Art is the Lie (A Vanderbie Novel)

by Courtney Cook Hopp

  “Coward. I called you a coward,” I snapped, pulling my arm from his grip, my Chai latte erupting over my hand. I was too mad to back down from the anger his face radiated like a red flag. “Is this how you treat everyone who crosses your threshold?”

  “Nobody comes here.”

  “Well, it’s no wonder.” Tired of his insolent tone, I pulled myself tall, unable to stop my stream of consciousness from exiting my mouth. “You can pretend like I’m the one losing it, but it’s a lie. We both know it. I. Am. Not. Crazy.”

  “What do you want from me? I didn’t ask for this.”

  “Then why did you kiss me?”

  “I didn’t. You kissed me.”

  “Oh, that’s right, your lips didn’t participate.” My voice dripped in sarcasm.

  “It shouldn’t have happened. None of it. And it wouldn’t have if you had been less impulsive and not jumped ship to leave the island.”

  “Is this how life is for you? Hiding in this empty house, insulting anyone within earshot, heaping your oh-so-worthy opinions on them?” I spit out, waving my arms around the bare room. “Because it’s painfully obvious that you enjoy avoiding everything else.”

  I spun and headed down the hall. His dark voice barreled down at me as I marched toward the bathroom to change. “Don’t pretend like you know me. You know nothing about me.”

  I stepped into the bathroom and turned, bracing myself between the door and the shredded doorframe. Suddenly, his harsh features no longer felt threatening. I could see them for what they were — a simple ruse to keep everyone at bay. “That, Quentin, is completely by choice.” And I slammed the bathroom door closed.

  The ride was quiet. Agonizingly quiet. But I refused to relent. I sat perfectly still, my eyes never wavering from the front windshield.

  Quentin slammed out of the silent car once we boarded the ferry and didn’t return until we had to move off the boat. I didn’t bother to give him directions to the house. He knew where I lived — the gaping hole left in his map was proof of that.

  We pulled into the driveway and parked next to my aunt’s car.

  “Great,” I mumbled under my breath as I pushed opened the door, my feet crunching down on the gravel. I was barely prepared to answer Dad’s questions, let alone my aunt’s. My hand was poised to close the door when I looked across the seats and saw Quentin getting out. “What are you doing?”

  He stood on the opposite side, looking back through the car. “I’m coming with you.”

  My eyes grew wide in disbelief. “Oh, no you’re not.”

  He didn’t bother to reply. Instead, he closed his door and headed toward the house. I slammed mine shut and hustled as fast as my aching legs would move. “I didn’t ask you to come in,” I called out to his unrelenting backside.

  “I wasn’t waiting for an invitation.”

  “Is this about the coward comment?” I leapt up onto the porch, squeezing myself between him and the door. “Because now is not a good time to prove otherwise. I can barely handle what is waiting on the other side of the door, let alone trying to defend you.”

  “This may come as a shock, CeeCee, but I’ve managed to take care of and fend for myself for nineteen years.” His eyes smoldered. “Without your help.”

  “Well, you didn’t do a very good job,” I shot back, pointing to the long scar that now seemed as much a part of his features as his nose and mouth. He flinched but held his ground.

  I was being unfair, I knew it, but I was anxious, embarrassed. I didn’t want him to see that while our house was filled with furniture and art, it was as empty as his.

  He leaned forward, his breath warm on my face, his hard features appearing anything but fearsome. The pause that lingered set off a swarm of electricity inside me, buzzing down to my fingers and toes. His arm reached around me and I waited. Prepared for the pressure on my back, one that would pull me to him. My eyes began to drift close when I heard him knock on the door.

  My eyes flew back open, draining the buzz of electricity into the air, Quentin’s eyes twinkling with smugness. I spun around and turned the handle, shoving the door open.

  “CeeCee?” My dad rose quickly from the couch, dropping his cane, stumbling toward me. I caught his outstretched hands, working to hold him steady and balance us both in the unprecedented gesture. He pulled his hands from mine and tightly wrapped his arms around me. The squeeze welled up tears of pain and unexpected emotions. I bit my lip hard, holding back a cry that threatened to escape my lips.

  “Dad, I’m okay,” I muttered into his chest, trying to catch my breath.

  He stepped back and clamped his hands on either side of my face, his forehead resting on mine. “Never again. Promise me you will not run off ever again. I can’t lose you, too.”

  My eyes dropped to the ground, unable to hold the intense emotion on Dad’s face. “I’m sorry, Dad,” I whispered, forgetting for a moment that anyone else was standing in the room. Forgetting that my anger had left Dad wondering if he had lost someone else.

  My dad righted himself, keeping one arm wrapped tightly around my shoulders. “Quentin?”

  “Yes, sir?” he replied politely, taking a step closer.

  Dad stretched his free hand in the direction of Quentin’s voice. “Thank you.”

  Quentin closed the gap and shook his hand, his smug eyes finding mine, no hint of cowardice lurking in them. “You’re welcome.”

  “This little family reunion is very sweet, but we have more pressing matters to discuss.” We all turned to Aunt Lucy, who was standing stiffly in front of the fireplace.

  “Lucy, this is not the time or place,” Dad’s tone signaling a conversation was not going to happen. “We will resolve what we need to resolve later, after CeeCee has rested.”

  “Dad, it’s okay.” I needed to hear that Autumn was going to be fine. “How is she?”

  “Autumn? Quietly impetuous with a broken arm, but she’ll mend.” Her reply was callous. I hadn’t realized the toll Autumn’s disappearance would have on her. “Although, it seems you are too, aren’t you?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said guiltily, wishing the images in my mind had been clearer. Had come sooner.

  “When did they start CeeCee?”

  My body stiffened at the exact moment Dad’s did, his arm tightening around my shoulder. What was she asking? My eyes found Quentin’s, but before I could think of what to say, my dad interjected. A new edge to his voice sliced through the room. “I said this was not the time, Lucy. This is my house and you will respect my wishes.”

  “Respect? Is this how you teach your children respect, by letting them lie to you? Keep secrets from you? Although, you’ve set a fine example for secret keeping.” She shifted her icy stare back to me. I hardly recognized her. “Are you going to tell your father when your visions started? Or should I get the ball rolling?”

  “How do you know . . .?”

  “Because you’re not special, you’re not unique, you’re not the first to have them.” She pointed her finger at Quentin. “Is he the one who was with you?”

  “Yes . . .no . . .Who else has them?” I stammered, overwhelmed by the notion that someone beside myself had walked this dark path before.

  “Your grandmother for one,” she spit out, taking a threatening step forward. “Did you mention to your father that you met her, or did you keep that little secret to yourself too?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Quentin shift. His movement subtle, placing his body partially between my aunt and me. The scene unfolding was unreal. “How do you know . . .?”

  “Because she told me. Who do you think would set up something as extravagant as the Picasso evening in the first place?”

  Holding me tight, my dad gulped down his surprise and lied to his sister. “Of course she told me about meeting her.”

  “Did she tell you that Mother and, and, that boy,” she stuttered, thrusting a finger in Quentin’s direction, “were both present for what appears to have been her in
itial release?”

  “Initial, what?” Frustration wrung my body inside out. “I passed out. Nothing else. The fact that Quentin happened to be there was a fluke.”

  “It was not a fluke, CeeCee. There are no such things as coincidences in this family. Everything has a purpose, including him.” She pointed again to Quentin like he was a piece of furniture to be sat on. “He’s your guardian.”

  “Her what?” Quentin finally spoke up, confusion clouding his usual poker face.

  “My what? You’re making no sense,” I snapped back, tired of being the one left in the dark. I shrugged off Dad’s arm and looked at him. Waiting. Expecting him to jump in and deny the entire conversation. Deny Aunt Lucy’s outrageous accusations and set the sloping room straight again.

  Moving closer yet, she shook her head disparagingly. “You people are so pathetic.”

  Fed up with his sister’s insults, my father bellowed, “Lucy, enough!” causing me to jump.

  “How dare you speak to me like that? After everything I’ve done for you and your pathetic attempt at family life.”

  “After everything you’ve done for me?” He laughed the laugh of someone on the verge of cracking. “Every choice you’ve ever made in life has been self-serving. What I can’t figure out is what your motive is this time.”

  This time? What is he talking about, this time? I hardly recognized either one as they went at each other like long time rivals.

  She walked up to his face and quietly hissed, “You are so lost in the dark Peter, without my help, it will take a small miracle for you and your family to claw your way out.”

  I wanted to step in, protect my dad from her harsh words, but I was a yo-yo being pulled up and down at the whim of others.

  I was done.

  “Stop it! Both of you!” I yelled, unable to listen to their petulant words any longer. I backed up. Away from them. Away from the noise I couldn’t control. “Are you saying you both knew about this? You both knew that it could happen to me? And that the only reason Quentin has appeared is because he is somehow tied to what I’m seeing?”

  “Cee.” Dad’s voice softened, his eyes searching for me. “It’s not that simple. It’s going to take time to explain . . .”

  “Explain?” my voice rose near hysteria. “Don’t you think I deserved an explanation before I went sliding off the deep end? Before I managed to disrupt and ruin Quentin’s life.”

  “Yes, you did,” my aunt gloated, crossing her arms over her chest. In that moment I wanted to slap her and tear the smug look from her eyes. “But your father has never been forthcoming when it comes to our family. It’s easier to pretend we don’t exist, than to be labeled a fool.”

  “Enough, Lucy! You have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “I know exactly what I’m talking about,” she snapped back. “We’ve never been good enough for you, Peter.”

  I was done, unable to take any more for their arguing, their lies, their words labeling me as an outcast. And like a mere twenty-four hours before, I turned and stormed from the house, but not before I heard Quentin say, “Let her go. Her legs won’t get her very far.”

  The unrelenting wind whipped around me, swirling damp leaves up before striking them lifeless to the ground. The frenzied movement mirrored everything inside me. I stood paralyzed in the middle of the driveway, the pain in my legs leaving them useless, the pain of their lies incapacitating.

  Sheer will finally trudged my feet forward — one foot in front of the other — up the stairs to the only sanctuary I knew. I threw open the door, not bothering to close it behind me.

  My eyes darted around the dim room in dismay, begging for something familiar to jump out, something that felt like me, but it had changed. The walls were foreign. The art belonged to someone who knew who she was, someone who was sure of herself, who, without a doubt, knew what her gifts were.

  Did my mom know? Had she held tight to Dad’s secrets, keeping me in the dark? The single thought stole my last ounce of courage, nearly causing the ground to rise and swallow me. I’d always been so certain of our bond — my running women, their disjointed energy. Now the sand was crumbling, her strength slipping from my grasp.

  A blank canvas stared at me from the middle of the art table. The stretch of white was blinding. It taunted the darkness inside of me as it tipped the words in my head, riddling them into nonsensical streams.

  Fearful the canvas would be my undoing, I reached a shaky hand into a drawer and pulled out a tube of raw umber. The cap bit at my trembling fingers as I tried to twist it off. Unable to make my fingers work, I clamped my teeth down around the lid and wrenched it off, squeezing a large mound of brown onto the center of the canvas. I stared at it but couldn’t see. I couldn’t understand how I had lived for seventeen years and not had an inkling of what lurked inside me.

  My finger poked at the rise of paint, bursting a hole through the center, collapsing the sides. The acrylic clung to my skin, coating me with its murkiness. She should be here. Protecting me. She shouldn’t have left me here alone with them. Alone with myself.

  Alone.

  I squeezed out more paint. I pushed and pulled, using all of my fingers, giving the color life and taking it away. Autumn flashed through my mind — her life in the balance, her fate resting heavily on what I saw. Agitated, I squeezed and smeared, squeezed and smeared, fanning the paint out in quick, jerky motions until there was no paint left in the tube.

  My hesitation lingered only a second before I tossed the tube aside and reached in the drawer and pulled out another color — thalo yellow green, the cap unyielding in my slick hands. Again, I used my teeth, brown paint smudging across my cheek.

  I emptied the full contents of the tube onto the canvas, its demise swift and painless under my frenzied movements. There was no direction. No cohesiveness.

  The canvas — my mirror, my reflection.

  The paint splattered, burnishing stains everywhere. My care had died along with each tortured color. Cadmium red. Bleeding. Puncturing rivets of pain. I pushed. I pulled. I tried to parse the words trapped inside me — visions, initial release.

  Guardian.

  Unable to cover the white fast enough, I leaned over and snatched the canvas off the art table, throwing it on the floor. I grabbed another tube of paint and knelt before the canvas, dousing it in mars black.

  My rage and anger erupted, taking over my movements. I leaned. I scratched. Sharing my pain, releasing my frustration. I pounded my fists, leaving small tears in my wake. Every question, every revelation poured out brutally onto the canvas.

  Eventually, the colors ran dry, exhaustion left in their wake. The mutilated canvas hovered on the ground, cowering in my presence. I collapsed to my side, my cheek catching the edge of my black masterpiece. And they came, one by one, sliding off my cheeks and forging a river across the painted canvas. A river of loss. Of deceit.

  On they went, until I ran dry.

  Tick. Tock. Tick.

  Tock.

  Time trickled through the room. The gray shadows bending into dark forms.

  Waking me.

  Entering me.

  Chilling me.

  I pushed my stiff legs out of the fetal position I’d been coiled in, and forced myself to sit up. My eyes slowly brought the disaster before me into focus. I stretched my fingers wide, the dried paint cracked, the sandpaper texture matching my coated insides. I stood and lifted the bleak canvas weighted heavy with emotions back onto the art table. It leered at me, pronouncing its victory over my undoing.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a movement. I spun around and faced the dark outline that sat perfectly still on the couch.

  Quentin.

  I was rooted, unable to move, the war of relief and burden raging inside of me. It was he who made the first move, lifting himself slowly, deliberately inching toward me.

  There was a shift, a change in him, a gentleness I’d never seen in his eyes as he held mine.

 
“My dad was right. You’re too quiet,” I stated, trying not to be beaten down by the pity he exuded for the poor broken girl.

  “An old habit.” He reached out and fingered a clump of my hair coated in dry paint. “It looks like you need another shower.”

  “Yeah, a shower,” I quietly repeated. The bath at his house felt like an eternity ago. I looked up at his softened features, unsure of what to say or do. I had no idea where the revelations of today left us, or what they meant, but I didn’t want him tied to me because of a stupid family curse. “You don’t have to stay, you should go.”

  I looked down at his black boots, waiting to see them move. But they didn’t budge, not the slightest twitch. The clock continued to tick, the cold in the room causing my breath to create steamy circles around my face.

  “Quentin, say something,” I pleaded, unable to take the heavy silence any longer. “Yell. Scream. Kick. Fight. Anything.”

  “Do you want me to leave?” he finally asked. “Is that what you want?”

  “I don’t know what I want. I feel like I’ve been dropped from a cliff and told to fly. Only, no one gave me any instructions before I was launched.”

  “I get it.”

  The laugh that escaped my throat was hollow. Empty. “How could you possibly understand? I’ve just been informed that everything I knew about myself is a lie and now, lurking inside me, is some strange phenomenon that has somehow forced you along for the ride.”

  “Hardly forced. And I understand better than you think.” He took a step closer. “Why don’t we go back in the house?”

  “No. You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to be here.” I slipped past him, past his care, past his gentle request, and moved toward the door. I didn’t want his sympathy. I didn’t want to trust in his words. I didn’t want to care, only to have him fade away too. “You don’t owe me anything.”

  “If you want me to go, I will.”

  I stood motionless.

  My heart raced.

  My knees close to buckling.