Art is the Lie (A Vanderbie Novel)

by Courtney Cook Hopp

  “Mmm.” A single eyebrow lifted slightly as she moved further into my room. “Any other reason for dressing up?”

  “Nope, not that I know of.” The guilt of the lie landed like a rock in the pit of my stomach. I could tell her. Of all people, I could tell her. My hesitation hung briefly before I knew I wouldn’t. “Unless you wanted to take me out on the town.”

  “Probably not tonight, but I’d be happy to another time.” She stood in front of my dresser, her fingers danced lightly over the items cluttered on top. “The girls mentioned they hadn’t seen you around school recently.”

  “I’ve been around. I just don’t have hair that makes me easily noticeable.”

  Aunt Lucy’s fourteen year old twin daughters, Autumn and Summer, were both topped with the brightest red hair imaginable, although their sameness in looks were punctuated by opposite dispositions.

  “Did you enjoy your night at the Picasso show?” she asked.

  Did she know? Did she talk to Evelyn? “It was, um, fun,” I stuttered and tried to change the subject. “Ms. Harris had us do a Picasso-esque assignment for class.”

  She looked at me, and I was certain my truth withholding slid across her eyes knowingly. She reached out and lifted a framed picture of my mom off the top of the dresser. My favorite. The camera shutter had stolen a moment and perfectly captured her essence. Her bare feet were tucked deep in the sand, and a beautiful floral sundress hung stylishly over her lithe frame. Her mouth was curved wide, her head tossed back, and you could almost hear her laughter swirling in the salt air.

  “Gretta was a beautiful woman, Cee.” She gently set the frame down and turned back to me. “I see much of her in you.”

  The compliment stung the back of my eyes. I swallowed down the loss, bit my tongue, and muttered, “Thanks.”

  Aunt Lucy’s presence proved damaging to my psyche, leaving me befuddled and late as I slipped down the stairs and muttered a “studying at Grace’s house” excuse to Dad.

  “Not a late night!” was all I heard as the door clicked closed behind me.

  My Ghia whirled like a bee as I raced to the ferry, certain I would miss it. At the moment, I didn’t care. The evening had turned into a mental game of damage control, reining Mom’s memory in tight enough for me to deal with the uncertainty of what waited on the other side of the water.

  I pulled into the commuter lot and ran down to the idling ferry, thankful I only had to pay for the crossing when boarding on the Seattle side.

  “Good timing,” the ferry worker said as I stepped aboard. “You’re the last.” He pulled a rope across the back of the boat, ending all other racers from boarding.

  The engines roared to life and boiled the water into a frothy foam of mint green. The same green that washed ashore behind my mom in the picture on my dresser. For a split-second, the two scenes merged and the spirit of my mother circled the air around me. I stood, not wanting the trance to end as my hair whipped around in a childish game of peek-a-boo with the receding dock. But with every breath I sucked down, the boat floated further and further from the dock, vibrating the foam into soft rings of murky green. My isolation solidified.

  Not a soul knew where I was, save one.

  Chilled, I staggered up the stairs into the protection of the cabin and dropped down into a booth near the front. The city was a blaze of golden brilliance. The autumn sunset shimmered back like fire against the towering skyline. It was stunning, blinding — thawing my chills of uncertainty until the ferry horn blew and jolted my body to attention, the Seattle terminal within striking distance.

  Trepidation kept my pace slow as I crossed the upper deck, my heart pounding in my ears. I merged into the folds of the other people congregated on the small outer deck as we waited for the foot passenger bridge to be lowered into place, the warmth of bodies a false solidarity.

  What was I doing?

  I jostled forward with the group and walked the plank before we stepped through the first set of doors. My breath caught as I spied him leaning casually against a post in the back of the room. I watched him look for me, only the subtle movement of his dark hair giving away his search. Dark, inky waves that perfectly framed the lines of his face.

  Our eyes connected instantly as I stepped through the second set of doors. Everything came to a silent standstill. Vanishing. Only the sound of my blood pulsing behind my ears interrupted the frozen scene.

  Quentin pushed off the post, his steps deliberate, closing the gap between us.

  “CeeCee . . .” he hesitated inches from me, as if not knowing what to say.

  My mind stumbled in a panic and blurted out the first nervous thought it latched on to. “How did you get my number?”

  His mouth pulled into a tight line. He put his hand behind my elbow and moved us out of the flow of passengers coming off the ferry. A patch of heat blossomed from his touch sending zings of electricity up my arm as he guided us out of the terminal. We followed the crowd to an outside breezeway and continued across a footbridge that led to First Avenue.

  His silence was deafening in the loud city. “You said if I was free tonight, you would tell me how you got my number.”

  Leading us south on First Avenue through a small triangle shaped park, he finally broke his silence. “Yes, but the night is not over.”

  “It’s about to be.” I quit walking, breaking his grip from my elbow as I stopped on a corner under a large L-shaped scrolling iron bus stop. A glass canopy bubbled through the hard lines of metal, reminiscent of another time.

  He turned and stared down at me, his sharp green eyes prickling a layer of unease across my skin. “How do you know Eveyln?”

  The question caught me off guard. My defenses soared. Unable to hold his cold gaze, I turned my head and said, “I don’t.”

  “That’s odd,” his voice filled with sarcasm, “according to the SAM guest list, there were two Vanderbie’s in attendance the night of the Picasso show.”

  My head started to spin. Is this why he invited me? So he could call me a liar to my face? “Is that part of your job description? Guest list screening?”

  He didn’t answer.

  My eyes traced the scrolls of the iron structure, following it to the canopy, the last of the golden sunset rippling across the glass. “What is this thing? Is this a bus stop?”

  My eyes were back to him.

  The question threw him off, uncorking whatever steam he’d built up. “It’s not a bus stop. It’s a pergola, built in the late 1800’s.” His own eyes softened as he took in the structure.

  “And you know this because . . .”

  “Because I went on the Underground tour.” Finished with the distraction, he asked again, “How do you know Eveyln?”

  “So, what’s underground and why would one go down there?”

  The light changed and he guided us across the street. “What’s left of Pioneer Square after a fire in the late 1800s.” I was about to make a sarcastic crack, but he circled us back one more time. “Why did Evelyn ask me to introduce you to her?”

  “Because I’d never met her before,” I said in hopes of ending his questioning. “You still haven’t told me how you got my number.”

  “Are you telling me that it’s a coincidence that you have the same last name?”

  Deflated, my shoulders dropped and I softly replied, “No, it’s not a coincidence. She’s my grandmother.”

  “Did you not know you had a grandmother?” I could hear the skepticism in his voice.

  “I knew, but we’d never met before that night.” I couldn’t look at him, embarrassed to be talking about my family garbage, which, even I didn’t understand. I looked around and noticed more people walking up and down the streets. “Are we done? Because the rest of this story would take more minutes than are left in the night.”

  The pause was long, but he finally answered, “For now.”

  “Where are we going anyway?”

  “It’s First Thursday art walk,” he said as we walk
ed deeper into the Pioneer Gallery District. “I thought you might like to see some art.”

  Dubious, I looked up and asked, “Was this before or after you found out my last name was Vanderbie?”

  “Before.” I wasn’t so sure, but he didn’t ask any more questions.

  We spent the next few hours walking in and out of galleries. Our debates lingered safely on the context of art. Around the truths and lies, the real and the make believe, the good and the evil.

  One artist in particular, an oil painter, held us both captive. His small canvases forced us to step close while the minute details grabbed hold, daring us to look harder, to follow the lines off the canvas and search for what treasures lay hidden underneath.

  I was completely consumed. So much so, I didn’t notice when Quentin had stepped outside, his dark silhouette reflecting through the front window, his hand holding a cell phone to his ear. I weaved through the other art viewers, unintentionally shivering as I crossed into the chilly evening air. Quentin’s eyes followed my every movement. He ended his call as I neared, and pulled his coat off, draping it around my shoulders. He was everywhere. The musky scent of him rising all around me. Every sense in my body heightened.

  “There are two more galleries on the next street over,” his voice soft in the night air. “Do you have time?”

  “Sure.” I had no idea what time it was, but I knew I wasn’t ready to go home. I looked up to his face and quietly asked, “Are you going to tell me how you got my phone number?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “No, not really.”

  We started to walk down the street, when his low voice murmured, “Evelyn.”

  Of course, Evelyn. How she had my number, I have no idea.

  Washed in a scent of contentment, we rounded the corner and crossed a street cutting a diagonal path across the otherwise traditional city grid. It was a short, odd street, which abruptly came to an end at the mouth of an alleyway. The dark opening pulled me like a magnet and I was unable to stop my feet from moving toward their new trajectory.

  “CeeCee, the galleries are this way.”

  It began, like it always began, at the base of my neck.

  Please, not tonight, I thought.

  For weeks I’d waited, prepared myself for the onslaught, almost convinced myself I’d imagined the entire thing. But tonight, I let down my guard and now my mind would pay the consequence.

  I heard Quentin’s voice somewhere behind me, but with every step, the penetrating needles grew stronger. Forcing me to focus. Preparing me for what was about to unleash. And unleash it did. Slow at first, like a freight train picking up speed, until my entire mind was coated in color. Blues of every shade, bending into red.

  I knew enough not to be fooled by the beauty, because it was always followed by horror.

  “CeeCee, where are you going?”

  I wanted to turn to him, but the colors blew out like a candle, and my mind was ravished by exploding images.

  The outline of a man.

  The silhouette of a couple.

  The flash of a gun.

  Faster and faster they shuffled, casting me into depths of darkness as the silent movie came to life. A shadowy man next to a dumpster. A couple. The flash of a gun. Spinning blue lights throbbing hues of gray over the entire scene.

  On they went. Fear booming inside of me, adding the only soundtrack to the scene.

  The shadowy man by the dumpster.

  The backs of the couple.

  The gun.

  The blue lights.

  I stood at the mouth of the alley. My eyes open, unseeing, my body shaking uncontrollably. I felt Quentin’s arm wrap firmly around my back. I wanted to spin into him, to force my eyes from the unfolding scene.

  “CeeCee?” A whisper, a lifeline, in the storm of silence, in the nightmare playing out in front of me. The images continued to march forward. One after the other.

  The man.

  The couple.

  The flash of a gun muzzle.

  Until one image burst forward and hovered. It dangled over me, crushing me under its weight. A single silhouette, crumpled on the ground, bathed in blue light, begging me to understand.

  “Stop!” I screamed. I grabbed the sides of my head, tears streaming down my cheeks. “No more! Please, no more!”

  And like a T.V. unplugged from the wall, they immediately vanished, leaving only a heavy gray fog over my mind.

  My body fell under the pressure of their hasty retreat, but not before Quentin’s arms wrapped protectively around my waist, safely holding my feet to solid ground. My eyes darted in panic, looking for the couple. For the man. But all that remained was a cold, dark alley, just as it was when I first noticed it, trails of dumpsters as far as the eye could see.

  “CeeCee?” Quentin probed again. He grabbed my shoulders and spun me to him, away from the trail of darkness. His hands clasped over my cheeks, rubbing life back into them with his fingers, forcing me to look in his eyes, which I feared could see clearly into my slipping mind. “You have to tell me what’s going on.”

  “I don’t know.” My skin prickled in a sweaty chill. “My mind . . .um . . . I saw . . .”

  I looked back over my shoulder at the alley, but nothing was amiss. There was no one but us. I felt the dam behind my eyes threatening to break as I turned back to Quentin. To his eyes. The concern floating in them was my undoing, unleashing a torrent of tears. My chin dropped as my shoulders burst up and down with every jagged breath I sucked in. Quentin pulled me to him.

  This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening, spun over and over in my mind like a broken record, holding back all irrational explanations. I sunk deeper into the warmth of his arms, which kept me from splitting in two.

  Time marched forward and slowed my breath into small hiccups.

  “Did you see something? Like at the dock?”

  I nodded into his chest, unable to trust my voice. Unable to trust that the lingering tingles wouldn’t return with a vengeance.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he whispered calmly, as if what was happening to me was an every day occurrence.

  I pushed him away, fear roaring in me like a bear. “Why are you so calm? Why aren’t you freaking out? I’m seriously losing it. Sliding off the mental deep-end.”

  I watched the shutters come down over the concern in his eyes, making me wonder if I’d imagined that too. “Trust me, this is nowhere near the deep-end.”

  “What?” I howled. “What does that mean?”

  He reached for my elbow and walked us away from the alley. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” I stepped out of his touch and tried to calm the frenzy building inside me, the fear that my mind was slipping in front of him. Always in front of him. The new thought spewed out an irrational accusation. “You’re the reason this is happening.”

  Affronted, he threw up his hands and said, “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “I have no idea either. All I know is, every time you’re around, I start seeing things.” I turned and stumbled in the direction I thought the ferry would be. I had to get out of here. Away from him.

  “CeeCee. Where are you going?”

  “Home!” I snapped, my feet tripping a jagged line down the sidewalk.

  Quentin ran up behind me and grabbed my arm. “Stop, CeeCee. Talk to me.”

  I threw my finger in his face. “Were you on the island Monday? Did you drive by my house?”

  “CeeCee, I think you need to calm down.”

  “Were you there?” I asked in near hysterics. “Are you stalking me?”

  Quentin grabbed for my hand. “CeeCee, what happened? What did you see?”

  “Someone was shot,” I yelled. My body shook uncontrollably with the revelation.

  His recoiled and dropped my hand. “What do you mean ‘someone was shot’?”

  I couldn’t stop the tremors inside me, forcing me to gulp for air as I tried to explain. “I saw the outline of a man
and a couple. A gun went off. I saw the flash of a gun.”

  Quentin didn’t reply. One minute turned into another and I started to panic. I didn’t want him to think I was crazy. I wasn’t crazy! I lifted my head to see if I could read his face, but the darkness covered his features in shadows, leaving them unattainable.

  I couldn’t stand his silent scrutiny any longer. “I’m losing it, aren’t I? I’m fucking losing my mind.”

  He looked at me, his eyes murky pools on a mask I couldn’t read. The ferry horn filled the air and he jerked his head in the direction of the boat and pushed us forward. “We should get you on that boat.”

  That’s right. Send the crazy girl back into isolation.

  The ferry terminal was nearly vacant. Quentin stepped up to the ticket window and said, “Two foot passengers.”

  “You don’t have to cross over,” I protested as he finished the transaction.

  He grabbed the tickets from the window agent and marched us into the holding area.

  Hating his silence more than his patronizing actions, I snapped, “I can take care of myself. I don’t need to be handled like a child.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” he fumed, the hard lines of his face sinking a little deeper. “But since you have no idea what just happened and you really don’t know how deep the deep-end really is, a little forbearance would be acceptable while I make sure you get to your car safely.”

  What was that supposed to mean? A little forbearance? I wanted to ask, but I was exhausted, unable to endure any more question and answer sessions.

  We boarded and I walked straight to the booth I’d ridden over in a lifetime ago. Quentin sat next to me, releasing a current of electricity down my left side. It washed over me, soothing, melting down my hardening stance. Together, we sat quietly, side by side, until the ferry reached Vashon. He followed behind me to the commuter parking lot.

  “Is this your car?” Quentin asked as I stepped up to the red Ghia, its white convertible top glowing in the dim light.

  “Yes,” my defensive posture back. “Is there a problem with it?”

  “No, no.” He held his hands up. “Just a surprising choice.”