Art is the Lie (A Vanderbie Novel)

by Courtney Cook Hopp

  Quentin reached for my hand and pulled me toward the street, the walk signal flashing an obvious red across the street. And they hit. Tingles. Like a freight train without warning, knocking me to the ground. The fire. The shadow. The shower of painful rain.

  A ring of fire.

  A shadow reaching and drawing back. Reaching and drawing back.

  Rain. Piercing. Painful.

  I was tired. I wanted it to be done.

  “Show me,” I yelled. “Show me your face.”

  And what had been abstract moments before, turned real. Too real. Revealing Quentin’s face, his arm, reaching in and out of the singing fire. Reaching for me. Trying to pull me out.

  I screamed.

  “CeeCee!”

  I couldn’t stop screaming. In my head. Outside of my head.

  “CeeCee! Open your eyes!” He had scooped me up. I knew we were moving. Crossing the street to the pergola on the other side.

  The fire turned dark, fading Quentin’s attempt at liberating me from the flames. I clung to his neck, scared of what I saw. I couldn’t let go, scared of what it meant.

  My body bounced in his arms, my screams subsided. I knew the consequence of asking to see the vision. I knew if I opened my eyes I would see nothing. Nothing until Quentin released me from the darkness.

  A cool line slithered slowly across the back of my neck, sending a river of chills down my spine. I reached up, but all I felt was the ice of my own fingers touching my skin.

  “CeeCee, open your eyes and look at me!”

  We stopped. He set me down. The cold cement immediately seeped through my coat. “Quentin! The fire, it was you reaching into the fire.”

  “I don’t care. Open your eyes and look at me!”

  “I can’t. I can’t see.”

  “Open your eyes and look at me!” he commanded. Expecting. Waiting.

  Nothing. I opened my eyes and nothing.

  Close. Open. Nothing.

  It didn’t work.

  Only darkness remained. A strange calm whispered from my mouth. “It didn’t work. I can’t see.”

  “It has to work. They said it would work. Open your eyes and look at me! Open your eyes and look at me! Open your eyes and look at me!” he urgently repeated in quick succession.

  “It’s not working.”

  “Damn it! Open your eyes! Look at me!”

  “Quentin . . .”

  “OPEN. YOUR. EYES!” I could hear the exhaustion, the panic, the loss of control welling up in his voice. “LOOK AT . . . me.”

  I wished, in that moment, for the strength of my mother to come back. I slipped my hand in my coat to touch her pearls, her wisdom. My hand rubbed my chest. Up. Down. Nothing. To my sides. Again, nothing. They were gone. The slithering across my neck now making sense.

  I tried to sit up, move my feet underneath me. “Quentin. My mother’s pearls. They fell off. They can’t be far. I can’t lose them. Her.”

  “What are you doing? You can’t see!”

  “Her pearls. The slipped off. Not far. Across the road. Pleeeease,” I pleaded. “I can’t lose another part of her.”

  “FUCK!” he roared in frustration. “Don’t move!”

  I sat. Blind to everything. My hands planted firmly on the cold ground, sending wave after wave of chills through me. The sounds I thought were nothing began to grow all around me. My heightened sense sharpening the small pieces of noise tunneling into my ears. Somewhere ahead of me, I heard the revving of a diesel engine sputter to life up the hill. It groaned. The squeal of metal stretching in forward movement.

  And then a SNAP! So loud and foreign, it raised every hair on my body to attention.

  A symphony of uproar kicked in, overwhelming my ears. Cars were honking. Breaks were squealing. The few people still milling around began to scream. I sat helpless, with no idea where danger lurked.

  “Quentin!” my voice screeched out.

  I tried to place the noise — the spinning whine of an engine set in motion but not started. The screams grew, gears grinding against themselves. “Get her out of there!”

  Get who out of where? “QUENTIN!”

  “CEECEE!” I heard him. Faintly. Above the chaos. The only picture in my head was of him reaching into the flames. Trying to get to me.

  But it all came to a screeching halt.

  Silence.

  Nothing. But. Silence.

  For one.

  Single.

  Breath.

  Until metal ground against the iron pergola, consuming me in an ear-splitting explosion. I was thrown back and the crackling of fire heated my once cold skin. And soon it began to rain. Shards of tiny glass rained down, piercing my bare legs.

  I curled up.

  I focused on my mom’s face.

  And I waited.

  I was not afraid to die.

  I hovered in darkness, circling with Quentin in a pool of silver light. There was no noise. No nothing. Just us. Together. Dancing our silent dance. On and on we spun, Quentin’s shadow reaching out, and pounding back the threatening danger.

  It was peaceful.

  Beautiful.

  The moment deliriously euphoric.

  Pools of deep emeralds twinkled down at me.

  Here I was happy to remain.

  Forever.

  With him.

  “Cee,” he whispered in my ear. “Please.”

  It was his “please” that caused my foot to falter. It was sad. Inconsolable. I touched his cheek, reassuring him.

  “Please. Look at me,” he said again, his eyes of pleasure not matching the sorrow in his voice. “You have to open your eyes.”

  But they were open, I wanted to say. Forever open. Drinking in the brightness.

  “Please, CeeCee.” Rawness rattled from his throat, pulling his shadow tight around us. “Open your eyes.”

  The encroaching darkness was persistent. Pushing in. Battling against our small pool of light. Quentin’s shadow was no match for the eternity of darkness that waited patiently for us to step into.

  He mumbled something I couldn’t hear. I leaned closer. A whooshing pulse rattled loud in my ear.

  He spoke again.

  I watched as his lips moved, but the sound was muddled, unformed.

  Another voice joined in, projecting through the darkness. And another. And another. I could no longer distinguish Quentin’s from the rest. They morphed, they blended, bending time and space.

  My arms tightened around him. Squeezing.

  Refusing to let go.

  Clinging tight to nothing.

  Nothing but a shadow.

  Beep.

  Beep. Whoosh.

  Beep.

  They were constant, invading every crevice inside of me.

  Beep. Whoosh.

  I couldn’t place them.

  Beep.

  I crested up from the dusky shadows, landing in the SAM, every square inch of the room filled with Picasso. One on top of the other. Not a sliver of wall to be seen.

  “I am her grandmother. You will let me in.”

  Beep. Whoosh. Beep.

  I spun. Looking for the voice. Looking for Evelyn.

  “I’m sorry ma’am. Your name does not appear on the guest list. If you could please wait until her father returns, we can speak with him.”

  Beep.

  She was here. On the other side of the barrier. I waved. Frantically. She couldn’t see me.

  “I’ll. Wait.”

  All was quiet again, except for the beeps.

  And a whoosh.

  Beep. Beep. The high-pitched frequency irritated my senses.

  Beep. Whoosh.

  Beep.

  The shadows morphed into a dark forest and I stepped in. Trees. Everywhere. My body bent in unison with their sway. Languishing in their simple strength.

  “The ticket will be waiting for you at the airport. Your flight leaves at two.”

  Dad? His voice floated by, bounced from limb to limb, and then burst as it
flew away. Wait! Where are you going?

  Beep.

  Time floated on wings, passed through the shadows, pouring into a vat of nothingness.

  Beep.

  Beep.

  Woosh.

  I opened my eyes, but saw nothing.

  Pain gnawed at every ounce of my being.

  I closed them. Opened them.

  Gray.

  A warm, fuzzy gray painted over everything.

  It was a little bit yellow.

  A little bit red.

  A little bit black.

  A little bit of nothing.

  “Hello?” I hardly recognized the whisper that gurgled up from my own throat.

  “CeeCee?” His voice was groggy. Beautiful. Refreshing.

  I turned my head to him. Nauseousness rose to the back of my mouth, my eyes unseeing. “Quentin? Where are we?”

  “The hospital.” I felt a hand slide and wrap gently around my own. Warm. Strong.

  I swallowed and closed my eyes. I didn’t need them. “How long . . ?”

  “Two days.”

  “I can’t see.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” His voice cracked. I wanted to reach out and assure him, but I didn’t know how to lift my fingers to find his face. “I’ve tried . . .”

  “Where’s Dad?”

  “He stepped out to stretch his legs. I’ll go get him.”

  “NO!” I held tight to his hand, trying to lift my other one, but it was weighted down, impossible to lift. “Don’t leave me. Please.”

  “I’m here.”

  “I can’t lift my arm.”

  “It’s in a cast.”

  “What happened?”

  The gentle whisper of his fingertips trailed a caress across my cheek. “It all happened so fast, Cee. I couldn’t get to you. I tried. The flames were everywhere. I thought you . . .” His eyes saw what mine couldn’t. An agony he alone would bear.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “Let me get your Dad.”

  I squeezed his hand hard, holding tight to the lifeline outside of me. “Please, Quentin. Tell me what happened. The last thing I remember was you carrying me across the street to the pergola.”

  “There was an industrial tow truck up the street from us. It was pulling a large dump truck. The cables snapped and the truck came barreling down the street backward, taking two cars . . .”

  “CeeCee! Are you awake?” I could hear Dad’s cane lancing off things left and right, the sound moving closer, his eyes unable to see my unseeing eyes.

  Like father, like daughter.

  “Peter,” I heard Quentin say quietly as he left my hand cold and empty. “Here. Come around this side.”

  There was a shuffle. The bed bent under a new weight. A rough hand filled the emptiness Quentin had left in mine. Dad pressed his lips tight against my knuckles. “Thank God. We weren’t sure. You were unconscious for so long. And the burns. Oh, thank God.”

  “What burns?”

  There was silence. Except for the beep.

  And the whoosh.

  Beep.

  Whoosh.

  “What burns? Will someone please talk to me? Dad? Quentin?” The beeps grew faster. Followed by a quick exhaling whoosh. Faster and faster, keeping tempo with my apprehension.

  It was Dad who finally said, “Maybe we should let the nurse know you’re awake.”

  “Tell me!” My voice jarring even me.

  “It’s your legs, Cee.” I could hear the hesitancy in his words. He squeezed my hand harder and said, “The fire moved quickly before Quentin was able to get around the other side and pull you out.”

  “Pull me out?” I asked in horror. I tried to move them, but I couldn’t feel them. It was as if they didn’t exist. “I can’t feel them.”

  “That’s because they have you on pain medicine. The doctor assures us the burns will heal with time. They shouldn’t be part of any ongoing problems.”

  Unlike my eyes. “Dad, I can’t see. Why wasn’t Quentin able to restore my sight?”

  His thumb ran roughly back and forth on the tops of my knuckles. His delay sent dread into the lowest part of me. Finally, he said, “I don’t know.”

  “You have to call her, Dad. You have to call Evelyn and find out why it didn’t work.”

  The silence could be heard a mile away. “Maybe we should let the nurse know you are awake.”

  He didn’t need to bother. The symphony of beeps and whooshes brought her to us.

  “Is everything all right in here?” a sweet, southern voice called out.

  Dad squeezed my hand. “She’s awake.”

  “Claire Claire Vanderbie,” the voice chimed a full name nobody used. “We’re glad to see you. You’ve had two gentlemen very concerned about you.”

  “You couldn’t live without me, could you?”

  Foster had arrived the next day in Foster fashion, teasing me after he was assured I was somewhat sane. “You didn’t need to go to such extremes to get me home from school. Although, I appreciate the out on the Trig test I got to reschedule for next week.”

  “You didn’t have to come home.”

  “Yes, I did. Otherwise, who would protect you from the chaos about to burst through your door.”

  “What chaos?”

  And chaos it was. Aunt Lucy, Uncle Russell, and the twins came barreling through. I could feel their bodies cramming into the small room, turning the air warm. The noise rattled my only good sense.

  “I’ll wait outside,” Quentin breathed in my ear.

  “Oh, no,” I whispered back. “You cannot leave me alone with these people.”

  “These people are your people.”

  “Please. Stay.” His hand slipped back into mine.

  My dad’s voice emerged above the rumpus. “Lucy. Russell. We’re limiting visits, so Cee . . .”

  “Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.” It was Summer. It was drama I was not prepared for. “I told myself I wouldn’t cry, but CeeCee. Oh my god. Your poor little body. Your face.” She broke down crying, confirming that Dad and Quentin had been overly kind in their assessments of my injuries. I was at least thankful she didn’t throw her body across mine.

  “Summer, please,” Aunt Lucy piped in, her skirt swishing its way to the bed. “CeeCee, we were devastated to hear about the accident.”

  I doubt it. “Thanks.”

  Her long fingers touched my shoulder. “This is so unfortunate. Everything. The accident. Your eyes.”

  I squeezed Quentin’s fingers tight, hoping the reminder of him standing next to me would help me to keep my mouth shut. “I’m sure we’ll figure it out.”

  “Of course you will.” She was patronizing me.

  “This looks to be a Vanderbie family reunion.”

  A rush of air swirled over me and froze as my aunt spun toward the new voice, everything cementing to stillness. Nothing moved except the sound waves carrying Eveyln’s voice to my ears.

  “Mother.” Lucy’s voice took on a new edge. I heard her move back through the room. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “I was invited.”

  “By whom?”

  “By me.” Dad. He’d called her.

  “You invited Mother? Here?” Shock rattled her cool demeanor. “Since when are you two talking?”

  “Since it seems we have family business to take care of.” The strength in her voice left no room for questioning. “Russell, if you and the girls wouldn’t mind waiting in the hall, I need to speak with my children.”

  “What about him?” Summer whined.

  “Quentin stays,” Evelyn replied empathically.

  The dust settled around us and Dad spoke up, introducing Evelyn to Foster. “Mom, this is my son, Foster.”

  “Foster. Finally, we meet. I’ve been getting updates on you for quite some time, but it is nice to finally see you in person. I hope we have another opportunity that is not filled with such unpleasant circumstances to get to know each other.”

  “Um, it�
�s nice to meet you, too.” Oh, Foster. I could hear the broken confusion in his tone.

  In her no nonsense way, she got right to business, dispensing with all pleasantries. “Well, it seems we have two visionaries in the family, but you already knew that, didn’t you Lucy?”

  Aunt Lucy began to sputter. “I don’t know what . . .”

  “I think you do know what I’m talking about, and you made a conscious choice to do nothing about it.” Evelyn stood next to me, her sweet scent wafting around my bed. The bed bent and a set of cold fingers touched down on my eyebrows, startling me. They walked slowly, from one side of my face to the other, touching what I could not see. Evelyn’s fingers continued their soft parade around my face, but it was Lucy she directed her steel voice to. “Lucia, my hopes were pinned high when you were born on the day celebrating the Patron Saint Lucia.”

  “The story is old mother. You’ve told us before,” the belittling tone mocking her namesake. “St. Lucy. The saint of light. Bringing light to those lost in the dark. But you bestowed the name on the wrong person.”

  Her fingers abruptly left my face as she stood, her disappointment cutting through her tone. “My hopes were never for you to have the visions. That is a curse all its own. My hope was always for you to extend generosity and benevolence on those in need. But when someone was in the greatest of need, you failed to help. Not only failed, but made a calculating choice to leave him locked in the dark indefinitely.”

  “It’s always been about him,” she seethed. “Even now, after years of snubbing you, our family, our gift, here you are, with arms wide open, welcoming your prodigal son home.”

  “Um, excuse me.” It was Foster, confusion ringing loud and clear. I felt awful, wishing I could lessen the punch, but there was nothing I could do at this point. I had no idea where this conversation was going. “What are you two talking about?”

  “I’m sorry Foster,” Evelyn replied. “I realize this is quite a shock and will take some time to fully understand. But if you could please grant us a little patience as we hash through the details, I think all will become clear.”

  Her voice turned back to me. “CeeCee, I’m sure it was quite disconcerting when Quentin was unable to release you from the darkness, but I am guessing the vision you chose to see was about him. Am I correct?”