“Yeah.” He grunted as he sat his coffee cup on the table next to him. “Oh, that’s right. You haven’t met my mom yet.”
The thought of meeting his mother someday suddenly made her feel anxious. What if she didn’t like Sophie? “Why? What’s the deal with your mom?”
“Nothing, except that she’s the stereotypical elderly person attached to an oxygen tank, still puffing on a cigarette.”
“Ohhh.” Sophie crinkled up her face and gave him a grimace of sympathy, before taking a sip from her cup.
“Doctors told her five years ago that she had emphysema, but she still wouldn’t quit. Now she can barely walk across a room, in and out of the hospitals. Whatever.” He sighed. “What’re you gonna do? I’m done being pissed off about it.”
Sophie put her hand on his leg. “Funny, but you don’t really sound like you’re done being pissed.”
“Honestly, I am. I came to the realization that, for whatever reason, she just can’t do it. She can’t quit. I’m not gonna lie and say it’s easy to watch her do it to herself.” He put up his hands. “Maybe there’s some reason she has to go through it. Who am I to say, anyway?”
“So you think we’re predestined.”
He shrugged. “Sometimes it’s the only thing that makes sense. You see so many people who get stuck, can’t seem to get themselves out of bad situations, even when they know they’re bad.”
“I don’t really get that,” Sophie said. “Seems pretty ridiculous to me. You always have a choice.”
“I’m sure that even you, Miss Responsible-Got-it-Together chick. . . .” He chucked her under the chin before pausing to kiss her, “can think of at least one time that you were a part something, however brief, that you knew wasn’t in your best interest. But you did it anyway because you felt compelled.”
“Not really,” she said flatly. “I’m too cautious. Too sensible. I know that’s probably pretty boring.”
“I’m not talking about doing something bad. Your sister is not doing anything bad. She’s just choosing to stay in a situation that’s maybe bad for her. But then again, maybe it isn’t.” He affectionately tapped a finger to her chest as he made his point.
“Boy, you’re just all over the map on this one!” she said. It occurred to her that if anyone else had said these things, she would be somewhat insulted, as if she were a child who needed to be enlightened, but he had a way of speaking to her that was calming without being the least bit condescending, even when he was messing with her.
“What can I say?” he said in response to her remark. “I’m not much of a black and white sorta guy.”
Twelve
Sophie spotted Christian standing outside the gallery, waiting for her as she approached. He’d asked her to meet him there, yet wouldn’t say why over the phone. She assumed it had something to do with the day she and Evie saw him, but had no clue why he was asking to see her.
“Thanks for meeting me.”
“What’s this all about, Christian?” she asked warily. “I’m not getting why we needed to meet here to talk.”
“Just come in here with me. Please?” he said as he extended his arm, encouraging her to go into the gallery ahead of him.
She shoved her hands into the pockets of her wool pea coat, and glanced around uneasily before heading inside Centaur. That was the name of the gallery, the very place she had applied for a job in college.
The same lovely redhead was sitting at a mahogany desk at the far end of the gallery, and Sophie’s stomach began to churn.
“Tara!” Christian called.
Beaming, Tara rose from her seat and stepped out from behind her desk. “Christian, how are you, my love?” They exchanged cheek kisses, the way artsy folk often do.
“This is my sister-in-law, Sophie.” Christian rested a hand on her shoulder.
“Very nice to meet you, Sophie,” Tara said, offering her hand. “Did you come to see Christian’s brilliant work that graces our gallery?”
“I, uh . . . I guess. I don’t really know.”
“Come, come!” Tara took Sophie by the hand and led her past several abstract bronze sculptures.
“You’re being a little over the top, don’t you think, Tara?” Christian asked as he trailed behind them.
“He’s so modest,” she murmured to Sophie from the corner of her mouth. “And I tell you, that’s a rarity in the art world. The egos!” She rolled her eyes. Sophie was already taking a liking to this woman, despite herself. “And here they are.”
Tara motioned to the wall which displayed ten pieces of Christian’s work. They were all relatively small, about eleven by fourteen inches. Sophie hadn’t seen his work in years, but she stopped dead in her tracks when she laid eyes on it. She could not believe that these were created by a person, and not a camera or computer. She said nothing as she got a closer look, studying the details, colors, and realism depicted.
Sophie turned to Christian. “You did these?” she asked in awe.
“He most certainly did,” Tara replied.
“They’re amazing.” Sophie lingered in front of each one, before moving on to the next.
“Thanks, Soph.”
All of the pieces had a very old world feeling to them, most of them landscapes. Then she came upon a portrait of Evie. It was absolutely beautiful. He somehow managed to capture not only her vulnerability, but also her strength. Her eyes reached out to her.
“That one’s my husband’s favorite,” Tara volunteered. “I think he’s in love with your Evelyn, and he’s never even met her! Do you know that she didn’t even model for this?” she asked Sophie. “This all came from his head.”
Sophie turned in Christian’s direction to see him watching her reaction before he nervously averted his eyes. She lowered her gaze, not wanting to acknowledge she may have been wrong about him. She returned her attention to the portrait and marveled at the life within it. Sophie sketched quite a bit when she was an art major in college, but never had she come close to such authenticity, especially without a model or photo.
Christian and Tara engaged in a conversation, something about a showing for his work, and Sophie could hear the strain in his voice at the thought of having to mingle.
She finally managed to tear her absorption from Evie’s portrait and moved on to the other drawings. Her breath caught when she reached the last piece. She moved in carefully to get a better view.
Long, golden grass, brilliant turquoise sky, and a barn in the distance. Exactly the same. Exactly.
Tears came to her eyes, and she didn’t even know why. She tried to sneak another glance at Christian, thinking this would lift her confusion. He was still engrossed in conversation with Tara, then paused when he noticed her odd expression.
“Sophie? What’s up?” he asked with a frown.
“Nothing!” She jerked back around to face the picture, blinking to clear her eyes. She sensed Christian and Tara staring at her.
“Well, we don’t have to talk about all of this now,” Tara said, clearly puzzled by Sophie’s behavior. “I’ll give you a call, Christian. It was very nice to meet you, Sophie,” she said with a little wave, before heading back to her desk.
“Thank you. You too.” Sophie was fixated on the drawing.
“Sophie,” Christian said behind her. “We can go now.”
She brought a finger to her eye and rubbed it, pretending there was something in it.
“Are you all right?” Christian asked as they were leaving the gallery. “You were acting kind of weird a minute ago.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I mean, yes! I’m totally fine.” Feeling like a ditz, she put her hand to her forehead, trying to collect her thoughts. “So, why did you ask me to come here?” she asked, trying to deter him.
“Come to the food court with me so we can talk. I’ll buy you a lemonade.”
Sophie stood motionless, deliberating.
“Please?”
As they walked side by side in awkward silence, s
he couldn’t get that picture out of her head. She’d been compelled to yank it right from the wall to keep as her own. Not only was her connection to this place becoming increasingly intriguing, but it was also unsettling.
Later, when they were finally seated with their drinks, Christian got straight to the point. “We need to figure out a way to coexist, for Evie’s sake.”
“Okay,” she answered. “But what has this got to do with you bringing me to the gallery?”
He leaned back in his chair. “C’mon, Sophie. You know the answer to that. I wanted you to see that nothing’s going on between me and Tara.”
Sophie folded her arms across her chest and crossed her legs. “I don’t know that. Only you do. Besides, why would you want me to see it, instead of Evie?”
“Evie is more likely to believe me because she loves me, and it’s what she wants to believe. I want her to believe it because it’s true. You, on the other hand—well, we both know you have no love for me.”
“Geez, Christian!” She set her lemonade on the table. “I don’t hate you. Why am I such a terrible person for wanting someone to take care of my sister?” She sighed, and then added softly, “That’s all I want. And yes, I know, it’s none of my business.”
“You’re right. It is none of your business. But Evie doesn’t want to be taken care of all the time, and if you think she does, maybe you don’t know her the same way I do.”
Sophie neither responded nor looked at him as she took a sip of her drink, swinging her foot with agitation. “You’re right.” She bowed her head. “You’re right. I get carried away, and I have no place telling you guys how to live your lives.”
“Look, Sophie. I’m not perfect. None of us are. Not everyone handles things the way you do. I admit it, whenever Evie gets really sick, I choke.” He jammed his hands under his arms. “I don’t know what to do, because all I can think about is, will I eventually lose her? You don’t know what it’s like—”
“Excuse me?” she interrupted and laid her palms on the table. “She was in remission when you met. You don’t know what my family went through before they finally figured out what was wrong!” Her voice trembled. She would never forget her father standing helplessly in the bedroom doorway as his Evie lay in bed, crying in pain, wasting away. Sophie and her mother held her, sobbing right along with her. The agony in her dad’s eyes would stay with her forever.
Christian swiped a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. You do know.”
“Of course I know! Why do you think I’m so overbearing when it comes to her? Every time—” Her fists were tight, fingernails biting into her palms. “She’s my best friend.”
“She’s my best friend, too,” he said, pushing his shoulders back. “Maybe you could try to remember that.”
Sophie took in a deep breath, before giving a nod of acknowledgment. She stared at the Dairy Queen sign. She had to admit it was quite draining being aggravated with him on a constant basis. She was sure things would be a lot different, if only Evie were healthy. But that was the thing—if only.
“Your work . . . it’s just beautiful, Christian.”
Christian’s eyes lit up. “Thank you, Sophie. That means a lot.”
“Well, I mean it. Has Evie seen the drawings?”
“She has.”
A young woman was pushing an empty stroller not far from where they sat, trying to juggle shopping bags and her little boy’s hand. Apparently, he wasn’t agreeable to staying put in the stroller, or staying put at all, because the boy escaped his mother’s grasp and took off running in another direction. The bags slipped from her hand as well, one of them spilling its contents as the mother raced after her son. Various cosmetic bottles and jars rolled out onto the floor, right next to Christian’s foot. He glanced down at the mess, then at the mother trying to catch up with her runaway toddler, before turning back to Sophie with amusement. However, he had absolutely no inclination to pick up the items that rested at his feet.
The woman came back frazzled, with the boy in tow. Sophie got up to collect the spillage and started putting the articles back into the bag. It seemed only then that it occurred to Christian to do the same. He bent over, picking up a remaining jar of eye cream and then handed it to Sophie. As if cued, his movements were almost mechanical.
What an oddball, Sophie thought.
“I am so sorry!” the woman gushed as she tried to get her unwilling toddler back into the stroller.
“Don’t worry about it.” Sophie handed the woman her bags. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a real sprinter in the making.”
“Sadly, yes,” she answered as she took her belongings. “Thank you so much! Again, I’m really sorry for the disruption,” she added, peering over Sophie’s shoulder to address Christian as well. She hurried off, the boy now howling like a banshee.
Christian was an enigma. As they sat back down, Sophie marveled at how he seemed to be so adept at charming Tara the day she and Evie watched them through the window, and yet at times, seemed to have absolutely no clue how to interact with people, which is what prompted her question. “So, are you going to agree to a show for your drawings?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” He dragged his palms down his pant legs. “Tara is really pushing hard for one.”
“But, you don’t want to.”
“Ahhh . . . no, I don’t,” he replied, almost painfully.
Sophie wondered if he would break into a sweat just thinking about it. “I understand. I think it’s one of the reasons I didn’t follow through with the whole art thing. I was never good at playing the game, you know?”
“Yeah.” He swallowed hard. “I can’t stand having to talk about the work. I feel like I need to start making stuff up, just to be accepted.”
“I get it,” Sophie said. “I nearly had a nervous breakdown once during a critique in college. It went on for two hours, because we had to pick apart every little detail of each person’s work. At one point I just wanted to scream, It’s a frickin’ flower! What’s there to talk about?”
Christian chuckled.
Sophie recalled leaving the critique so she could regroup. She stood outside in the evening air, pacing, ready to tear her hair out. Unable to let go of the frustration, she decided to take a jog around the perimeter of the building, and Sophie was not one to resort to physical activity for stress relief.
The next day she switched her major to Education.
“It’s like nothing can be taken at face value,” Christian said. “Everything’s got to have some greater meaning. Sometimes it does, but most of the time—no. It is what it is.” He removed the lid from his cup to crunch on some ice. “I hate it.”
“Yeah, but if you want people to see your stuff, you gotta play along.”
He groaned, putting his hand to the back of his neck. “I don’t know if I can do it.”
“Sure you can.”
Christian was dazed. “Your confidence in me is . . . unusual.”
Sophie gave him a supportive smile. “Christian, why won’t you take the medication?”
Her question apparently blindsided him, as he drew back into his seat.
“You don’t have to answer—I know it’s a personal question.” Her arms were crossed as she leaned forward on the table and thoughtlessly ran her fingers up and down the sleeve of her jacket.
Christian’s mouth tightened.
“Evie says you don’t like the way it makes you feel . . . It doesn’t make you feel happy?” Sophie pressed. “Because you actually seem like a happier person when you’re taking it, at least to me anyway.”
His eyes turned glassy as he folded his arms over his chest, turning the other way. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know what?”
“I don’t know why I won’t take it.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
“I don’t know, Sophie! Why don’t you?” he snapped.
She just held his gaze. She wasn’t letting this go.
There
was a visible throbbing in his neck and he covered his throat, as if his body betrayed him. With feigned conviction, he replied in a tight voice. “I’m not sick.”
Sophie pressed her lips together, trying to figure out what to say. It was all coming together now. It had nothing to do with the effects of some medication, but had everything to do with admitting weakness, at least in his eyes. And there was nothing she could say to change it.
“Okay,” she said.
From the time Christian began having difficulties five years ago, Sophie had her doubts that this “depression” was genuine, though she never dared voice it to Evie. But now? Now she was experiencing her first pangs of sympathy for him, and she didn’t like it. It was just easier to paint him as this numbskull who happened to be married to her sister.
“I have a question for you now,” Christian said. “Since you obviously had no issue asking me what you did.”
“Yes?” She was curious where this was going.
“What was going on in the gallery? Your reaction to my drawing.”
“Oh, psh!” Her scalp prickled. “It was stupid. For some reason, it reminded me of this movie I once saw.” Oh my God! That was weak.
“What movie was that?”
She faked concentration, trying to remember. “I’m . . . not . . . su-u-u-re. I think it was . . . It was something with . . . Keanu Reeves?”
“Uh huh.” He wasn’t buying her line any more than she bought his. “That’s all right. I know it’s a personal question.”
She narrowed her eyes in response, but for the first time in a very long while, she felt a bit of an affinity for him. “You think you’re pretty clever, don’t you?”
He simply shrugged.
“Okay, since I asked you such a personal question,” she began, “I’m going to tell you something personal. And it has to do with that picture.”
“You’re going to tell me something personal. Me,” he repeated.
“As a matter of fact, I am,” she answered with a raise of her chin. “Who knows? Maybe this will be some kind of therapeutic breakthrough for us.”
There was a slight smile at her sarcasm.
Somewhere Between Black and White Page 7
