Trinity Sight
Chapters (41)
- PART ONE
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- PART TWO
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- PART THREE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Copyright © 2019 by Jennifer Givhan
E-book published in 2019 by Blackstone Publishing
Cover design by Kathryn Galloway English
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental
and not intended by the author.
Trade e-book ISBN 978-1-5385-5674-0
Library e-book ISBN 978-1-5385-5673-3
Fiction / Magical Realism
CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress
Blackstone Publishing
31 Mistletoe Rd.
Ashland, OR 97520
www.BlackstonePublishing.com
For my mama and my children
My every story begins with you
And for Andrew—
My heart’s most hopeful Chance
“For perhaps we are like stones;
our own history and the history of the world embedded in us,
we hold a sorrow deep within and cannot weep
until that history is sung.”
SUSAN GRIFFIN,
A Chorus of Stones
PART ONE
PART ONE
SHOCK OF LIGHT
“You don’t have anything
if you don’t have the stories.”
LESLIE MARMON SILKO,
CEREMONY
ONE
ONE
SOMETHING STOLEN
Ashock of light. Unbelievable light. Blood orange swallowing the Albuquerque evening. A pulling in, taking back, reclaiming something stolen. Halfway home from her Saturday-morning lecture, Calliope Santiago drove across the river toward West Mesa and the Sleeping Sisters, ancient cinder-cone volcanoes in the distance marking the stretch of desert where she lived. Only now she could see no farther than two feet ahead of her from the blinding light, the splotches in her eyes bursting like bulbs in an antique camera. She blinked, not sure what she was seeing. She meant to cover her eyes. Meant to shield her sight.
Instead, she clutched the steering wheel and keeled forward, belly contracting around her twins, less than two months from birth. For the second time, she’d become an incubator, something she was never more aware of than when she yanked against the seat belt squeezing into her gray tunic, sloshing the water balloon of her midsection that seethed with two fish.
The stereo played static, the music replaced with wiry scratches. She felt vaguely aware of an aura, as if morning sickness were on reprise. But this wasn’t morning sickness.
She didn’t know when she lost control of the car, only that it was spinning. Though she must have been screaming, she couldn’t hear her own voice. She couldn’t hear anything. Even the static had been replaced by a void louder than any sound she’d ever heard. She pumped the brakes as the car careened toward the guardrail. The brakes were useless. A canopy of autumn-yellowing cottonwoods in the bosque alongside the road lurched toward her, the initial burst of light staining everything—the leaves, the clouds, the reflection in the river below—deeply red.