I touch my finger to the signature box that pops up on my watch face. “What’s the item?”
I hear Dale tell the delivery team to place the package by my station.
“Not sure, though it’s climate-crate packed, ten by twelve. Are you expecting a piece?”
Ten by twelve feet?Crate packed?I try to recall what’s upcoming on my docket, though I wouldn’t forget this sort of shipment. It’s rare toreceive original artwork at the lab, most of it being housed in climate-controlled warehouses and underground bunkers.
“Nothing I can think of,” I reply.
“That’s odd. Well, it came with an audio card. I put it on your desk,” Dale says.
An audio card? My curiosity is piqued further.
Dale and I work at the Savannah location of the Georgia Institute for Art—nicknamed GIA. I love my job. I’m an art conservator by training, but since most museums went virtual after the fires and then the Great Flood damaged many precious works of art, I’ve worked as a virtual conservator. We create art experiences: in-person, augmented-reality tours at museums like the Telfair on York Street, and virtual visits from at-home devices, all for a low annual cost. GIA’s installations are also free of charge at community hubs and schools, set up to make art accessible to everyone.
My watch vibrates on my wrist again, and I glance down. It’s Clementine’s school—I’m five minutes late.Shoot.
“I better go. Clem’s school is buzzing me.” My focus immediately shifts from the mysterious delivery to my daughter, who will be displeased with my tardiness. She hates being the last one picked up.
After the end-call pleasantries (Have a great night! Hope Wyatt spoils you…), we hang up and I remove the earbud, tucking it into my purse.
Speeding up, I navigate a path around two women with a swinging child sandwiched between them, and an elderly man walking a marmalade cat on a crystal-studded harness. He says “Howdy” as I pass, and I offer a quick “hey there,” slowing enough to not appear rude. I’ll have to tell Clem about the cat. She’ll get a kick out of that.
My hair is sweat limp and my thighs stick together under my cotton dress. It’s a typical midsummer’s day in Savannah—sweltering heat and mugginess, making you dream of ice pops and cool swimming pools. Despite having lived here for years, I’ve not yet acclimatized to Savannah’s weather. In summertime the air is as thick as warmed honey, the humidity record high. Residents stroll sidewalksunder the canopy of oaks that drip with moss, no one ever seeming to be in a rush. Racewalking is best saved for less genteel destinations, like New York City, or even my hometown of Toronto.
“The tea is cold and sweet, the people warm and friendly, and the pace of life is best described as ‘civilized’ ” is typically what I’ll say when friends back home ask what it’s like to live here.
My watch vibrates again.Seven minutes late.I walk faster.
—
The crash and the smell hit my senses at the same time in one startling burst. I gasp, a hand going to my chest (thump, thump, thump, thump), the other snapping outward to find Clementine’s hand, which is sticky and warm. A whiff of tangy sweetness clings in my nose, and my mouth fills with saliva. My watch releases a series of three short vibrations against my wrist, meant to remind me to breathe, to lower my heart rate. Now I wish I’d opted for drone delivery versus coming to the grocery store myself.
“I’m sorry, Momma,” Clementine says, sucking in her bottom lip the way she does when tears are near. At our feet is a smashed jar of preserved sweet cherries, the red syrup a messy puddle dotted with the now-inedible fruit. The syrup is thick, the color of blood. My watch sets off another series of buzzes against my wrist, which I ignore.
Before I can answer my daughter, reassure her that it’s fine, an older woman to our right says, “Don’t fret, honey.” She smiles—pale blue eyes, weathered skin from the too-strong sun—and presses a yellow button on the buggy’s handle. “That’s what this is for!”
A moment later a cleaner arrives. The hovering white disc chirps out, “Caution, caution, caution,” as it approaches the puddle of syrup, a clear tube with silicone feelers releasing from under its belly to suck up the mess. The sounds of suction, interrupted each time a cherry makes its way up the tube, causes my stomach to turn.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Clementine says to the woman. Ever polite, ever observant of a stranger’s kindness, the way kids here are raised.We only came to the store to pick up a couple of things, so we have canvas bags and no buggy, which means no cleanup button. Clementine prefers the self-serve kiosks to the buggy, so she can hand-scan the items. I’m partial to the delivery service, but it isn’t worth the extra drone cost when you only need a few things.
“Thank you,” I say, echoing Clementine. “You didn’t have to do that, but thank you.”
I know the jar of cherries will be automatically added to this woman’s bill, because she hit her buggy’s cleanup button. I’m uncomfortable with her generosity, even though it’s what I would have done if the situation were reversed.
“Happy to,” the woman says, waving my discomfort away. Then to Clementine: “You and your momma have beautiful eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such pretty eyes!”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Clementine smiles shyly, pleased by the compliment. “Mine are just green, but my mom’s eyes are extra special. They have a funny name…What is it, Momma?”
She looks at me, head tilted, her little brow furrowed.
“It’s called central heterochromia,” I reply. “Two different-colored eyes, or in my case, two colors in the iris.”Green, with a thick gold ring around the pupil.
“Central he-te-ro-chro-mia,” Clementine repeats, taking her time to get it right. Her efforts are rewarded by the woman’s generous smile.
“How interesting!” she says, before looking at me, eyebrows raised. “Any others at home?”
I swallow hard. Regret and shame stick in my throat, like a too-big pill I can’t get down. I could lie, but I don’t. “No.”
