Color Blind

Copyright © 2016 by Sheila Sobel.

All rights reserved.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

Published by

Merit Press

an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

www.meritpressbooks.com

ISBN 10: 1-4405-9746-4

ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-9746-6

eISBN 10: 1-4405-9747-2

eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-9747-3

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Many of the designations used by manufacturers and sellers to distinguish their products are claimed as trademarks. Where those designations appear in this book and F+W Media, Inc. was aware of a trademark claim, the designations have been printed with initial capital letters.

Women and New Orleans: A History
by Mary Gehman and Nancy Ries, published by Margaret Media, Inc., copyright © 1985, 1988, 1994, 1996, 2004. Sixth Printing. All rights reserved. (www.margaretmedia.com)

Referenced with permission of publisher.

The New Orleans Voodoo Handbook
by Kenaz Filan, published by Inner Traditions International and Bear & Company, copyright © 2011. All rights reserved. (www.Innertraditions.com)

Referenced with permission of publisher.

Cover design by Stephanie Hannus.

Cover image © iStockphoto.com/itskatjas.

• Title Page
  
• Copyright Page
  
• Dedication
  
• Acknowledgments
  
• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Chapter Thirteen
  
• Chapter Fourteen
  
• Chapter Fifteen
  
• Chapter Sixteen
  
• Chapter Seventeen
  
• Chapter Eighteen
  
• Chapter Nineteen
  
• Chapter Twenty
  
• Chapter Twenty-One
  
• Chapter Twenty-Two
  
• Chapter Twenty-Three
  
• Chapter Twenty-Four
  
• Chapter Twenty-Five
  
• Chapter Twenty-Six
  
• Chapter Twenty-Seven
  
• Chapter Twenty-Eight
  
• Chapter Twenty-Nine
  
• Chapter Thirty
  
• Chapter Thirty-One
  
• Chapter Thirty-Two
  
• Chapter Thirty-Three
  
• Chapter Thirty-Four
  
• Chapter Thirty-Five
  
• Chapter Thirty-Six
  
• Chapter Thirty-Seven
  
• Chapter Thirty-Eight
  
• Chapter Thirty-Nine
  
• Chapter Forty
  
• Chapter Forty-One
  

For Michael

My deepest gratitude to all who are with me on this journey:

Jacquelyn Mitchard—for believing in me.

Deb Stetson and Stephanie Kasheta—for your enthusiasm.

UCLA Extension Writers' Program and Laurel van der Linde—for showing me the way.

SCBWI, Lin Oliver and Stephen Mooser—for your foresight in creating an organization specifically for authors and illustrators of children's literature.

CBW-LA, Nutschell Anne Windsor—for your friendship and encouragement over the years.

The Magnificent Seven Plus One writers' group and fellow UCLA classmates David Mellon, Mary Lynne Raske, Margaret Tellez, Janine Pibal, Kristen Baum, Manisha Patel, and Jake Gerhardt. I could not have managed without your insightful critiques and collective sense of humor.

Amy Rabins and Sandy Rabins—for reminding me that life is too short and for giving me the necessary push away from a corporate life into a life of writing.

Tink Ten Eyck—for your never-ending support.

Jason Dravis, The Dravis Agency—for your patience and guidance throughout the process.

Joe Mozingo—for inspiring me to research my own family heritage as well as create a fictional one for April.

Jackson Messick and Ava Messick—for finding delight in the world of words.

Michael—my unicorn. You are indeed a rare breed.

There's a whole lot of nothing on the way to New Orleans. I hadn't seen any evidence of civilization since we left Montgomery. Too wired to sleep, too tired to read, I leaned back and gazed into the darkness that had become my life. What a difference a week makes. Yesterday, I was an ordinary seventeen-year-old with a father who loved me. Last week, I had no thought of imminent threat to my ordinary existence. That was yesterday. Everything changed in a heartbeat. Literally. Not mine, but my father's, the very last beat of his thirty-five-year-old heart. Who knew he had a heart condition? Not me, but then again I knew so little about my family history.

In that moment, I became an almost-orphan. I say almost because my mom has been MIA in the Middle East for over a year. She simply vanished. Nobody knew how, when, or where it happened. Out on recon one minute, gone the next. Poof! MIA? AWOL? Kidnapped? The military was stonewalling. It only seems like forever, but it was just an hour ago that I boarded this stupid bus, my pathetic luggage hidden away in a compartment below like a stowaway. Before handing me my one-way ticket and saying goodbye, Sam, my father's friend and lawyer, said he would take care of packing up the house and storing everything for me. He said he would send the balance of my things after I was settled, not that there was much to send.

I didn't know it took six hours and twenty-five minutes to get to New Orleans from Montgomery, Alabama. I never needed to know, I never wanted to know. The bus? Who takes the freakin' bus anymore? A poor man's red-eye.

I felt like Harry on the Knight Bus, only without the four-poster bed or the magic. At least I had a window and there wasn't anybody sitting next to me. Thankfully, I wouldn't have to endure the idle chatter of another displaced soul.

Besides me, there were only a few other losers on their way out of Montgomery. A man as old as the hills sat two rows ahead of me. He wheezed constantly and farted every thirty minutes; I could've set my watch by him. There was also a granny who had not stopped knitting since she sat down. She must have a plus size sweater done by now or at the very least a dozen mittens. God help her if she dropped one of those needles—I was liable to use it as a weapon either on her or, perhaps, myself. The burned-out bus driver? Probably an ex-con who lied on his job application, trading in his orange prison jumpsuit for a gray one.

By now I was pretty sure I'd been dropped into some sort of geriatric Final Destination movie in glaring 3D. But where was the really hunky guy with the oh-so-stylish stubble who would come to save my day? With my luck, the hunky guy would save Granny because he has mommy issues.

What's next for me? An aunt I've never met, life in a city I've never been to, and, last but not least, yet another school in an endless parade of schools. Too bad Dad hadn't waited to die until next year after I'd graduated from high school.

Oh, man, I didn't mean that, Dad! If you're listening in, I hope you're up there watching over me. I need you; I miss you so much.

I started to well up but stopped, dabbed at my eyes with my sleeve. No, no tears.
Don't be such a baby
.

The knitting needles click-clacked in sync with the tires slapping the pavement; the large engine thrummed as the behemoth lumbered closer to New Orleans. The white noise finally worked its magic and I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. Exhaustion was victorious in the battle with my anxiety.

I awoke several hours later as a red dawn was breaking over the horizon. My father always said, “Red sky in the morning, sailors, take warning!” I couldn't imagine how my life could get any worse than it already was.

As we neared the station, the bus rumbled through a disturbingly desolate neighborhood—a cement-colored urban landscape with little green for relief. No sign of life so early in the morning, only grayness and empty buildings.

Arriving on schedule at 5:30
A.M.
, the bus rolled to a stop. The hot engine tick-tick-ticked as the door whooshed open and the driver mumbled, “Welcome to New Orleans. Thank you for choosing Greyhound.”

Like I had a choice
, I thought, descending the stairs after the other passengers. I'd just spent six hours and twenty-five minutes in over-chilled, recycled bus air, and the June Louisiana heat and humidity dealt me a knockout blow.
Perfect. Just perfect.

I hustled inside and scanned the cavernous station. I saw a woman who looked vaguely like my mother, but was smaller, with more curves and short, spiked hair.

“And so it begins,” I grumbled to no one in particular as I walked towards my new life.

“April?”

“Kate?”

We eyed each other warily, silently.

“Breakfast or sleep?” asked Kate.

“Breakfast.”

Kate reached down. “Here, let me help you with your bags.”

“I got it,” I said, slinging my backpack over my shoulder and grabbing both bags.

“Alrighty then. We're over there,” said Kate, pointing to a cherry-red Mini Cooper convertible. “Bacon and eggs? Vegetarian? What would you like?”

I threw my bags into the back of the car and got in.

“I don't care.”

“Restaurant or home cooked?”

“I don't care.”

“Home cooked, then. I'm a pretty good chef, you know.”

“I don't know anything about you.”

Filled with an uncomfortable silence, the little car sailed through the deserted city towards the French Quarter. At this hour, only the sidewalk cleaners occupied the streets, their hoses snaking behind them like alien pets.

“I'm sorry about your dad.”

“Thanks.”

“It must have been such a shock.”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“Of course, I understand.”

“I doubt it.”

More silence.

“Are those your only bags? Is there more stuff on the way? Can I help you in any way?”

“Only two bags. The rest of my stuff will be sent. I don't need any help.”

“Is there much? I can clear out some other things and put them in storage if you need more space.”

“Not much.”

“Do you need any money? I have some saved up if you need help.”

“I'm good.”

“Sounds like you're all set . . . Um, have you heard anything new from the Army? Are they any closer to finding your mother?”

“Stop the inquisition already.”

I turned away from Kate and looked out the window, watching as the lifeless business district slipped away behind us, replaced by multicolored buildings with lacy wrought iron balconies. The delicate railings provided a brilliant backdrop for the vivid pinks and purples of bougainvillea and the dazzling green of cascading ferns. We wound our way past the river and through the narrow streets until at last Kate guided her tiny car into a parking space.

“This is it,” she said, taking one of my bags.

I stopped at the gate, taking in my new home. The two-story yellow house was old, at least a hundred years. It was nice, but looked big for just one person; a storybook kind of house, except the fence was black wrought iron instead of white picket. The wraparound porch was furnished with white wicker rocking chairs, matching tables, potted palms, and several ceiling fans. A second story balcony, dripping tendrils of a lush green plant, had a set of French doors leading out from one of the rooms, probably Kate's bedroom or office, as there was only one white wicker rocker and a table.