Rachelle touched her arm. “Calm down. Whatever’s going on, we’ll work through it. First, you have to tell me why you’re here and why you’re so upset. Did you injure your eye or is something else bothering you?”
Indigo shook her head. Rachelle turned away and pulled a stool toward her so she could take a seat.
“I need an eye exam,” Indigo finally said, and sure enough, the waterfall resurfaced. “I messed up some pictures at work.”
“Did the newspaper fire you?”
Indigo shook her head again and dabbed at her eyes.
Rachelle sighed. “Then why are you this upset? We all make mistakes. Maybe you need glasses—so what? You need to calm down so I can take a look.”
Rachelle rose and briefly left the office. When she returned, she offered her cousin a damp handkerchief and a Styrofoam cup filled with water.
“Pull yourself together and we’ll get this all figured out.”
Indigo took the cloth from Rachelle and mopped her face. The cool wetness felt good against her clammy skin, and she took a deep breath. Rachelle stood there until Indigo was ready to take the cup.
Indigo cradled it in her hands, then sipped every drop. She inhaled and finally felt the tears abating.
“Feel better?” Rachelle asked and returned to the stool.
“Yeah, thanks,” Indigo said. “I’m upset, but I don’t know why I’m so emotional. I guess it’s a combination of missing Brian and being reprimanded at work this morning. The photo editor essentially told me not to come back until I’m sure my vision is okay.”
Rachelle’s surprise didn’t escape Indigo, though it was replaced with a professional mask of nonchalance within seconds.
“That sounds fair to me,” Rachelle said. “So you’re here for an eye exam. We’ll make sure everything looks okay. Now the tears about Brian—I know you miss him. I’m sorry I can’t help you with that, but it will get easier. He’s going to be in the Navy, so you’ll have to get used to him flying off on missions, you know?”
Indigo tried to smile. “You’re right, this is just the beginning.” “Let me look at your eyes,” Rachelle said. She moved closer and used a remote control device to dim the lights in the room.
Rachelle took Indigo through a series of tests and asked about her symptoms.
“How long have you had the blurred vision?”
Indigo was slow to answer. “I’m not sure. It’s not always there, you know?”
Rachelle sat back and looked at her. “I need some idea, Indigo.”
“I think I’ve been having episodes of blurriness off and on for almost a year. It will bother me for a day or two and then it will go away and I forget about it.”
“That never prompted you to get your eyes checked, or at least ask me about it?”
Indigo shrugged. “I’d think about what I needed to do, then exams would come up, or I needed to complete some paperwork for grad school, or I had to shoot some photos for a project. Senior year was just crazy.”
Rachelle nodded. “Not to mention that you were pledging, hanging out with Miss Shelby, and spending time with your honey, whenever he made it back to Tuskegee.”
She raised her palms. “I’m not fussing, though. I see plenty of people, some of them much older than you, who know better, and they still think if they avoid a potential problem, it will go away on its own.
“You said the photo editor wasn’t pleased with some of your work. Did you find the blurriness to be a problem when you were taking pictures?”
Indigo nodded. “Yeah, I did sometimes. I just tried to work around it.”
Rachelle jotted a few notes on the paper attached to the clipboard and pulled a piece of equipment attached to the ceiling close to her.
“Lean forward so I can look into your eyes,” she told Indigo.
She shone light in Indigo’s eyes, conducted a few air puff tests, and dilated her pupils so more tests could be conducted.
At some point, Indigo realized that the questions and the chitchat had stopped.
“What’s the diagnosis, Doc? Do I need bifocals?”
Rachelle tried to smile, but didn’t quite pull it off.
“I’m not sure yet, Indigo. I’d like to have a friend who’s an ophthalmologist take a look. I’ll call her now and see if she can fit you in.”
Indigo felt the fear rising again. “What do you think it is?”
Rachelle sounded calm, but if all were well, Indigo knew that she’d be in the adjacent room by now, picking out a pair of frames. She recognized evasion when she heard it.
“It could be a number of things,” Rachelle said. “You have some interesting symptoms, and Yolanda’s specialized training will help us make a quicker diagnosis. Sit tight for a minute. Let me see if she’s in the office today and I’ll ride over with you.”
Rachelle left the exam room door ajar. Indigo heard her talking softly to her receptionist.
“Call Yolanda Woodman over at Jubilant Memorial and see if she can see Indigo this afternoon. How many more patients do I have scheduled for today?”
Indigo could hear Melinda’s fingers flying over the keyboard, but not her response.
“Good,” Rachelle said. “Will you call the three of them and ask if they can come later this afternoon, say after four p.m., or if they would mind terribly if we reschedule for tomorrow? Tell them I have a family emergency.”
L
ife was about to be miserable, at least for the foreseeable future.
Brian learned in his first few hours at Naval Station Newport that he’d best not refer to Officer Candidate School as OCS when speaking to his leaders; he’d best forget about his personal thoughts and feelings, because only what mattered to the team was important; and he’d best quickly realize that his time was no longer his own. Every waking hour would be filled with academic preparation, physical training, and gouging—memorizing everything from the proper way to address his drill instructor and his candidate officer to all of the material he needed to know to pass each test and move forward with his class.
“If you’ve seen the movie
An Officer and a Gentleman
, forget about it!” Class Drill Instructor, Gunnery Sergeant Cade McArthur barked his first order as he stalked past each man and woman who stood erect in a ruler-straight line on the lawn. Brian was eighth in the formation and Shelby was three men to his right.
“Of the fifty-four men and women standing here today, I can guarantee you that at least ten of you won’t be commissioned with this class. Some of you are going to realize before Indoctrination Week is over that you aren’t officer material. Some of you will fail a few tests along the way and be forced to roll back to another class—that is, if you don’t give up.
“All of you will leave here, in whatever fashion, with the understanding that no one is given a commissioned officer’s uniform just because he or she looks good in it.”
McArthur stopped in front of Brian and glared at him. Brian maintained his one-thousand-yard stare, fixing his eyes on an object in the distance, and tried not to breathe.
“You’re going to have to earn it,” McArthur spat, before moving on to the next person in the line. “You got here on paper. Now you’ve got to prove you belong. Welcome to Officer Candidate School, Indoctrination Candidates.”
Brian held his pose and waited for orders. If this was what it took, so be it. He had read enough and talked to enough people who had gone through the training to know it wouldn’t be a cakewalk. A retired Navy pilot he met last summer during an internship at the Federal Aviation Administration had encouraged him to face the fear and the stress that he would confront with self-confidence, despite his leaders’ efforts to see if they could break him.
Achieving that for Brian meant reciting over and over the Scripture his mom had taught him as a child:
I can do all things
through Christ who strengthens me.
He wished he could look to his right to see how Shelby was holding up. She wanted this as much as he did.
God, give her the strength to persevere too.
McArthur made sure everyone had received a manual and ordered them to read the document—all three hundred pages—tonight.
“You will be expected to know everything in this guide. Especially how to appropriately address and respond to me, to your candidate officer, and to a commissioned officer,” McArthur said. “For the next twelve weeks, you will identify yourself as an Indoctrination Candidate and refer to the numbers of your graduating class. This group will be the tenth class graduating in fiscal zero-eight. Read the manual! You will be expected to know what to do—no exceptions, no excuses.”
Later that night, Brian lay in his bunk and mentally kicked himself for not bringing along a blanket. If he had, he would have slept on top of the covers and kept his bed in perfect condition for morning inspection. Other guys obviously had been taught that trick, and pulled out covers from home when the drill instructor had completed his nighttime walk-through.
As tired as he was from the day’s activities, Brian couldn’t sleep. Neither could his two roommates.
“You think we gone make it, man?” Todd Wayland was from Mississippi and spoke with a southern drawl so thick and slow that Brian equated listening to him to waiting for the last drop of molasses to be forced from a plastic bottle.
The room was pitch-black, and Todd spoke just above a whisper.
The other bunkmate snorted before Brian could respond.
“Sounds like you’re scared, Wayland,” Greg Kemper, a proud recent graduate of Harvard, taunted. “Ready to go home to your mama?”
“Not if yours’ll take me first,” Todd countered. “Wanna wager on who’ll last?”
“None of us will if we don’t work together as a team,” Brian reminded them. “Have you guys read the manual? Instead of slamming each other, how about you figure out how to get along so all of our lives will be easier? If we pass inspection and all do well on the tests—as a team—we can earn an Honor Class designation. Think about what’s important, okay?”
“The resident Goody Two-Shoes has made himself known,” Greg said.
Brian ignored him. He closed his eyes and pictured Indigo’s smiling face. He couldn’t have contact with her for the next three weeks, and he already missed her voice and her kisses. The thought of eventually being able to earn weekends off and see her once or twice before he received his commission would have to be enough to keep him focused.
Nothing was going to stop him from making his parents, or the future Mrs. Harper, proud.
I
ndigo watched Yasmin wolf down a third helping of pancakes and shook her head in disbelief. She and her sister were both naturally thin, but this was ridiculous.
She took a sip of coffee and noted the time on the microwave’s digital clock. 9:42 a.m.
Claude usually arrived at the newspaper at 9:50 a.m. sharp, just in time to gather what he needed for the 10:15 morning staff meeting. If Indigo timed it just right, she could reach the photo editor at his desk in about ten minutes and give him an update before he got preoccupied.
While Yasmin ate for three this morning, Indigo didn’t have an appetite. Her life was imploding. If she couldn’t see, how could she pursue her dream?
Mama returned to the kitchen and approached her. She hugged Indigo’s neck and planted a kiss on the top of her head.
“You’re going to be alright,” Mama said. “This is not the end of the world. It’s not a life-threatening condition and you’re nowhere near blind. Rachelle told you that over and over yesterday. So did Dr. Woodman.”
Daddy, who sat at the table next to Indigo, looked up from the newspaper.
“That was nice of that doctor to stop by the house with Rachelle to talk to all of us,” he said. “It was the first of many blessings that I believe will come out of this situation, Indigo. So don’t get yourself all worked up. God has the final say.”
Indigo looked from one of her parents to the other and tried to contain her exasperation. “I am twenty-two years old and I have glaucoma. There’s a blessing in that?”
She rose from the table so she could retreat to her brother’s bedroom to sulk.
Aunt Melba had joined the family at the table for breakfast and was finishing a second cup of hot tea. She called out to Indigo, causing Indigo to stop in her tracks.
“Wait.”
Aunt Melba had progressed from using a wheelchair to a walker, and her mind was as sharp as ever. Her challenge these days was that her speech didn’t always keep up with her thoughts.
Indigo turned to look at her aunt and pursed her lips.
“One . . . day . . . at . . . a . . . time . . . God . . . will . . . bless,” Aunt Melba said.
Indigo stared at Aunt Melba and allowed angry questions to race through her mind without uttering them. What about the School of the Visual Arts? What about her summer internship hanging in the balance? What about Brian? He had plenty of options and had no reason to settle for a wife with a chronic illness.
Before some of that turmoil bubbled over, Yasmin pointed to the digital clock.
“It’s 9:51,” she said and took another bite of food. “Thought you were going to check in with The Man.”
Indigo held up the cordless phone. “I’m going to the bedroom to give Claude a call. He’ll be all over the place after the morning meeting and hard to catch.”
When she had settled on Reuben’s bed, Indigo sat there in the dark for a moment, wondering what to do and say.
Mama would tell her to pray before she dialed his number. Brian, if he were here, would give her the same advice. Shelby would make the call for her.
“Time to be a Big Girl,” she told herself.
Claude answered on the first ring. “Ingram here.”
Indigo cleared her throat. “Good morning, Claude.”
“Indigo! How are things? Got good news for me?”
She paused and bit her lip. There was nothing to do but to do it. “Claude, I have glaucoma. In both eyes.”
The dead air unnerved her.
“Excuse me?” he finally said. “I thought that happened to . . . older people. My eighty-nine-year-old grandmother was recently diagnosed.”
God, please forgive me for the ugly words I want to say to this
man right now.
She took a few seconds to gain control.