As things stood today, they were planning to tie the knot in this sanctuary on August 25. That date gave her some bargaining room to win him over. If Brian relented and agreed, she could still become his wife and show up for grad school a week later.
The ushers opened the doors of the church just as the choir launched into the beginning strains of her mother’s favorite song these days. Deacon Kevin Bonner lifted the microphone from a stand near the edge of the choir loft and cradled it close to his lips.
“
Never would have made it, never could have made it, without
you
. . .”
Indigo spotted Yasmin sitting on the last pew with several of her friends. Years ago, when Mama’s struggle with alcohol made headlines in the
Herald
, some of those same girls and their parents had shunned her baby sister. The fact that Yasmin had moved on, and that she herself still considered this church a haven, was a testament to God’s ability to heal and her parents’ humble example of how to forgive.
An usher led her and Brian toward the front of the sanctuary to two seats next to Mama and Daddy.
Indigo’s parents smiled when she and Brian paused at their row and slid into the pew. Indigo saw tears in Mama’s eyes and squeezed her hand. This song made Mama weep every time she heard it. Marvin Sapp’s lyrics were a perfect testimony for her. Since joining Alcoholics Anonymous seven years ago and admitting her dependence on vodka, she had reclaimed her life. She received help for the hip injury she had once coped with by drinking and now shared her story with others as often as possible, to free them from whatever problem served as their prison. She
was
stronger. She
was
wiser. She was a better wife, mother, and person than she’d ever been.
Indigo decided in this moment that if her mother could make it through those difficult days, she too could do anything. She could use this gift of photography in fulfilling ways, and she could be a good wife.
She reached for Brian’s hand again. “We’re going to make it, okay?” she whispered in his ear.
He grinned at her and nodded. She wanted to stroke his goatee or hug his shoulders but instead turned her attention where it belonged, focused on God and this worship service.
It was great to be here this morning with both of her parents, who had been taking turns coming so someone would always be home with Aunt Melba. Rachelle and Gabe had come by the house this morning to keep Melba company so Irene and Charles could attend service together.
The choir rendered another selection, this time an Israel and New Breed praise and worship song, and Indigo stood to her feet to give thanks for the path her life was taking, as well as Brian’s.
Then Pastor Taylor approached the podium and opened his Bible to Matthew 11:30. He read the Scripture before walking away from the lectern to stroll back and forth across the raised landing, clutching a wireless mic.
“I can almost guarantee that every single person in this place woke up this morning and asked God to do something for you today. Maybe it was something simple, like help with finding a good spot in the church parking lot this morning. Or maybe you asked him for something big, like to heal your body from cancer or some other chronic disease. Or maybe your request was somewhere in between the minor and the life-changing. Whatever it was, I can also guarantee you that God heard it.”
He paused for effect and surveyed the crowd. “Yep, he heard it. The question is, were you asking from a place of integrity, a place of peace, a place of trust? Did you really give it over to God so he could take care of your request, or did you ask for his help while continuing to brainstorm your own solutions?”
Silence enveloped a sanctuary that moments before had been filled with boisterous musical praise.
“You see, most of us want it both ways,” Pastor Taylor said. He spoke slowly and thoughtfully, as if addressing a roomful of timid kindergartners. “We want God to fix things or grant our desires, but we want him to do it in the way that
we
think is best. We want the answer now, in the fashion that
we’ve
decided would be perfect. Am I telling the truth up in here?”
He seemed oblivious to the chorus of amens and mopped his face with a handkerchief. “God wants you to ask and then release it. Ask him, then trust him. When you step out of the way, he will fix whatever is troubling your soul.”
Indigo glanced at Brian. His eyes were glued to Pastor Taylor, but it was clear that he hadn’t heard a word. He sat as if transfixed, wringing his hands.
She touched his arm and leaned toward his ear. “Wake up, babe.”
Brian squirmed and gave her an awkward smile before turning his attention to the pastor. Why did he seem uncomfortable? Was he upset that she had been stalling on a wedding date? Was he nervous about leaving for Navy training? Indigo couldn’t recall having ever seen him in this kind of mood before.
Indigo returned her focus to Pastor Taylor. She didn’t hear the rest of the sermon, though. Instead, she talked to the Lord herself.
God, please let me hear from you about what to do. If you want
me to marry Brian now instead of going to graduate school, let me
know. You know I want to be a professional photographer. You know
I want to work for magazines and in other mediums. Am I wrong
to pursue these dreams when the man I love has other ideas? Please
tell me what to do. Or better yet, God, can you just fix it? Pastor
Taylor says you can. Make this work out so Brian and I both can
be happy, okay? Amen.
In the movies, the answer would be revealed right about now.
Indigo’s heart sank when she realized God wasn’t going to tell her what to do before church service ended. The one thing she did know was that she couldn’t hang up her camera to please her fiancé.
She was going to have to wait, and like Rachelle had already told her, listen like never before.
I
ndigo had been an intern at the newspaper just four weeks, but even she knew it meant trouble when Claude Ingram approached you first thing in the morning without a smile. She looked into the photo editor’s eyes and didn’t see one there, either.
“Can I talk to you in my office, Indigo?”
It was Monday, and one of the
Herald
’s two staff photographers worked silently at a twenty-five-inch computer screen, downloading work he had shot over the weekend. He paused and watched as Indigo rose from her swivel chair and followed Claude down a short hallway.
When they reached his cluttered office, Claude grabbed a disheveled heap of papers off the seat across from his desk and motioned for her to fill it. He slid into his chair, placed his elbows on his desk, and rested his chin on his two fists.
“How have you enjoyed working here this summer?”
Indigo peered into his milky gray eyes, and hesitated, unsure whether to treat this as a trick question or as an icebreaker.
“It’s been great,” she responded. “I’ve enjoyed getting to meet people across the city and shoot everything from car accidents and house fires to profile photos and community fairs. As you know, my previous internships were with museums and magazines, and I pulled a brief stint at a catalog recruiting company my sophomore year, where I took photos of aspiring models. This is a great opportunity to try a new form of photography, and I especially appreciate being able to work in my hometown.”
Claude nodded and continued to stare at her.
“Have you been pleased with my work?” Indigo finally asked.
He sat back in his chair. “That’s why I wanted to meet with you this morning. I’ve heard great things about you from the staff. They think you’re wonderful to work with—professional and enthusiastic. And they’ve heard the same from some of the folks that you’ve photographed. But I have to admit that the body of work you’ve produced has been inconsistent.”
Indigo’s heart lurched. She sat forward in her seat and prayed that her facial expressions didn’t mirror the panic coursing through her veins.
“What do you mean?”
Claude turned toward the computer, which sat on a desktop to his left, and tapped the mouse. He opened a digital file that contained at least a dozen photos Indigo had taken over the past few weeks.
Many of them had appeared in the newspaper, but there were multiples of the same subject, and some of them were off center or out of focus.
Indigo held her breath. She remembered taking some of those shots when that annoying blurriness filled her vision in one eye or the other. She would shoot extra frames on those days, in hopes that she’d hit the mark with at least a few of them, despite her inability to properly hone in. Or she’d switch eyes and close the one that happened to be bothering her. She thought she’d pulled it off. Despite the extra shots, she had submitted some really good images, and a few had been featured on the newspaper’s front page.
“You do good work,” Claude said. “But it appears that you’re straining to hit the mark sometimes. It takes extra time to get additional shots or poses from a subject, in hopes of landing one or two usable ones. Why are you having to do that?”
He turned to look at her.
Should she tell him that sometimes her vision got blurry while she was working, or that sometimes, out of the blue, she’d see halos, or occasionally couldn’t see out of the side of one eye? That wouldn’t be in her best interest.
Then again, Claude already knew something was up, or he wouldn’t have pulled her aside this morning.
“Have you been getting complaints?” she asked.
“A few, from the other photographers who have been asked by an editor to work on one of your pictures because something was not quite in focus,” Claude said. “They’ve had to go back through the digital images to find a more suitable one, and on one or two occasions, we’ve needed an image so badly that we’ve photoshopped something you’ve shot to make it work. That’s a no-no in journalism. When we go that route with a photo, we have to indicate on the image that it is a photo illustration because we’ve manipulated it in some way, and we really shy away from that.”
Indigo remained silent. She knew all of that, and she had even noticed that label on a couple of her favorite pictures when they had appeared in the
Herald
.
God, please don’t let me get fired.
“Are you having problems with your eyesight, Indigo?” Claude leaned toward her, to read her expression. “If you are, it’s okay. Photographers can wear glasses or contacts. You know that. Is it your eyes, or is something else going on?”
She took a deep breath before she answered. “First of all, I’m sorry to hear that my work hasn’t been up to par,” she said. “I’m mortified about that. Really. I thought everything was going okay. I wish someone had mentioned it to me. I would have been happy to come back in after hours and correct whatever needed to be altered.
“But I do have to be honest and say that I’m having some occasional blurriness in my eyes every now and then. Not all the time, so I didn’t think it was a big deal.”
Claude nodded. “As a professional photographer, Indigo, a little blurriness is a big deal. You can’t just live with that and do your job well.”
Neither of them raced to fill the long silence.
“Tell you what,” he said and sat back in his chair. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off and go get an eye exam. It’s still early enough that you should be able to land an appointment today. Get your eyes checked and see what they say.
“If you need glasses, as soon as they can set you up with a pair, then we’ll send you back out on assignments. If it’s something that’s going to require a longer fix, we’ll talk and go from there. Maybe we’ll let you do some in-house work for a while if we need to.”
Claude gave her a reassuring smile and ran his fingers through his dull brown hair. “We just need to get to the bottom of this. It’s not benefiting the
Herald
, or you, if you can’t do your best work because you’re having issues with your vision. Just get it checked and let’s go from there, okay? Don’t sweat it at all. Take today off, and tomorrow, if you need it.”
He pushed himself up from his seat with his thick forearms and walked her to the door. He patted her shoulder. “You’ll be fine. You’re young. Maybe you’ll wind up with a pair of nice frames.”
Indigo gave him a weak smile and trudged down the hallway to the photo lab. The staff photographer, James, didn’t look her way when she entered and walked to the corner armoire to retrieve her purse.
“See you tomorrow,” she said with the ounce of lightheartedness she could muster.
What she really wanted to do, though, was call Brian or Shelby, and have a good cry. But neither of them was available right now. They had been at OCS for a week and wouldn’t be able to communicate with anyone off base for at least ten more days. How had she wound up with a fiancé and best friend both interested in becoming commissioned Naval officers and fighter pilots?
She buckled herself into her seat and sped out of the newspaper’s parking lot. A few minutes later, she pulled onto Warner Street and parked in the far corner of the library parking lot. The library didn’t open until ten a.m., so the lot was empty. She sat there and wept until the sobs left her hiccupping.
Then she picked up the phone and tried to compose her voice.
“Hello, Melinda? This is Indigo Burns, Dr. Covington’s cousin,” she said thickly. “I need to come in immediately for an eye exam. Can you fit me in this morning?”
R
achelle took one look at Indigo and turned to her exam assistant. “I’ll call you if I need your help, but I think I can manage this patient on my own.”
Sabrina gave Rachelle the chart she would need to note her findings during Indigo’s exam and closed the door when she left the room.
Rachelle approached Indigo, who sat slouched in the high-backed, leather chair.
Indigo was trembling and trying to hold back tears. She was afraid to talk, because she knew if she did, she’d lose her composure again. She kept her head bowed and wiped her eyes with a crumpled tissue.