A heart-wrenching sob left Sophia, who, rose from the sofa and walked swiftly to the window. Oh, my God! I didn’t think about this. I’m so sorry, my love!
That was cruel, Alistair Connor. Cruel and unnecessary. He was feeling so much pain that he couldn’t go after her. Control yourself, for fuck’s sake.
An awkward stillness came over the office. Dr. Volk didn’t move a finger, watching Alistair, who had put his forehead on his hands and was panting.
From Sophia’s hunched shoulders came another sob.
“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry,” Alistair breathed, already behind her. She turned and wound her arms around his waist under his jacket. “That was uncalled for. I didn’t mean to be so—”
“Realistic?” Dr. Volk intervened from his place. “You stated nothing more than reality, Alistair. You could have been more polite, but your daughter’s corpse is disintegrating.”
Dr. Volk saw Alistair’s big body shake from head to toe and Sophia’s hands moving under his jacket, soothing him. Nonetheless, it was not time for pity. “Are you going to do the same with your love for her?”
“Nae,” came back the hoarse whisper, as he fiercely shook his head, his long hair swinging and catching the light. “Nae, never.”
“So, stop hurting yourself and the ones who want to help you.” He watched Alistair crush Sophia in his arms, murmuring again he was sorry, and she squeeze him back, saying it was okay; that she was sorry too.
In spite of the painful situation, the couple was so in sync, they were almost one in their sorrow.
Dr. Volk waited until they were seated again to proceed. “In one of our meetings, Alistair, I explained that in the early stages of grief it is normal to feel crazy, to have nightmares, or to question your religious beliefs. It can be a roller-coaster. As time goes by, the difficult periods become less intense and shorter, but it takes time to work through a loss. Even years after a loss, especially at special events such as a family wedding or the birth of a child, we may still experience a strong sense of grief.”
Alistair looked at his hands on Sophia’s lap as she caressed his wrists. “I felt guilty, sad and lonely, angry at the world, at myself, at God, at the devil. I haven’t been there for more than a month. I have to tell her about her films, her dolls—”
“Wait a minute, Alistair,” Doctor Volk interrupted him. “I’m very sorry to say, but she is dead. She cannot hear you anymore.”
A sob shook Alistair’s chest and he buried his face in the hollow of Sophia’s neck. “I don’t want her to be. Two years, Andrew, she was Gabriela’s age when she died.”
Sophia embraced him, crying too.
“Keeping the illusion that Nathalie is alive makes you the victim, Alistair. Keeping problems alive that should be solved, maintains the pain inside you. It makes you remain special; a deserver of pity. Besides, illusion is the extreme way in which pain disguises itself to avoid contact with the normal possibilities of life. Feeding and keeping the pain inside you, makes you feel sorry for yourself. Do you understand?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Alistair was calm once more, his bandaged hands roaming over Sophia’s softly heaving back.
Dr. Volk saw her draw a steadying breath, and compose herself. Nonetheless, what he was about to say was going to make her unbalanced again. “Do you want to explain to me why you went to such lengths this time?”
Oh, no, you bastard. Not in front of her. Alistair’s eyes widened and he shook his head. “Andrew, I don’t think—” But he shut his mouth. He saw the doctor was going to say it to Sophia. One way or another. Maybe it’s better to discuss it here and now.
Dr. Volk reclined in the chair and gazed directly into Sophia’s eyes. “Sophia, Alistair and I have discussed many times the possibilities of you having or adopting a baby. So, I guess a baby is coming soon. I know he is afraid, and it’s normal. I can fairly say, you are afraid too. What I am wondering here is, was it the prospect of having another baby that made him edgier?”
Not again, please. Her mouth opened but not a word formed.
“Nae, nae.” He kissed her forehead, pulling her even closer. “It was because of its conception. I shouldn’t have pushed you to accept a sperm donor. Maybe we should forget this whole idea of another baby.” And what if something happens? “For a few months.” Forever. “We don’t have to decide anything now.” Ever.
Sophia tilted her head to the side, observing him. Liar. Damn you, Alistair Connor.
Before she could speak, Dr. Volk said, “Alistair, remember Gabriela’s request for Chanukah? Why don’t you start with taking her to visit her half-sister? Children deal with loss and the unknown more easily. You still have time to think about the baby. So the sooner you take her there, the better. She will form better bonds with the baby that is coming.”
Sophia squinted her eyes, looking intrigued at the doctor. Why does he keep insisting on the baby? Doesn’t he know Alistair Connor will never agree to one? Didn’t he hear him say it just now?
“I’ll think about this,” Alistair spoke.
“No, don’t postpone it,” Dr. Volk contradicted him. “Alistair, it’s a good thing to lean on the people who care about and love you. Don’t avoid them; accept what is offered. You hold too much inside. You control too much. That is not good. Oftentimes, people want to help but don’t know how, so tell them what you need. Whether it’s a shoulder to cry on, like now, or just someone to hold your hand.”
“I—” Sophia bit her lower lip. Say it, Sophia. She took her iPad from her bag and a folded sheet of paper.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Sophia’s folded sheets. Alistair never knew what to expect from her folded sheets. They were uncontrollable as her ideas spread and took the leashes out of his hands.
“I have a proposition. Nathalie’s grave—” Alistair’s ink-black eyebrows came together, but she forged on quickly and smoothly. “Nathalie deserves roses and angels, not spikes. She deserves a plaque marking her existence and words that show the world all the love her father felt for her, not a blank marble slab as if she had not been loved, or the feelings were not important enough to be written down.”
Sophia knelt between Alistair and Dr. Volk. Both men leaned forward, their gazes following her to the floor when she lit her iPad.
On the screen appeared a photo of Nathalie’s sinister grave; on the thin paper, there were a few scattered water-color drawings that made no sense. Then she put the sheet of paper over the screen.
Vines with delicate leaves opening to show little rosebuds entwined to the top of the spikes, where a white blossoming rose covered the points. For the spikes at the corners, Sophia designed little angels.
With very few changes, what was the most horrible grave Dr. Volk had ever seen, had turned into a loving one.
“Can we do it? Please? Valentina can order the angels in Italy. No better place for marble. Felipe can send me the flexible wires from Rio. In any form, size, and color I want. We can order a platinum plaque from Mr. Arkade with a few words inscribed. In a week or two, we’ll have everything and we’ll embellish her place of rest. Before your birthday. Without having to move her.”
He hadn’t said a word, frowning at her iPad.
She picked up his wrists in her hands and gazed into his eyes. “Together, we can do it. No one will need to touch her place. Just you and me. And maybe Ers—”
Alistair’s chilly voice cut her, “You sent this to your siblings?”
What? Sophia’s eyes widened. “No. Of course, not. How could you think that about me? I promised you—”
“You promised me you wouldn’t tell him about the cuts.”
Damn. “Touché…” She framed his face and looked over her shoulder at Dr. Volk, who was observing the scene, amazed by her ideas. “But he needed to know. He is your therapist.”
Aye, you are right. It’s just that I wasn’t ready. Or so I thought. Alistair’s mood was mollified, however, he was still not completely convinced. “How did you draw that, So
phia?”
She shrugged. “With some crayons I found in the children’s room and a few hours.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “You’re too smart for your own good, Marchioness.”
“So, we can do it?” Please, say yes.
“It should have always been like this,” he whispered, marveling at the paper over the iPad.
Sophia picked up her things and moved back to the sofa.
“That will be a wonderful initiative, Alistair. So on your birthday, you and Gabriela will visit Nathalie as a family. When the baby is of age, take the baby. It will be easier to deal with it with so much love around you, Alistair.”
“And what else can I do?” Sophia asked.
More? Alistair shook his head astonished. “Sophia. You do more than enough.”
Dr. Volk smiled. “It seems you do, but don’t forget, Sophia: don’t press if he doesn’t feel like talking; be willing to sit in silence. Comfort and support can be offered by mere presence, caressing his hand, his hair. When he decides to talk, be prepared to listen, he may need to tell the story over and over again, sometimes in minute detail. Repeating the story is a way of processing and accepting the death. With each retelling, the pain lessens. So, the key here is: Be patient.”
“I can be,” she nodded.
“Now, let me tell you the hard part. Nathalie was as alive as Ariadne is. Although you cannot scare Gabriela, she has to understand that Nathalie will never play with her. You don’t want to see Gabriela playing with a ghost.” Dr. Volk saw Sophia pale and Alistair’s arm wind around her. “The new family you are both creating has too many important losses. Loved people, who are not living anymore, but are an integral part of your history. This baby will never make up for the loss of Nathalie. So, although I know none of you has the intention of forgetting your loved ones, let’s focus on the living ones, on Gabriela, and on the new baby.”
“I…after I realized I was forgetting things, because of the drugs, I started a journal and an album about Gabriel to give to Gabriela one day.”
“That’s a creative way to deal with your loss. You can also make an album with Nathalie’s birthday photos or other happy celebrations. Do it all together with Sophia and Gabriela. Show it to the baby. You have told me Gabriela misses her father, you can show her you miss your daughter too. You will always love her and you will always miss her. There is nothing wrong with that, but to cut yourself is dangerous. Not only for you, but for your loved ones.”
“We’ll redo Nathalie’s place. And I won’t go there anymore alone at night.”
“You won’t need to,” Sophia complemented.
He nodded and whispered, “I’m not forgetting Nathalie. I’m just reformatting my family.”
“Great. Now, this is a medical order: I want both of you go on a trip for four, five days. Take Gabriela with you. Go visit your twin sisters,” Dr. Volk said, and Alistair huffed. “They will create enough havoc to distract Alistair and also you, Sophia. I want to receive daily calls from you, Alistair. Sophia, if something abnormal happens call me. At any time.” He gave her his card. As always their time was long finished. “Now. The homework.”
Alistair’s lips curled. Dr. Volk always left him with something to do.
“Not another sexist film, please!” Sophia complained with a smile.
“That was never my intention.” Dr. Volk smiled back at her and then looked at Alistair. “You, Alistair, you’ve always said Sophia is your private ray of sun. That is a move from outside in. Not bad at all. However, I want you to think about a quote by Alberto Camus: ‘In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.’ Where is your invincible summer, Alistair?”
Chapter 19
The Blue Dot
Sunday, February 6, 2011
1:03 p.m.
Ethan felt sad.
He leaned his head on the headrest of his Rolls-Royce, appalled by his whole life. He had started intense therapy the week after he had the talk with Sophia and since then he had been seeing things more clearly.
The car stopped slowly in front of the gallery and he realized he could have gained not only Sophia’s love, but Barbara’s or even Paola’s, if he had been more confident not in them, but in himself.
I should never have looked for Sophia in Barbara. It solved none of my problems.
He had behaved badly with all three women and it was not his parents’ fault. He was a grown man and responsible for his own actions. He could hide forever behind the excuse that he had been abused but he didn’t want it anymore.
You need to take responsibility for your actions if you want to be happy. The only person you control is yourself, Ashford. He climbed the three steps of the imposing building and stepped into the wide and tall center hall. You are old enough to do something about your feelings and to start it all again. A new start. A fresh one.
Guinevere, one of the beautiful and intelligent receptionists at the gallery, approached Ethan as soon as he entered and gazed around leisurely. She knew she had a potential buyer in her hands as she recognized him.
Ethan assessed the beautiful, tall brunette that approached him with a smile on her face. Sell me something. Anything.
“Mr. Ashford, welcome to The Blue Dot.” She stretched out her manicured hand. “I’m Guinevere Lockheed. May I help you?”
Of course she would know who I am. My money reeks. He almost snorted but a smile opened on his face.
“Guinevere.” He savored her name on his tongue and fixed her with his electric azure gaze. Beautiful woman, aren’t you? “Please, call me Ethan. I’m looking for a new piece for my penthouse, which is being refurbished. I want something…different.”
He paused for a moment, trying to explain what he was looking for but he didn’t quite know himself. I want something that can make sense out of the nonsense that has become my life.
“So, Ethan, a painting perhaps?”
“No. I want something that…reminds me of the past but makes me yearn for the future. A sculpture, perhaps. Or an object. Not a painting, nothing figurative. I have a wide open space.” That needs to be filled.
“I have the perfect thing for you.” She motioned him inside. “It has just arrived from Brazil. It’s going to be the main piece in the exposition of the two young artists who were recently discovered by Mr. Tavish MacCraig.”
Explaining the concepts of the artists’ work, she took him to the storage room on the third floor, where she pointed to a wide, round, wrapped object and asked two young staff members to set it in the next room.
Ethan observed as she easily made her way around the storage, offering him tea or champagne, all the while talking about art and pointing to other objects on display, without being pushy. He accepted a cup of tea and closely inspected the things she showed him.
One after another, the objects were discarded and Ethan’s eagerness deflated as it had at his visit to the White Cube gallery. “I don’t think I’m lucky today.” As always, when I deal with my past.
“I don’t give up so easily, Ethan,” she informed him, pulling forward another trellis on which objects were hanging.
Before she could explain them, one of the staff members called her, saying they had finished. “Shall we?”
They moved to a minimalist spacious room with a sofa and two armchairs on one side, and on the other side, a glass table and Cerzan Studio acrylic chairs with apple-green seats. The whole room was made for this kind of sale.
In the middle of it, hanging from the ceiling by two twisted irons was a round mirror.
So obvious. Ethan grimaced, as he approached the mirror. I thought she was more intelligent than this. “No. I don’t think so.”
“You are looking superficially,” she explained. “You asked for a sculpture, but you are looking at only one side. Look deeper.”
I’m not in a good mood anymore. Stop playing games. He raised an eyebrow at her.
“A mirror does not exist by itself. A m
irror is a half. Half is done by the piece. The other half has to be done by the beholder. You need to be the half to see what you’re looking for, so the mirror can exist. As you should do with other persons.”
Beautiful words, but I don’t want to be the spectator anymore so others can exist. I want to exist.
She moved her hand in the air. “Walk around it.”
He needed to escape from the dark, loathsome rooms full of half-despair and half-hope, the unconscious opened graves where he had buried all the stillborn and murdered Ethans, where he almost buried himself alive.
He wanted to live, and leave behind the pain of years of solitude.
He needed to move on; walk away in his newfound, still unsteady legs, even if on a dubious path, still feeling hopeless, to wash away all the dirt of his half-requited loves and half-satisfied desires.
Ethan moved to one side and saw that there was a concave mirror covering a large space, reflecting him distortedly. Not so imaginative either. He looked back at her and she was by his side, as if urging him to continue. He walked to the other side of the object, pausing right in the middle of it.
Guinevere’s smile grew as she saw Ethan become hypnotized. She remained silent giving him time to work it out.
“This is…” Amazing.
He was expecting the back silver surface of a normal mirror.
Instead, he was looking at multiple Ethans. He stepped toward it, mesmerized.
It was not a simple mirror. In a round box, with a shimmering silver light around the inside extremities, it reflected Ethan’s image continuously, making him wish to dive inside and swim until he could reach each new one, until he met the last eternal Ethan.
“The future—” she started to describe the concept of the object when he whipped his head to face her. The ferocious look in his eyes made her parted lips suck in air.
“Apparently rational justifications will never explain all sorts of the different feelings and raw emotions art invoke in people.”
“You’re right,” she said huskily, impressed with the passion in him.
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