Art is the Lie (A Vanderbie Novel) (23 page)

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, i
t’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?”

“Yes.”

“Guardians are unable to draw you out when the vision has been about them. You need a restorer.”

“A what?” Half the room said in unison. Only Lucy’s voice remained quiet.

“Our gifts are based on a triad. A balance of powers. It has been this way through the generations. A visionary is born with the gift. The gift is released when a guardian is introduced. And the restorer, weaving between the visionary and guardian, balance out the powers. Protecting them both.”

“How do we find my restorer?” I asked.

“Well, he’s here,” she said like it was the most obvious thing. “Standing next to you.”

I knew Quentin was on one side of me, so that left Foster. “Foster? Foster’s my restorer?”

“Yes. A visionary’s restorer is always their sibling.”

“What if I didn’t have a sibling?”

“Than the gift would never have released.”

“WHAT are you people
talking
about?” Poor Foster.

“Foster, would you please indulge me for a moment.”

“No . . . um, I don’t know . . .” Hesitation drew out his words.

“Please, Foster,” she coaxed, “I need you to sit down next to your sister.”

I didn’t hear any movement, my heart was racing.

After what felt like an eternity, the bed bent under Foster’s weight.

“Perfect,” Evelyn chimed. “Now, Quentin, please help CeeCee to sit forward so Foster can get his arm around her shoulder.”

Quentin gently placed his hands on the back of my shoulders and pulled me forward off my pillow. I waited to feel Foster’s arm around me, but there was no movement from where he sat on the bed.

“Foster, I need you to place your hands over your sister’s eyes, and repeat after me.” I could hear the impatience in Evelyn’s voice.

Foster didn’t move.

“Please, Foster,” I whispered. “I promise to explain everything.”

“I swear, CeeCee,” his strained voice volleyed back. “If this is some practical joke you are recording, I will never . . .”

It was Dad who finally said, “Foster, please. I assure you, this is no joke.”

The weight on the bed shifted, and I felt Foster’s arm go around the back of my shoulders before his warm hands softly covered over my eyes.

“Now, please,” Evelyn continued, “repeat after me: Upon swift wings, let this curse take flight.”

His voice was horse, hesitant. “Upon swift wings, um . . . let this curse take flight.”

“Strip away the night and with my voice restore light.”

“Strip away the . . .”

“Strip away the night and with my voice restore light,” she repeated.

“Strip away the night and with my voice restore light.”

The gray erupted behind Foster’s hands. It poured into blue, into yellow, into red. The colors took flight and tangoed together. Twisting. The palette exploding as Foster dropped his hands from my eyes.

Slowly. Like the birth of a new day. I opened my eyes to

beautiful,

alluring,

crystal greens staring back at me.