Art is the Lie (A Vanderbie Novel)

by Courtney Cook Hopp

  I wanted to set him free, to keep him from being dragged through the darkness with me. The words climbed up my throat and whispered out of my mouth unbidden. “I want you to go.”

  The silence lingered. My voice screamed in my head for me to take it back and ask him to stay.

  I didn’t.

  “Goodnight, CeeCee.”

  He walked out the door and I stood like a statue, unable to cry, unable to feel.

  His steps faded into nothing until his engine was the loudest sound in my head, his tires spitting gravel as he tore from the driveway — tore away from me, my family, my curse — the sound slowly fading to silence. And still, I stood, unable to grasp how my world had just been shattered.

  I walked the painful route back to the house, each step a foot closer to the uncertainty that awaited me. My aunt’s car was gone, as was Quentin’s. He’d left just as I’d asked.

  When I entered the house, Dad was sitting on the couch, his face filled with the same misery burning in me. I knew he heard me, but he didn’t budge. We were both silent as I crossed through the room, stopping in front of Mom’s painting. I saw it with fresh eyes. Torment and lies raging in the storm of blue. Love and hate where hard and soft wrapped around each other.

  “Your grandmother used to paint her visions,” Dad said, eerily commenting and breaking the stillness. I didn’t turn. Instead, I wallowed in the nuances I’d never noticed. The texture. The strokes. “Her art allowed her to escape the hold the visions would have on her.”

  “Does she have them often?” I asked, unable to look at him and not be overwhelmed by betrayal.

  “She used to. She used to see terrible pain and suffering. It would take over her mind, throwing her body out of control as she struggled to make sense of it.” Succumbing to the despair I heard in his voice, I turned and watched him grapple with his words. His eyes focused on a face I couldn’t see. “She would spend hours, even days, purging the images from her thoughts.”

  “‘Used to’?”

  Bitterness replaced the despair in his voice. “Your grandfather passed away five years ago, and along with him, the ability for her to see visions.”

  Confusion pulled heavily on my mind. “I don’t understand.”

  “Cee, you have no idea how I wished this day would never have come.” He exhaled loudly as his body dropped against the back on the couch in defeat. His past had caught up to the future. My anger kept me rooted in my spot, unable to console him. “I left. The day after I graduated from high school, and never returned. Not once. I will try to explain things as best I can, but there are holes. Things even I don’t understand. I learned early on to close my ears and not ask questions. I didn’t want to be a part of their world. I’d hoped to control in my life what seemed completely out of control in theirs.”

  “Sounds like a cowardly answer,” I snapped, tired of people running and avoiding what can’t be avoided.

  “Probably, but like you, my mother didn’t get to choose who her guardian was, leaving us all saddled with a mean S.O.B.” A hard hatred coated his tone, spurring more questions inside me.

  I dropped down on the arm of the oversized chair next to the couch, trying to hold back my exasperation. “You keep saying that word, ‘guardian,’ like I’m supposed to understand what it means.”

  “I can’t believe we are having this conversation.” He ran his hand through his hair, the movement mirroring Quentin’s nervous habit. He took a deep breath and his words tumbled slowly from his mouth. “The visions are part of a system — a system that works in tandem with a guardian. You are seeing visions, because your guardian has been revealed. Your power of choice is limited by your guardian’s ability to pull you out of the darkness.”

  “Darkness? Choice? What choice? I see what I see.”

  “Choice is life. It is all about your freedom to choose.” The discomfort in his voice didn’t make my freedom of choice sound all that great. “The choice lies solely in you. To choose which vision you want to see in its entirety. They will never fully form until you ask to see it.”

  “You mean literally? Like, “show me,” and just like that, they will become clear?”

  “Yes, literally.”

  I stood up, no longer able to take in the information sitting down. “This is not real. This can’t be real. It’s too off the wall crazy. Are you listening to yourself?”

  “I know. But this is important for you to understand. You don’t have to grant a single vision. You never have to see one. You can refuse them. Every single one.”

  “Will they stop happening if I refuse them?”

  He shook his head with a sigh. “No. They never stop.”

  “And if I don’t refuse them? If I ask to see them?”

  “Your sight will be completely stripped away until your guardian restores it.”

  “Every time I choose to see a vision?” Although, after last night, I knew it was possible.

  “Yes. Every time you ask to see a vision in its entirety, it is Quentin, and only Quentin that can release you by chanting, ‘open your eyes and look at me’ three times.”

  “How? Why Quentin? Of all the people in the world, why him?”

  “I don’t know the ‘how,’” his voice faltered, leaving me less assured. “As your aunt mentioned, Quentin and your grandmother were both present for your initial release.”

  “Will you please speak in English?”

  “The power of visions have been running through my family for generations. It is never known who in the next generation will carry the gift, until a visionary from a previous generation is present, along with the person who will become the new visionary’s guardian.”

  “Aaahhhh,” I yelled out, my hands anxiously shaking up and down, my feet stalking around the room. “This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening. This CAN’T be happening.” The chant holding the crazies at bay.

  “Cee, tell me what happened the night you met your grandmother.”

  “It was nothing. Grace and I were at the SAM. Quentin was there because he works there. He asked me if I had any questions about the art.” I didn’t expand on our real conversation. It was a lifetime ago, with another person. She didn’t exist anymore.

  “And?”

  “And what? I felt a strange tingling crawl up my neck and the next thing I knew, I was face to face with Evelyn just before I passed out.”

  “Did you see anything before you passed out?”

  “A bunch of color and than random images. They were fuzzy. Distorted. They made no sense.”

  “They weren’t meant to be understood. They were the initial release of future visions waiting to be seen.”

  “Are you saying I have a back-log of visions piled up in my head?”

  “It’s not quite as simple as that, but yes, there are visions waiting to be seen.”

  “Why don’t you have them? Or Aunt Lucy?”

  He looked down as he scooted his body forward. Using the arm of the couch for balance, he stood and muttered, “Lucy has always wanted them.”

  And a light went on. “Is that what this was all about? Her sudden piss and stomp?”

  “Yes,” he said, walking along the back of the couch. “But that is of no concern to you. Lucy has always been selfish when it comes to what she wants. She’s my thorn to deal with, not yours.”

  My mind ached, unable to reconcile the aunt I saw today with the kind and generous one I’ve always known. I stared at him, his fingers tracing the lines along the back of the couch and in that moment, I realized he was a stranger, lost inside a body I no longer recognized. Leaving me completely alone, desperately wanting to outrun their crazy gene pool. “She can have them,” I said tartly, before asking the question I’d been dreading. “Did Mom know?”

  His head snapped up. “About the visions?” he asked. “No.”

  My shoulders dropped, my body sagging in relief. But my heart still ached. For her. For me. For Dad who had nobody. He’d hidden much, only to lose
control of everything.

  He stopped at the end of the couch, his eyes focused on the back deck. “Where’s Quentin?”

  “Gone.”

  “But not really gone, you do realize that, don’t you?” The tone of his voice sent a wave of dread through me. “There is no changing the tie that binds you two together.”

  “Yes there is,” stubbornness rooting strength in me. “According to you, I have the power to deny every vision, and so, will never have need for a guardian.” Never have need to bind myself to someone who does not want to be weighted down.

  “If only it were that easy.” I followed him as he made his way into the kitchen. He walked over to the table and did something I rarely saw him do. He grabbed a pen and a piece of paper and scrawled a few crooked lines across the page.

  He turned and held it out to me, resigned.

  I didn’t move. “What is it?”

  “Take it.”

  I grabbed the piece of paper and saw his mother’s name and an address. “How do you know where she lives?”

  “I may not talk to her, but one never forgets where home is.” He dropped down in a kitchen chair, and in defeat said, “She can answer all your questions.”

  I stood on the sidewalk and craned my neck up. The long flight of cement stairs felt daunting, even more than the old brick house playing peak-a-boo behind the thick hedge boarding the property. I re-read the address Dad had scrawled down. The afternoon salt air billowed up from the Sound, prickling my cheeks and pinching me to make a decision.

  All week I had wished for someone to pinch me as I rolled through the days in an impenetrable bubble. Every morning numb and every night, exhausted from the stress of waiting.

  Waiting.

  Waiting.

  Waiting for the onslaught. Waiting for the opportunity to deny the visions. Waiting while the normal facets of my life jumped in the backseat and turned fuzzy, driving far from reality. Because this was not reality, it was limbo. Worse than limbo, it was nowhere.

  The same place Dad’s sudden attentiveness had sprung up from. His constant checking on me grated down every raw nerve, serving as a constant reminder of his absence from my life up until last weekend. Even Grace’s usual brash ways were unable to slip through my numbness. Quickly tiring of my funk, she flitted off, leaving a crater of quiet in my head.

  I glanced up and down the sidewalk, half expecting Quentin to appear out of nowhere. His house couldn’t be far from here, secretly tucked back on one of the winding roads on the south slope of Queen Anne hill. I couldn’t remember where. But it didn’t matter. He’d done just as I asked and hadn’t turned back.

  I looked up the stairs again and gave myself a countdown starting from ten. I took a deep breath at six, and before I chickened out, began my ascent as I muttered three.

  A decorative iron gate waited for me at the top. Behind it rose a turn of the century colonial out of impeccable grounds, the panoramic view of the city and Puget Sound enhanced every brick and white shutter.

  I pinched my lips together, holding in an astonished whistle. I couldn’t picture it. Dad. Here. His formative years shaped by the formidable house. My insides were jumpy. My feet anxious to descend back down the stairs, but too much limbo pushed me forward, across the half-moon driveway and up to the front door, using the brass lion knocker to announce my arrival.

  Nothing. No movement or sound came from behind the door. As I was about to try the knocker again, the door creaked open, revealing the face of Felix.

  Flashes of seeing his face at the football game gripped my chest in panic. I took an unconscious step back.

  “Ah, CeeCee. An unexpected visit.”

  “I saw you . . .” My voice trailed off, now uncertain of what I’d seen. Or possibly imagined.

  His eyes narrowed. “What was that?”

  “Um, nothing. Is Evelyn home?” I sounded braver than I felt. I hadn’t called. I didn’t want any prepared speeches or risk being turned away.

  “Please, come in.” He pulled the door wide with a pleasant smile and gestured for me to step into a grand foyer that spanned two stories. I hesitated before stepping into the entry where a large chandelier drew my eyes up, and a heavy, mahogany staircase pulled them back down. Beyond the stairs, stood two dark columns that marked the entrance of a pristine living room glowing white.

  “Why don’t you wait in here,” he said, motioning to the flawless room. “I will see if your grandmother is available.” He turned on his heels and walked from the entryway.

  “Thank you.” The quiet crack of my voice bounced endlessly around me, confusing my ears and setting my mind spinning.

  Move.

  Heel. Toe. Heel. Toe.

  Toe. Toe.

  Each toe sunk into the plush white carpet, my jaw hanging somewhere near my chest. White was everywhere under the vaulted ceilings, except for the walls. They were a moving life form all their own. Every last inch was filled with a chaotic patchwork of art. Oils. Acrylics. Watercolors. A beautiful, overwhelming mass of creation. I walked the length of the walls, my eyes focusing on each individual piece, pushing the overwhelming numbers to the peripheral. It was the antithesis of Quentin’s home.

  “This is a pleasant surprise, CeeCee.”

  I spun around. Evelyn stood tall in the middle of the room. Her self-assuredness radiated through a paint-coated smock hanging loosely over a pair of crisp jeans. “Um, sorry to bother you without calling.”

  “Never be sorry, CeeCee. You are always welcome in my home.” Without turning her eyes from me, she lifted a hand and said, “Felix, will you please bring us some refreshments?”

  My eyes darted to the doorway where Felix lurked silently. “Yes, ma’am.” I watched his back recede down the hall, sending a wave of creepiness down my spine.

  “CeeCee, why don’t you have a seat?”

  The offer triggered my body like a command and I circled around a white wing chair, sitting carefully on the edge. Gripping my knees, I nervously blurted out, “Did you know Quentin lives near here.” Where did that come from?

  “Yes, dear, I helped him find his little house on tenth.”

  Her movements were graceful as she lowered herself softly onto the white couch, unconcerned about what might transfer off her paint smock. Wisps of hair had escaped from a loose braid flowing down her back, reminding me of my own kinky hair madness. But while mine was infuriating, hers gave her a youthful look that mocked her grandma status.

  “Although,” she went on, “the fact that you know where he lives leads me to believe that something has changed since I last saw you.”

  “Not so much,” I replied evasively. There was no Quentin before the night of Picasso, and there was no Quentin now. “How do you know Quentin?”

  She scooted back on the couch and clasped her hands in her lap. “I’ve known his mother for years. She’s a long time collector and art benefactor in San Francisco. I’m sure your mother knew her as well.”

  My world was shrinking. So many people I should have been able to reach out and touch, and now, a lifetime later, they’d all converged at once. Curious, I asked, “Did you know my mother?”

  “I met her just once. On the day of their wedding.” Felix silently returned and set a tray laden with iced-drinks and small pastries on the table. “Thank you Felix. Will you please ring Mr. Weston and let him know I will be running late?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I said, standing up. “I didn’t realize you had plans. I can come back another time.”

  “Nonsense.” She waved Felix out. “Mr. Weston will wait. You, on the other hand, may stay as long as you want.”

  I was flustered, heat painting a rosy glow on my cheeks. What were we talking about? Quentin. His mom. My mom. The wedding. I dropped back in the chair. “I never knew you were at my parents’ wedding.”

  “I hadn’t been invited. I came as Lucy’s guest.” Her reply was matter-of-fact. No hurt or sting resonating in
the shun. She scooted forward, and clasped her long fingers around one of the iced drinks. Holding her hand out, she said, “Please. Help yourself.”

  I shook my head no, my stomach a swirling cauldron unable to take on food. “Are you saying you crashed their wedding?”

  “Yes. I guess I did.” Her smile didn’t waver, but her voice was firm. “CeeCee, I have never been good at small talk or beating around the bush. I believe there is a reason for your visit other than the ‘who knows who’ game. Am I right?”

  “Yes.” It was a whisper.

  “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  “Um, well, I’ve been having, um . . .” Why couldn’t I say it? All week long the word snagged in my throat, unable to clear my lips. “Seeing. I’ve been . . .”

  “Visions, dear? Yes. I know that much already.”

  “What? How?” I asked in confusion.

  “Lucy called to tell me it was you who finally saw where Autumn was located. But I was already aware of the initial release.”

  Irritated, I asked, “At the SAM?”

  “Yes. It was obvious they had begun.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?” I stood, pacing back and forth in front of the windows, remembering that night. She’d offered me coffee. A business card and coffee. No hint, no inkling of anything else. “A heads up on what I should’ve expected would have been nice, rather than having to muddle through them and spend a painful finger pointing afternoon with Dad and Aunt Lucy.”

  “Would you have believed me?”

  No, of course not. Who could spin a story as crazy as this and call it truth? But that wasn’t the point. “Probably not.”

  “I knew you would seek me out, or rather hoped your father would be able to see past his anger to bring you for a visit.”

  It was my anger churning, my tongue threatening to step out of line. “But he can’t see. Ever since the accident he’s been blind to everything.”

  “It’s hard to see through anger,” she replied quietly.

  “He didn’t used to be angry.” Life had been peaceful. Content. Before. My voice trailed off, “Not while Mom was alive, anyway.”