by CJ Lyons
“Exactly. But there’s no reason not to use it. Let’s take it out for a test drive. You and I.” Hope sparks bright through his cloak of burnt umber doom and gloom. “Darrin knows how much you hate winter. Besides, you’re just wasting time this year, waiting until you can go to college.”
Technically, I could have graduated last year since I’d doubled up on my core academics to make more time for my art classes. There didn’t seem to be any reason to rush—at least that’s what I told Darrin and Helen. Really, I’m terrified to even start looking at colleges, for fear that I’ll finally have to tell them the truth: I don’t want to take over Cleary and Sons. I don’t want to go to business school or become an actuary.
“No. I can’t leave. Not now.”
He doesn’t understand, I can tell. How could he? I don’t understand it myself. All I know is that running away isn’t the answer. Not this time. I need to stay here, figure out my past, figure out my life.
“Drink your milk,” he says, the words billowing with that same weird orange-yellow glow they had when he walked in. I’m not sure what it means, but it didn’t exist before today. Guilt for hiding the truth about my parents? Worry about what I’m going through? It circles the cake and milk in a fog. “Enjoy your cake. We’ll talk more later.”
He’s close enough to the door that he could just walk out. Instead, he surprises me, rushes back and gives me a big hug, almost toppling me from the stool, and sets me down with a gentle kiss on the forehead. “I wish there was some way to fix everything. Love you, kiddo.”
He releases me and steps back, staring at me as if he wants to say something more. Instead, he simply hands me the glass of milk. He whirls and leaves, a canvas and easel rocking in his wake, but as he opens the door I hear him shout, “What are you doing here?”
Energy sparks through the air, bright red embers sizzling in the sunset’s fading light. I slide off my stool to join Joe at the door, clicking on the outside lights.
“You need to leave. Now,” Joe is saying, any sweetness in his tone gone.
Alec stands there, bathed in the too-bright light, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat, but head held high. He’s almost the same size as Joe, I realize with surprise. Maybe even a little taller.
“I came to apologize again,” he says. “If you’ll let me.” The last is aimed at me, his gaze tangling with mine as if Joe doesn’t exist.
“She will not. You’ve caused enough trouble. Leave now.”
Alec looks to me, his face so filled with remorse and anguish that I don’t need to see his aura.
“It’s okay,” I tell Joe.
“No, it’s not.” Joe refuses to back down, tries to block my view of Alec.
“She can make her own decisions,” Alec snaps. “She’s not a little kid anymore.”
“No, I’m not,” I flare back, annoyed by their patronizing tones. “So both of you can stop treating me like one. Joe, thanks, but I’m fine. Alec, you have five minutes.” I wave my hand, inviting one man inside and ushering the other out. Joe frowns and hesitates outside the door, staring at me until I shut it firmly.
CHAPTER 26
Alec
I step inside Ella’s studio and stop to collect myself. Last thing I wanted was for her to see me unleash my anger on her uncle, but I couldn’t help it. Not only did her family hide the truth from her all her life, they all seem to treat her more like a possession or a child instead of the smart, caring, thoughtful person she so clearly is. Something inside me wants—needs—to stand up for her, protect her.
She walks past me without even looking in my direction. Because of course she doesn’t need protecting. Especially not from me, the guy who brought her whole world crashing down around her. My shoulders slump. Why can’t I find the right words to explain things to her? It’s as if when she’s around, my thoughts and emotions get twisted up so tight they all just spin out of my control.
I have to get everything right this time. As I gather my words, parsing each one, trying to craft the perfect speech, something bulletproof against my churning feelings, I look around the studio. Ella’s perched on a stool in front of a large painting of a girl, her movement sending a paper sketch drifting down to the floor by my feet. I pick it up and all I can do is stare, my carefully collected words of apology forgotten.
“Who’s this?” I ask, my fingers sweating, smudging the pencil strokes that cover the page in a furious, jagged scrawl. The figure is dark, his face hidden, a monster surrounded by flames. Is it me? Is this how she remembers me from that night so long ago?
Or is it how she sees me now? The obsessed madman who’s shattered her life?
My hand trembles as I wait for her response.
“I told you, I saw a man that night. He was calling my name, looking for me.”
I blink in relief. Once again, I want to keep quiet, let her hold on to her false hope, but the truth weighs too heavy and I can’t help but set it free. “There was no evidence of anyone else there. Are you sure this isn’t—”
She reaches out and yanks the paper from my hand. “It’s not my father.”
“How can you be sure when you can’t remember?” I temper my words by placing a palm on her arm. I keep my touch gentle but firm, and I can feel her agitation. Like my own, it buzzes just beneath her skin.
She frowns. “You think I’m imagining, that these aren’t memories? That I’m . . . delusional?”
The words aren’t spoken as they hang between us both: Like my father?
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Again. I promised you a fresh start on your parents’ case. I shouldn’t have dismissed your alternative hypothesis so readily.”
“Anyone ever tell you that you’re really good at saying you’re sorry but not so great at actually meaning it?” Her words snap between us like a whip cracking through the air.
Words failing me—as they seem to so often when I’m with her—I hold my hands out wide. “Read my aura. Can’t you see that I mean what I say?”
She stares at me, her cheeks flushing and her eyes flashing as if she thinks I might be making fun of her synesthesia.
I’m not. I’m curious, truly curious. “Seriously. What color is my aura? What does it tell you?”
“Stop it,” she flares.
What did I do now? I wonder as I drop my hands back to my sides.
“I can’t see your aura. Happy? So go ahead, lie, cheat, steal, do what you want, I’ll never know.”
Wait. “I don’t have an aura?” That makes no sense. In everything I’ve read about synesthesia, each person’s symptoms remain consistent. Curiosity crowds out everything else—including the reason why I came here in the first place. “Does that happen very often?”
She glances down at the sketch of the man crumpled in her fist. “Never. You’re the first.”
“But why? I don’t understand. Why would I be special?”
She says nothing, simply shakes her head while huddled on the stool, obviously miserable. I try to make amends. “That must be strange. Like you can’t trust me. But you can. You know that, right?”
“Sure. Because life has been so wonderful ever since we met.”
I turn away before she can see my crushed expression. My motion makes the large canvas sway. I reach to save it from falling, rebalance it on the easel until it’s perfectly square.
I study the portrait of the girl, comparing it to the other paintings. Ella’s work is breathtakingly vivid—abstract swirling dervishes of pure color, emotion roiling off the images as if instead of looking at a static picture of a person or thing, I’m being given a chance to see into Ella’s soul.
This is how she sees the world. So different from my reality, my truth. Her synesthesia tells a person’s story to her, and it colors everything Ella sees—and paints. Her entire world, her idea of reality is based on her auras, colorful symptoms of a mis-wired brain.
No wonder she’s always on edge around me. If she can’t see my aura, which she depends on as
my truth, she must feel blind, lost. There have been moments when she relaxes, seems comfortable with me, but now I finally understand why those fragile moments have been so easily shattered.
How can I make her understand me? Words seem too small compared to Ella’s vivid, larger-than-life colors.
As I stare at the portrait of the girl, one of the few that appear grounded in reality, Ella fidgets on the stool beside me.
“She gets her braces off after New Year’s, so I thought this would be a nice Christmas present. Kind of a preview of things to come?”
“This is meant to be Rory?” I ask slowly.
“Of course.”
I point to another painting, bright hues of color spiraling like a vortex in constant motion, a copper bright blossom at the top. “And this one?”
“Gram Helen.” She hesitates and adds, “See? Her copper hair tangled in all her silk scarves caught in infinite motion. It’s who she is, not what she looks like. I almost never do realistic portraits. This painting of Rory is an exception; I’ve tried to portray her true beauty as realistically as possible.”
I hate the yearning in her voice—she wants me to reaffirm her vision, her version of Rory’s truth. I despise myself because I can’t lie to her. But the world she sees through her synesthesia isn’t real.
“It’s a great painting. Stunning.” I say, bracing myself. Why is the truth so hard when it comes to Ella? Truth is meant to make things better, not worse. Yet every time I tell her the truth, I end up hurting her. “But it’s not Rory.”
CHAPTER 27
Ella
I frown as I scrutinize the canvas. How can Alec not see that this is Rory?
“What do you mean? Everything in that painting is Rory. It’s as realistic as anyone could get.” What’s wrong with him, I wonder.
Alec walks from one side of the space to the other, observing the painting from every angle. I can’t help but remember Joe’s assessment. So far from the mark, I’d assumed it was Joe being Joe. But I know I’m right. This is Rory. From her wide smile to the gleam in her eyes and the glow that lights her up from the inside. It took me a dozen or so tries, but I captured it all, right there, in pigment and canvas.
“Why do you paint?” he surprises me by asking.
“Why do you want to be a journalist?”
“To find the truth. Too many people, all they want are comfortable lies, entertainment. They’ve lost sight of what real truth is, of why people do what they do, of what they could be doing to make the world better. If you’re living a lie, how can you create a better future?”
His earnest answer surprises me. I was expecting something different, less philosophical, more . . . cynical? Then he repeats his question. “Your turn. Why paint?”
It’s a question I’ve struggled with all my life. Not because I don’t know the answer but because I’m afraid my answer will sound foolish to anyone else. He’s waiting, the silence taking on a life of its own. I expect him to turn away, change the subject, just leave . . . but he doesn’t. His gaze never falters, holding me safe.
“I paint to find the heart of a person or scene, beyond what you think you see at first glance.” I frown; my words sound childish and cliché. But I throw back my shoulders, standing by what I’ve said.
He nods. Turns back to my portrait of Rory once again. Staring at it with such intensity, I’m surprised the canvas doesn’t singe.
“I think,” Alec starts, then stops again, regroups. “Maybe because of your synesthesia, this is how you see, how you experience Rory. Like you said, you see her heart. But it doesn’t look anything like the real girl.”
Now I’m getting annoyed. “Well, of course I took her braces off—that’s the whole point of it.”
“Ella. You can’t give her this picture. You can’t ever let Rory see it. You’ll break her heart.”
His tone is so sorrowful it rattles my confidence. “Why? Is it that bad? Maybe I can ask one of my professors for help.”
“No. No, that’s not what I’m trying to say.” He grimaces in frustration. “The painting is fine—more than fine. It’s beautiful. But that’s not Rory. Not the real Rory. You made her look like she’s some Hollywood glamour queen. And she’s just not. It’s as if you painted who she could be in a perfect world, but that will only show her how far her reality is from that perfection. I’m not sure anyone’s ego could take that kind of crushing comparison.”
I’ve never come so close to slapping another person before now. Not because of his criticism of my work, but because of his criticism of my friend. “Rory’s the most beautiful person I know. Everyone loves her.”
His smile is both sad and gentle. “She is beautiful. But not this—not this artificial perfection. Like here, her eyes, they aren’t symmetrical like they are in your painting. One is much smaller than the other, her right eyelid droops, and her cheekbones are crooked. And her smile—her mouth is too small for her face, but you’ve painted it wider than it really is. And her nose—”
I shoot in front of him, blocking his view of my masterpiece. “Okay. You’ve made your point. You think my best friend is ugly. And since she’s prettier than I am, I’m not sure how you can even bear to look at me.”
“No. No, that’s not what I meant—” He raises his face to the ceiling as if searching for heavenly guidance.
“Whatever you meant, I’m sure I don’t need to hear it. Maybe you should just leave.” I stomp my foot against the concrete floor. “Now.”
He raises his hands in surrender and backs toward the door, leaving me to consider the painting on my own. As he closes the door behind him, I can sense the gloom of rain in the air. Or maybe it’s not from outside, maybe it’s my own aura.
I think about Alec’s words. Sink onto the stool across from my easel and stare at Rory’s portrait some more. I’d tried so hard to be as realistic as possible—a huge leap for me as my work is always a loose expression of reality. Defying visual gravity, one teacher had described it. No idea what she meant by that, but I like the sound of it.
My agitation fills the air. I swear I see the batik streamers above me wave in the breeze as a chill wind blows through the space. It’s gone so fast that I wonder if it was my aura, too frustrated and confused to settle on a single color, instead revealing itself as pure motion.
I thought I was seeing the truth beneath the surface, Rory’s real truth. Thought I had a gift, that somehow I could bring that truth to life so others could see it as well. Maybe my skills simply aren’t up to the task of capturing the true essence of someone so close to me?
Or maybe, the way I see the world isn’t the truth at all.
If that’s the case, how can I rely on anything I see as being real? If I can’t even see the truth of my best friend, what else am I blind to?
Like my family . . . all their emotions were true. My synesthesia didn’t fail when it came to showing me what they felt, yet still their words were false. Fifteen years of well-intentioned lies and omissions.
My aura turns smoky, oily, so thick it drifts through the space, blocking the overhead lights. But then the lights flicker and sparks sizzle from near the door where the space heater is. I hop off my stool and race to turn it off but the lights go out before I make it halfway there.
Panic floods through me as I push my way through the darkness toward the door, toppling over easels and overturning jars of brushes. All that fabric and paper, not to mention the cleaning supplies—one spark and it could all go up.
A glowing swirl of red-blue-gold fire shines through the canvases on their easels, a storm gathering intensity. Then, one by one the canvases burst into flames, blocking my path to the door.
I freeze, stunned by fear. The flames spread fast along the paint thinner on the floor, so fast that I abandon my initial plan of grabbing a drop cloth to smother them. Suddenly they’re everywhere: racing up the drywall, dancing along the exposed beams of the overhead rafters, flaring bright colors as they devour my paintings.
/> Memories of a school fire safety class flood over me. It takes less than a minute for a fire to take hold. Two minutes and it will be out of control, filling the room with smoke.
Three minutes—maybe four if you’re lucky—and the air heats up until any flammable material anywhere in the room, even if it’s not in direct contact with the flames, spontaneously combusts into a ball of fire. A flashover, the firemen called it, showing us a video where a single stray cigarette in a trash can erupts into an inferno.
I drop to the ground, choking, the smoke so thick that if it weren’t for the flames I’d be lost in total darkness. Pulling Helen’s sweater over my mouth and nose, I turn and crawl toward the overhead door, the noise of my life’s work screaming death knells as it burns.
CHAPTER 28
Alec
At first I pedal away from Ella’s house, regretting that I’d ever come. I’d done enough harm already—destroying Ella’s past by telling her the truth about her parents. And now, I’ve wrecked her faith in her art. I should never have said anything. That’s me, always blurting out the truth, even when it hurts the people I love the most.
A good journalist examines all sides of an issue. That’s where I went wrong; I’d been so focused on what I wanted, answers to a mystery that has plagued me for fifteen years, that I neglected to see things from Ella’s point of view. Not only with the mystery of her parents’ deaths but also with her art.
Halfway down her block, I stop. I need to call Professor Winston, let him know I’ve failed. He’ll probably fire me from my research assistant job. Which means money is going to be even tighter.
But that’s not what’s worrying me. Not really.
I turn around and slowly head back toward Ella’s house. Losing the story and the job and the once-in-a-lifetime chance at publication, that I can handle.
Losing her? Again? I can’t take that.
I reach her driveway and sit there on my bike, trying to figure out my next move. I like Ella. I like making her smile and laugh, like arguing with her, like the way she sees the world so differently than I do. We had moments when the world felt balanced, right, calm . . . I want more of those.
