. There has been no other like her.”

Marguerite stood, removed a book from a shelf by the door, and thumbed through the pages until she found what she was searching for. She looked at me, looked at a page, then back at me. She pointed at the picture. “You see, there is a resemblance, it's in the eyes. You have her eyes. I now understand the energy I felt from you. It is why you fainted that night in the shop. You were connecting psychically with her
Loa
. My shop is not just a tourist attraction or
trap
, as some call it. This is a place of worship and spiritual guidance for true believers.”

“Whoa. Let's get one thing straight.
I am not a believer!
”

“You say you do not believe and yet, you are here. Fate has directed you to me, Miss April.”

Overwhelmed by tiredness, I lay back on the pillows and closed my eyes.

“Me? Directed? No. I have no direction. I'm lost, alone. I have been ever since . . . since my dad died . . . I never got to say goodbye to him.”

“My child, it is time for you to say goodbye. You and I, we shall raise his spirit together. We shall connect with his
Loa
. We shall cleanse you, unblock you. After which, both of you shall be at peace.”

“Peace. That's good. I need peace,” I mumbled. I was feeling odd, not quite with it any longer. “You know what else, Madame? I have new cousins. They're black, like me,” I whispered.

My head was spinning. No, it was the room that was spinning.
What's happening to me? I can't think straight. What was in that tea? Did she drug me?
Sweat dripped from every pore, soaked my dress. Utterly unaware of my surroundings, I was in a deep, dark place, a place from which I might never return. In the recesses of my mind I heard voices, angry voices coming from far, far away. I didn't want them to wake me, I wanted to sleep, to be left alone.
Everyone go away! Leave me in peace!

A large, warm hand gently shook me. “April, wake up. It's me, Miles.”

“Miles? You smell nice. What time is it? What are you doing here? Where am I?”