Conjuring Sight (Becky Jo Chronicles Book 1)

Conjuring

Sight

Teresa Rae

Copyright © 2015 Teresa Rae

All rights reserved.

ISBN-10:0692492860

ISBN-13:978-0692492864

To my daughter Elizabeth

Beauty and intelligence can make girls charming,

But all girls become an unstoppable force for good

when armed with kindness and love.

Special, that’s what Mama always called me. “Becky Jo, God had his angels break the mold after you were born,” she would say. I actually believed her when I was younger, but I’ve never been very bright. One Halloween, she had me convinced that I was the most beautiful fairy princess in the neighborhood. She meticulously scrimped and saved to buy two yards of shiny pink material and then spent weeks staying up late to make my costume.  It was a huge sacrifice. She was already bone-tired from her job at the hospital. Still, after the long bus ride home, making dinner, and helping with my homework, she lovingly stitched the dress and made the loveliest glitter wings. On Halloween, I stepped from our tiny house, convinced that every eye would be on the blond fairy princess in the gorgeous pink costume.  I was nine and had no reason to disbelieve Mama. She always told me I was the smartest, kindest, and prettiest child. That night, I began to understand she was too kind to tell the truth.

Jasmine Johnson sneered the moment she opened her front door. She was dressed as a rock star – complete with fake fingernails and hair extensions. With her ebony skin and perfect teeth, she was beautiful.  Both her parents had steady employment, so she always dressed nicely. I never had a store-bought costume like hers, but I was still so proud of mine and wanted to show it off.  Her eyes darted behind me.  Noticing my stooped mama talking to another adult a couple yards behind us, she put a nasty smile on her face.

“Becky Jo, don’t you think you’re a little old to dress like that? I was a fairy princess when I was five,” she said.

I was so stunned it took me a moment to find my tongue. “My mama made it for me, and I think it’s pretty,” I mumbled.

“Pretty lame,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I don’t know why everyone thinks you’re so special. My dad said your dad is nothing but a murder and your mom’s a crackhead. They’re complete losers, and they don’t even want you, do they? Nobody wants you.”

I bit my lower lip to keep from crying.

Jasmine’s mom joined her daughter, obviously not having heard what her daughter had said. “What a sweet costume, Becky Jo.  I wish Jasmine still liked fairies. Did Alice make it?”

I nodded, biting my lip harder. The taste of blood filled my mouth.

“Tell her that she has outdone herself this year.” She put two mini candy bars in my bag with a wink. “With a costume that cute, you deserve an extra treat.”

I was silent for the remainder of the evening as Mama proudly showed me off.  Jasmine’s comments had cut deep, but I couldn’t deny Mama the evening, not after all her hard work. She truly was a saint of a woman. She grew up dirt-poor in South Carolina before putting herself through nursing school.  After raising a daughter of her own, she took in foster kids. My mom was one of them. She lived with Mama for two years before she became pregnant at sixteen. She gave birth to me before running off to find fame and fortune. Unfortunately, she found nothing but a drug habit, and little Mama was stuck raising a white, baby girl – not that she’d ever complain. The way she told it, I was an angel from Heaven. Jasmine’s comments told me otherwise.  I wasn’t the angel – Mama was.

“Baby Girl, cat got your tongue?” Mama lovingly squeezed my hand. “You ain’t been sneaking candy behind my back, have you?”

“No, Mama,” I replied.

“Well, I didn’t know fairy princesses were too dignified to talk to their mamas?”I hesitated a moment before I asked, “Do you wish I was black?”

Mama stopped walking and looked at me. “Heavens child! Where did you get an idea like that? God is a perfect God, and He wanted you white just like He wanted me black. It’s all in His plan somehow.”

“But a lot of folks in the neighborhood are black, and I thought …”

Mama shook her head. “What did that Johnson girl tell you?”

I looked at my shoes as tears started running down my face. “She said that nobody wants me.”

Mama lifted my chin with her wrinkled, calloused hands until my eyes met her. “She got it wrong, didn’t she? Last time I checked, I’m someone. Besides, how could she possibly know that other families have asked to adopt you?  Your mommy wants you to be with me, and the judge agrees with her.  Becky Jo, I keep tellin’ you that you don’t know how special you are, and this proves it. You’re so special you could have purple skin and still outshine that silly Jasmine Johnson. You’re sunshine for this old woman’s soul.”

“But my parents don’t want me,” I argued.

Mama wiped the tears off my cheeks. “I’ve told you before that your daddy made some bad choices, and your mommy is sick. They want you but can’t give you everything you deserve.  They love you so much they’re letting me be your family instead.”

“Mama, I know that my dad’s a murderer and my mom’s a crackhead,” I repeated Jasmine’s words. “How do you know I won’t grow up to be like them?”

She smiled a wise and knowing smile.  She put a hand over my heart. “Becky Jo, you were born with the biggest heart I’ve ever seen, and as if that wasn’t enough, the good Lord made sure you were born with the veil. You will have help your poor parents never did.”

Mama always made references to me being born with the veil. I still don’t see how being born with the caul covering my face could make me special. It didn’t make me feel special when Mama got sick and lost her job or when the recession hit South Carolina. I didn’t feel special when we lost our home and had to move into a rundown apartment. It didn’t make me special enough to cure Mama of breast cancer.  Yeah, I was born with the filmy part of the amnion covering my face, but special I am not.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil
. My mind repeats the words of Psalms, but I am afraid. I am more afraid than I have ever been before. As I stare out into the black of night, chills run up my back. I am afraid I will disappoint Marina and Mama. I am afraid I am simply not capable of the tasks I must complete. Most of all, I am afraid I will drown under a mountain of sorrow.

I stare out the window at a wasteland as barren as my emotions.  There is sagebrush and dirt as far as the eye can see. It’s as though I’ve been transported to some sort of western movie. It has only been thirty minutes since I stepped off the plane from Charleston, and I already miss South Carolina. I miss the color green. I miss waterways. I miss people. I miss trees. I miss moisture in the air. I miss... I don’t allow myself to go there.

“It will grow on you,” Marina says from the driver’s seat.

I simply nod, not saying that a lot of things will grow on you – mold, parasites, bacteria. I don’t want to hurt Marina’s feelings; it’s not her fault that her work makes it necessary for her to live in rural Nevada.

I am cold in love; warm me and make me fervent that my love may go out to my neighbor;
my mind repeats a prayer from Martin Luther. I am often unable to find my own words, so I borrow from people who had something worth saying.

“You are really going to like the town.” Marina turns up the heat in her BMW. There may not be any snow on the ground in early March, but it’s still bitterly cold. She passes me a peppermint drop, making my heart ache from sweet memories; Mama always smelled like peppermint drops.  Marina continues, “It is the largest National Historic Landmark in the nation. The old buildings make it feel as though you’re really in the old west. Just wait until you see C Street!”

I force a faint smile. Marina’s trying to make the most out of the bad situation. I may be eighteen, but I’m still four months away from high school graduation. My grades are pathetic, and I have no plans for the future.  Hence I’m in desolate Nevada instead of my beloved Charleston. I have no way to support myself and no money. I was Mama’s only legally adopted child, and Marina was her only biological child. This being the case, she feels obligated to care for my welfare, regardless of how hopeless the situation is.  And it is utterly hopeless.

I have no wit, no words, no tears; my heart within me like a stone is numbed too much for hopes or fears. Look right, look left, I dwell alone; I lift mine eyes, but dimmed with grief no everlasting hills I see; my life is the falling leaf. O Jesus, quicken me. My life is like a faded leaf, my harvest dwindled to a husk: truly my life is void and brief and tedious in the barren dusk: my life is like a frozen thing, no bud nor greenness can I see;
I sigh deeply as I think the words of Christina Rossetti while I look out at the desert.

“Fortunately, you have finished all the classes required for graduation and are just working on your electives. This will give you time to focus on passing the HSAP exam,” Marina says encouragingly.

I cringe. The South Carolina High School Assessment Program exam has been a thorn in my side ever since the tenth grade. I have taken it several times and failed splendidly with each attempt.  It’s pretty pitiful. Eighty percent of students pass the HSAP exam in the tenth grade. I’m a senior, and I’m still trying to get a passing score. It’s embarrassing just to think about it.

“I think I should just take the certificate,” I say, still staring out the window at the never-ending brown.

“Becky Jo, don’t talk like that,” Marina scolds. “You can’t go to college without a diploma.”

“I’m not really college material,” I say what has been on my mind for the past two years.

“Nonsense,” she says with a shake of the head. “You’re going to pass with flying colors. You just need some time to study.”

There’s no point arguing. Marina is a talented lawyer, and I would never win a word match against her. I change the subject, “Are they really going to allow me to practice the violin for my final electives?”

“Of course they are. They are going to count them under Music Appreciation. For the next few months, you will be spending all your time studying for the HASP and preparing for the Miss South Carolina Pageant.”

I sigh once more. The only thing I dread more than taking the HASP is competing for Miss South Carolina. Winning Miss Charleston was a terrible fluke. I am the most unbeauty-queenish girl who has ever lived on the face of the planet. Beauty queens are supposed to be smart – I’m not. Beauty queens are also supposed to be beautiful – I would never fit anyone’s definition of beautiful, except for maybe in the role of the Gerber baby.  Yeah, I have curly, blond hair and blue eyes, but I also have chubby cheeks with dimples. I look like I belong on the show “Toddlers and Tiaras”, not on stage with gorgeous women. To add insult to injury, my baby face isn’t the only thing that makes me look like I’m eleven. Most beauty queens are five foot eight or taller – I’m not even five feet tall in high heels. I’m a dim-witted, chubby, height-challenged beauty queen who only won Miss Charleston because I can play the violin and smile on cue. I wouldn’t even compete for Miss South Carolina if it weren’t for the fact that I would be letting down my old neighborhood. It’s not like I’m going to use the scholarship money.

Marina smiles as she looks out the windshield. “I can’t wait to watch you compete!”

I put one of my signature fake smiles on my face. I will consider it a triumph not to vomit during the competition. Being fifteen years my senior, I barely know Marina, and what I do know about her comes from a scrapbook Mama kept. I have spent hours pouring over photos of the former beauty queen. Marina was Miss Charleston, Miss South Carolina, and a finalist in the Miss US pageant. She was top in her class at law school and had firms fighting to hire her upon graduation.  Marina is stunningly beautiful and everything else a beauty queen should be. She’s tall, thin, intelligent, talented, and confident. Mama was immensely proud of her strong, independent daughter. The truth be told, I’m intimidated by my sister. Knowing Marina will be watching me compete makes it all the more mortifying.

“Oh, look. There’s Virginia City,” Marina pulls me out of my thoughts.

I gaze at the city and chills suddenly run up and down my back. It’s not the historical buildings I see for the first time by streetlight which unsettle me. It’s not even the people in old fashioned clothing walking home after entertaining the city’s guests at the beginning of the tourist season. I feel as though someone is watching me.  I try to push the thought out of my mind. It’s far too dark for anyone to see me in Marina’s car. Still, the disturbing feeling continues while we drive through the town.

Marina’s BMW turns up a hill and drives outside the main part of town. A garage door opens on a huge, brightly lit home. It is one of the few new homes in the town. Marina parks in the garage. The door closes behind us. Even in the shelter of the garage, I can’t escape the uncanny feeling someone is watching my every move.

“Welcome home,” she tells me as we get out the car. “Grab your things.”

She pops the trunk while I walk around the car. Trying to ignore the feeling of being watched, I pick up my suitcase.  Marina shakes her head at the sight of the small, worn suitcase and old violin case.

“Mama got her final wish.  She wanted to leave the world the same way she came into it – with nothing.” She bites her bottom lip as she ushers me into her home.

Marina’s house is stunning. The floors are all made of dark mahogany, the walls are white, and the furniture is black with red accents. It’s as modern and straightforward as Marina herself.  I notice that, even here in the warm house, I can’t escape the unseen eyes. Still, I’m exhausted, and I let out a yawn while I look at the large chandelier above the massive kitchen table.

“I’ll show you to your room,” Marina says, picking up on the yawn.

After years of sleeping in a small apartment, on friends’ couches, and even on the floor of Mama’s hospital room, I can’t believe I’m going to have a place to call my own for a few months. I’m overwhelmed when I’m shown into the prettiest bedroom I’ve ever seen. Like the rest of the house, it has dark floors, but instead of red and white accents, it is decorated in light pink, my favorite color. There is a large, circular, pink rug on the floor, pink curtains, and a fluffy pink bed. The contrast with the dark floors makes the affect rather spectacular.

Marina watches me intently for signs of approval.

“It’s breathtaking. How did you do it so quickly?” I ask in astonishment while smelling fresh paint.

She smiles with relief that I like the room.

“I had some help. Be careful with the walls. They’re still tacky.” She opens a door in the room. “This is your bathroom. There are towels in the closet.”

The bathroom is also decorated in pink. I briefly forget about the feeling of someone watching me as my eyes fill with moisture. Marina has gone through a lot of effort and trouble for me. I’m blessed to have such a sister. I glance around my new room, and a distant conversation with Mama comes to mind.

“Promise me you’ll help her,” Mama whispered under the oxygen tubes as she lay dying. “Promise me you’ll watch over Marina.”

Of course I agreed, but I did so with confusion.  Marina has her life put together. She is a successful black woman in a white man’s world, and I can’t even figure out how to make pancakes.
How could I ever help Marina?
I think to myself. Marina is a great lawyer and doesn’t need her little sister causing problems for her.  I just pray I won’t be a burden.

Mama was always telling me not to bother Marina with the details of her illness or our lack of money when the bills started piling up. Mama liked to take care of things herself. When she couldn’t work anymore, she filed for bankruptcy, and we downgraded our lifestyle. She never wanted Marina to worry about her.  I don’t want her to worry about me either.

“Marina, thanks for letting me live with you,” I choke with a mixture of gratitude and embarrassment that I’m so pathetic. I feel bad she has spent so much time and money on someone as pitiful as me.

Marina will always be the better person. She gives me an unexpected hug. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.  Goodnight, Becky Jo.”

Being left in my new room, I put my few meager possessions away. When Mama was hospitalized the final time, I cleaned out our apartment. I gave away most of our things and left the rest with an old friend. What remains easily fits in the two top drawers of the dresser and in the corner of the closet. My wardrobe consists of the bare minimum of essentials. I have two pairs of jeans, some shorts, a few t-shirts, and some socks and underwear. Hanging in the closet are the pageant dresses Mama made for me before she died and a thin jacket. I am wholly unprepared to live in Nevada, but I will just have to make do.

I go into the bathroom to brush my teeth. When I return to my bedroom, I find the closet doors wide open. I wrinkle my brow in confusion. I could have sworn I shut the closet. I cross the room, finding it icy cold. I’ve been spoiled with wonderful weather in Charlotte. I’m going to have to get used to the climate in Nevada. I shut the closet before kneeling next to the bed.

I whisper a prayer from Martin Luther, “Behold, Lord, an empty vessel that needs to be filled. My Lord, fill it. I am weak in the faith; strengthen me. I am cold in love; warm me and make me fervent that my love may go out to my neighbour. I do not have a strong and firm faith; at times I doubt and am unable to trust you altogether. O Lord, help me and strengthen my faith and trust in you.”

I climb into bed, wrapping the fluffy comforter around me like a cocoon.

I stare into the darkness, unable to sleep. Charleston is full of life, even at night. Virginia City is too quiet and still. I am thinking about the old neighborhood where I grew up when I first hear footsteps outside the door. I sit up.

“Marina?” I call softly.

There isn’t an answer. The footsteps retreat away from my room.

Worried about Marina, I slide my feet out of bed, finding the room incredibly cold. I hurry out the door. I am met with mournful cries coming from the other side of the house. I don’t know how Marina moved so quickly from one side of the house to the other, but I have more important things to worry about.

I stumble through the dark, unfamiliar house. I stub my toe on Marina’s door as I hesitantly open it. Crossing the dark room, I climb into her bed like I did so often with Mama while she was sick.

“Damn that woman!” Marina exclaims as she puts her arms around me, pulling me to her. I find her pillow soaked with tears. “Damn that stubborn, prideful woman! Why wouldn’t she let me take care of her? I went to school so I could give her a better life, and she died broke! I could have paid for treatments! I could have improved her quality of life! Why didn’t she just let me help her?”

Marina just needs to voice her frustrations because she already knows the answer. Mama refused Marina’s help because she thought it was best for Marina. My sister clings to me, and I let her cry. Wiping the moisture from her face, I listen as her sobs turn into whimpers before her breaths lengthen, and she falls into sleep. Once I’m sure she is completely asleep, I carefully slide out of the bed and tuck the blankets around her. I glance at my sister through the darkness. Even in a moment of desperation, she is a mountain of strength.  She deals with sorrow and frustrations head-on, allowing her to rest peacefully. Unfortunately, I’m not like her; I will be tossing and turning all night.