The Only Thing I See

By Jessica Barksdale Inclan

Annabelle Cousins loves being a wedding photographer. But around the time of her own engagement, she starts to see the future of the couples through the lens. With the help from her Tarot card reading mother and her best friend, she seeks out the truth behind what she sees. After meeting the couple Robert and Nadine she discovers that the life she has might not be the one she wants after all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jessica Barksdale Inclan
• Release date: Nov 29, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452313283

Jessica Barksdale Inclan

Jessica Barksdale Inclán's debut novel Her Daughter's Eyes, published in 2001, was the premier novel published under New American Library's new imprint Accent. Her Daughter's Eyes was a final nominee for the YALSA Award for the best books of 2001 and best paperbacks for 2001 and has been published in both Dutch and Spanish. Her next novel The Matter of Grace was published in May 2002. Her third, When You Go Away, came out April 1, 2003. Her fourth, One Small Thing, was published April 2004, and was translated into in Dutch and Spanish. Walking With Her Daughter, was published in April 2005, and her sixth, The Instant When Everything is Perfect in February 2006. Starting in June 2006, she published the first in a trilogy from Kensington Books, When You Believe. Reason to Believe, and Believe in Me. Her next trilogy began with Being With Him and Intimate Beings. The final book in the trilogy--The Beautiful Being--came out in October 2010. She is a 2002 recipient of the CAC Artist’s Fellowship in Literature. Inclán teaches composition, creative writing, mythology, and women’s literature at Diablo Valley College in Pleasant Hill, California, and on-line and on-land creative writing courses for UCLA extension. She has studied with Sharon Olds, Anne Lamott, Kate Braverman, Grace Paley, Marjorie Sandor, and Cristina Garcia. Her short stories and poems have appeared in Rockhurst Review, Hotwired, The Salt Hill Journal, Free Lunch, The West Wind Review, The Prairie Star, Gargoyle and many other journals and newspapers. Her short story Open Eyes was given first prize by Sandra Cisneros for El Andar magazine's 2000 writing contest. She co-edited a women’s literature/studies textbook Diverse Voices of Women (Mayfield Publishing, 1995). Ms. Inclán has degrees in sociology and English literature from CSU Stanislaus and a Master’s degree in English literature from SFSU. Ms. Inclán lives in Oakland, California and is currently at work on a contemporary novel and a book of essays and another romance.

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The Only Thing I See

A Novel

Jessica Barksdale

Published by Jessica Barksdale at Smashwords

Copyright 2010 Jessica Barksdale

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Annabelle and Drew

Sometime in the Fall 2010

Somewhere in the San Francisco Bay Area

Chapter One

May 2010

I stand over our queen-sized bed, not knowing whether or not to say goodbye. I’m in my black skirt, white top, my leather purse at my side, ready to go.

It’s Saturday, I whisper.

Mmmm, Drew mumbles.

I’ve got to go to work, I say.

Huhhh, he says, his voice a growl.

I’m leaving. Work.

Not another Saturday, Drew says from the inner part of the bed that he seems to own. Sometimes, I can’t even find him in here; he is so starfished and flat underneath the duvet. How a six foot four inch tall man can hide in a queen-sized bed is still a mystery, and it’s one of the reasons I’ve refused to get a king-sized bed. If he’s almost lost to me now, I know in a larger space, I’d never find him again. My love, lost forever in down.

It’s always Saturday, he says, sighing under the covers. Part of me wants to get back in bed with him, curl up around his long bones, breathe in the warm smell of us in bed together. I want to wrap my arms around his chest, pull him close, his hair against my cheek. But it’s a Saturday, and Drew knows it. In the five years we’ve been together, I’ve only had about five Saturdays off. Saturday is my Monday. Saturday is my bread and butter, my cash cow. Drew may work 9 to 5 or 8 to 6 or 7 to 7 Monday through Friday as an options trader, but I’m a wedding photographer, and if I’m not at a wedding on a Saturday, I’m shooting the happy engaged couple at some very scenic locale. These Saturdays and sometimes Sundays are at least half of the reason we can afford to own this trendy, stainless steel, natural wood, mostly green and off the grid loft in Emeryville with the view of the Bay. These nasty Saturdays are partially why we have just made reservations for our own honeymoon to Italy later this year. We’ve been engaged for three months, though I don’t have a ring. Drew proposed on Stinson beach, a piece of sea grass filling in for white gold.

Will you marry me? he asked, holding out the green grass ring. I thought he was kidding until he got on his knee. Until I noticed his hand was shaking, the hand that held the green grass ring. I was not expecting this question, and I felt a deep surprise shake me from the feet up. For a small second, I thought to rewind. To change the scene back to the one where we are walking down the beach, almost ready to turn around and head back to the car and then dinner. But that, of course, is impossible. So, of course I said yes. So far, I have no official ring, Drew promising me my diamond soon, certainly before the wedding. Any day now.

If it’s not this Saturday, I say now as I stand over the bed. It will be another Saturday. It’s always Saturday, and Saturday is always this way.

You sound like Dr. Seuss, Drew says, his voice so muffled I can’t tell if he’s irritated or teasing me. Pretty soon you’ll be ordering up green eggs and ham. Or counting fish. One red, one blue.

Gee, thanks, I say, resisting the urge to swat the hump of his ass, resist touching him because touching him will just bring up the fact that we haven’t been touching much recently. It’s been a month, maybe two since we’ve had sex, the memory of it more like a dream. For a second, I think of us, under the blankets, the warmth of our skin pressed together, and I wonder why I don’t just dive back in to him.

I know we need to be together more, but I also know I have to work. I need to be on time, to be professional, even though lately, I’ve been very scared to actually take a photograph. I don’t like what I see sometimes, and I don’t mean the people at the other side of the lens. What I mean to say is I don’t like what I feel when I look at them.

I’m not talking about anything physical. People are inherently interesting, the differences between them fascinating, skin and bones and coloring the palate I use to create a photo that works. Eyes, noses, mouths, feet, hands; arms, legs, torsos—all different, all pulling me closer and into the photo. It doesn’t matter if people are fat or thin, tall or short, pierced, permed, bleached, or ridden hard and put away wet. A bride might be busting out of her Pinia Tornai bustier based dress, and I might be drawn to her more than the sleek sylph in the Vera Wang sheath. The point is: it isn’t how they appear. It’s the feeling the couple gives me.

It wasn’t always like this. But it is now. I swallow, push away thoughts of what might happen today.

I’ll be back. This is only about three hours. An engagement session. I’ll be home by 12 and we can go to Rudy’s for a sandwich. And then we have dinner with Matt and Anna, right?

Hmmm, Drew hmmms, his mind leaving the real world for dreams. Okay.

I wish he’d shrug off the blankets, reach up, and kiss me goodbye. But he doesn’t move, and I wonder when we stopped kissing each other goodbye. Or hello.

Drew, I say.

Hmmm, he says.

And like that, he’s asleep again.

Outside, I get into my MINI Cooper S I named Tiny (white with a black top), and turn on my GPS. I may be able to photograph the world, but I’m most often lost in it. Drew bought me the device for Christmas a couple years ago, and I was thrilled that I could pick the voice I wanted: male or female, Canadian, American, or British English. I immediately bonded with the female British voice, even though Meredith confused me when I first met her.

Take Slip Road and turn right, Meredith kept telling me. I searched for the sign that read Slip Road. But there was never a Slip Road, not once, and then I realized slip road was the Brits term for an entrance or exit off a freeway.

Now Meredith and I get along splendidly, and I can spot a slip road from a mile away.

Today, though, I’m just going to Orinda, through the Caldecott Tunnel and into the small downtown, the main part of town on either side of one street. There, I will be photographing Robert and Nadine, who were referred through their wedding planner Khalie Ferguson, who also happens to be my best friend.

Khalie and I met eight years ago at Wedding Expo Extravaganza at the Moscone convention center in downtown San Francisco. The place was packed with every single type of vendor that a prospective bride might want to hire for everything including helicopter pilots, cruise boat captains, and gazebo contractors. I’d eaten 12 different types of cake, tasted Jordan almonds with various candy shells, my mouth still tingling from Lemongrass Roasted Natural Filet of Beef with Thai Curry. I’d let my fingertips drift over yards or tulle, silk, organza, and ruched satin. My head was ringing with piped in versions of Unforgettable, The Way You Look Tonight, and What a Wonderful World. I had stacks of other photographers’ brochures in my backpack and was despairing that I could ever have such glossy, shiny advertisements for myself. I was just out of art school and after looking at what everyone else had to offer, I thought it would be a good idea to go down to the local Sears and apply to take photos of kids and small animals. Or, I thought as I walked down that final highway sized aisle, I was certain I should just go to one of the destination wedding spots and sit under a coconut palm and weep, taking with me several bottles of complementary champagne.

By the wine vendor booths, I saw a woman drinking a full flute of champagne, her black leather bag stuffed with pamphlets and goodies. She was tall, thin, slinky, and wore the highest heels I’d ever seen. Her hair was dark and slicked back in a chic chignon that seemed to match the notion of champagne. My feet hurt from walking the miles of exhibitions, and I could almost taste the grit and sugar of champagne in my mouth.

As I passed by, weakly smiling at her, she took one look at my face, grabbed a glass of champagne from a server, and handed it to me. At the very least, she said. Have a glass of deliciousness.

Together, we leaned against the wall, sipping and watching people pass in front of the booths.

It would be easy to give up, she said.

Yeah, I said. And I haven’t even started.

Khalie Ferguson, the woman named Khalie said. Wedding planner.

Annabelle Cousins I said. Fledgling wedding photographer. Potential, maybe, wanna-be wedding photographer.

Khalie shook my hand and smiled. Nice to meet you, Annabelle Cousins.

Then she smiled. A.B. C.

Huh? I asked, sipping more champagne.

Your name. ABC.

I started and then smiled. Of course. But not in all my life had anyone ever thought to put that together.

ABC, I repeated. But I feel more like XYZ at this point. This place is exhausting. I don’t know how anyone could come back for day two.

Khalie looked at me as if appraising my body mass index and then nodded slightly.

Come on. Khalie finished her champagne and put it on a table next to her. You can’t be here at a wedding convention all day and not try on a dress.

Why would I do that? I asked.

Don’t tell me you’ve never tried on a wedding dress? Ever?

Never, I said. Never a bride.

Khalie shook her head. Taking photos is one thing. Feeling like a bride is another.

I have a great imagination, I said. I know what tulle feels like. Silk. Organza. I’ve touched the bling. I know what they sound like coming out of their boxes."

A sound? she asked.

I nod, hearing the fabric against the boxes. Dead white witches coming to life. I don’t need to know anything else.

Seems like you practiced that one, she said, raising her thin, perfect eyebrows.

I’m just saying they hurt.

You’ve only imagined how tight they are.

"Like I said, I have a great imagination. When I look at wedding dresses, I channel The Cask of Amontillado"

What?

Never mind, I said. "Let’s just say I think of that scene in Gone with the Wind and Scarlett being yanked into her waistline."

They hurt so good, baby. And you were made to wear a wedding gown. Look at you! Let’s go. Khalie picked up her back and put it on her shoulder.

I’m not going. I began to back up and away from this woman who clearly took her wedding planner job too seriously.

You know, I’ve just met you, but I think you have some serious denial going on. You need to try one on. Trust me. Some of these dresses never make it to stores. This is where the designers bring out the whacky stuff. It’s a lot more fun than looking at tablecloths and engraved cake slicers, don’t you think?

Khalie smiled, and I stared at her, feeling my mouth go slightly agape. What, exactly, did I have to do now but look at cake slicers? And putting on a dress didn’t mean I was pining for the question that a man hadn’t managed to ask me. It didn’t mean I was trying to put a spell on anyone. It didn’t mean I didn’t have something that I wanted. I was fine not being married. I was happy not being a bride.

Khalie took my arm. If we rush, we can get you in a Pnina Tornai slut virgin ball gown. You will never look at Vera Wang again.

Khalie is tall and lanky, and even with my long legs, I barely kept up with her as she strode past aisle after aisle at the convention. She pushed into the Pnina Tornai booth, almost manhandling the clerks, who brought out the biggest slut virgin ball gown I’d seen then and since. It looked like a Wild West prostitute with a heart of gold had just peeled it off, the dress complete with a virtually see-through bustier and a gigantic white tulle bell tacked on the back.

There, Khalie said as proudly as though she’d made it herself. See the glory. Girls, my colleague here would like to know what this feels like.

The Cask, I mumbled.

Whatever, Khalie said, waving my words away. You’ll love it.

I shook my head but allowed myself to be taken into the dressing room, where the clerks oohed and ahhed me as though I might be a buyer.

Argh, I was hitched in.

Urgh, I was pulled tight, my poor breasts (decent sized but nothing outstanding) thrown high, oh sweet chariot, my waist cinched in past Scarlett O’Hara’s wildest dreams.

They led me back out to the front of the booth, one on either side of me. I was barely breathing.

Gorgeous, Khalie said, and even though I didn’t know her facial expressions then, I believed her.

Turning toward the mirror, I saw that I looked—I looked like a bride. A kind of slutty whorish bride, but a bride with hopes for the future nonetheless. One of the clerks arranged a veil on my head, another handed me a dried flower bouquet.

No more sleek Vera, Khalie said.

Grace Kelly, one of the clerks said, and I almost rolled my eyes.

I look as though I’ve come from a bordello, I said. Grace Kelly after John Wayne laid his paws on her. Several times.

There are worse things, she said. Much.

And then for good measure, Khalie tried on three gowns herself, each more slut virgin that the next. After we were through, we grabbed a couple more glasses of champagne and then slid out of the convention.

In less than a year, I couldn’t imagine how I’d gotten through the day without her. For a while we joked that we should form a company called Two Single Girls Wedding Planners. My engagement changes things in terms of our fictional title. But we are still inseparable.

The good news, too, is that we refer each other clients, which actually means something because I eventually did build up a client base, almost all of my new clients coming from old clients. Today’s clients are Khalie’s, and as usual, she gave me the scoop.

Okay, Khalie had told me. She’s a lawyer, and he does something in business. I never know what business people do in those offices. Anyway, Nadine is a mini Bridezilla. Only a bit of a dictator, paranoid bride wacko. She gets all intense and hyper, and then she calms down. She’s a race horse.

I’ll give her some sugar, I said. And a carrot.

Robert is a dream, Khalie said. Tall, dark, mostly silent. Large red luscious lips. Doesn’t say much about the wedding, but what he does say he says thorough his deep brown eyes.

Is he a stock broker? I ask, knowing that type.

Khalie shakes her head. Who knows? Who cares? All I want to do is look at him.

How long has it been since you’ve gone on a date? I asked. Did you ever update your Date.com ad from 2005?

Khalie keeps talking, avoiding the discussion about Will, the trichotillomaniac she dated for four months, breaking up with him when he started to pull out her hair as well as his own. She avoids talking about the postcards her mother sends her, the ones that feature buff male bodies. Her mother scrawls, You could be here! With him!

But Khalie hasn’t been visiting naked male bodies lately, not even for an overnight trip.

Robert, Khalie said. Keeps his arm around Nadine. Waits her out as she goes on and on and on. I’m sure they go home, and she’s so hyped up they have sex like rabbits.

Jeez, Khalie, I said. Maybe they fight instead.

I don’t know, Khalie said. He’s really, super nice and very interesting once Nadine stops talking. Always has stories about things. Last time he told me about ravens and cow carcasses in the UK.

What? I ask. That’s not very romantic.

I know. It was interesting, though. Anyway. Here’s something to think about when you take the photos. Nadine’s nipples are always erect. I mean, it’s noticeable. I don’t think Photoshop can get rid of those babies.

I shook my head, laughed. You’re sick. I don’t know why these poor innocents hire you.

"ABC, you hired me for your wedding, my friend, despite the fact that you are the least engaged person I’ve ever met. So be nice or I’ll poison the ceviche or the cake. I’ll do something worse to the punch."

As I drive to Orinda, Meredith pointing me to the slip road, I wonder about Khalie, my best friend, the thirty-eight-year-old wedding planner, the one who never dates, who goes home after a long, long weekend of wedding and eats popcorn in front of Netflix.

Once when we were talking about dating, she told me, At first I was too busy, and then it seemed like I’d missed the dating bus.

I nodded, but that didn’t seem like the real, solid truth. Men at every single wedding stared at her as she strode by, her hair sleek, her dress hugging her in the way that all her clothes do: just right. Sometimes she would take numbers; sometimes she would call, but when I remembered to ask about it again, she’d either thrown the number away or the date hadn’t really worked out. Or they’d gone out twice, three times, nothing catching.

Maybe she just hadn’t met the right man.

Maybe she hadn’t decided to meet the right man.

Maybe too much wedding makes for too little desire.

At least that hasn’t