Happy That It's Not True (26 page)

              “Risky?”

              “When people find out everything they believe in is wrong, they have cognitive dissonance; they go berserk and kill a lot of people.”             

              “Maybe you have a point.  I think you know more about psychology than me.”

              “Ever heard of top-down processing?”

              “Uh, no.”

              “It’s really cool.”

              “Yeah?”

              “People’s brains work funny.  When someone believes something, their minds’ll find ways that support what they believe.  Like at the scene of an accident—witnesses all see different things, their brains auto-complete missing information to support what they think they saw.  They’ll remember stuff that never actually happened.  Same thing happens with religion and politics.  It’s nearly impossible to prove to someone they’re wrong about something once they top-down and form some kind of worldview.”

              “Cool.  That explains everything.”

              “I know.”

              “So how can anyone believe in God?  You just proved that everyone is deluded—we imagine stuff.” 

              Alex sighed.  “Top-down processing is cool, but it doesn’t explain the meaning of life.”

              “So—what’s the meaning of life?”

              “Well—I have is a hunch.  You wanna hear?”

              “Sure.”

              “Now, I know this might sound crazy—call me a nut, but—Take my sister and uncle.  They’re both artists.  I’ve seen them turn life into art.  I wonder if everything we see is somehow unfinished, like raw unedited film—before postproduction.  Maybe it’s all about the narrative, not the literal nature of things.  Maybe we’re all just characters in a story.  Maybe this universe is literal and outside this universe there’s something else—beyond our understanding.”

              “That’s deep.”

              “Hope I didn’t bore you.”

              “No.  I like you—you’re smart.”

              “I’ve been called a geek a few times.”

              “You ever kiss a girl before?”

              Alex felt his heart racing and every hair on his body stand straight up.  He thought to himself, badass, but what badass has never kissed a girl before?

              Joyce, sensing that she would never get a response, leaned in and kissed Alex. 

              The peck on the mouth felt like a doorway to a new world.  He looked at Joyce for a moment, holding on to the taste of her lips.  “So how do I know this is happening?  Maybe my mind is auto-completing.  Maybe I’m imagining this.”

              Joyce sat down behind Alex in the lounger and wrapped her arms around his chest.

              “Does this feel real?”

              Alex’s breathing quickened and his chest tightened, but then he allowed himself to relax and collapse into Joyce’s arms. Then, without warning, the tears came, and although he was embarrassed he couldn’t stop.

              “It’s okay to cry.  Get it out of your system.  And then, after that, you’ll just have to deal with enjoying life with your new girlfriend.”

              Joyce stood up, untied her shirt from around her waist and kicked off her shoes.  She put her BlackBerry a safe distance from the pool, and smirked at Alex as she walked to the edge and jumped.  The splash soaked him.  He looked down at Joyce and noticed how beautiful she looked with wet flat hair.  The most tragic day of his life had proven somehow sparing and gentle.

              As she held the edge of the pool, Joyce reached her hand out to Alex.  “I’m completely wrong about everything; life doesn’t suck so much after all.”  Alex took her hand and went into the water.  They stayed at the pool late into the night, riding the ridiculous raft, trying to reconcile joy with sadness.

Chapter Twenty Eight

            
 
In her dream, Ling could see her father.  She wanted to love.  Not the all-encompassing love thy neighbor, but the unique love of a daughter for her father.  But as in all relationships, one cannot just will themselves to love.  Whether it’s God, Eros or family, love is mysterious, just like her father who happened to be looking straight at her—through her, as if she weren’t really there.  His unmistakable voice captured all of Ling’s senses.  Their estranged relationship kept her from rejoicing as she struggled to form desperately needed words:  but I thought you died. 

              She felt foolish as she spoke these words in a Mandarin she had much forgotten.  They embraced, and once more she was like a child, wondering if she really did love her father and whether he could tell that she was never quite sure.  She smelled the ethanol base of his cologne, which was like the balmy fragrance of a childhood memory, only quite genuine.  It was all a lie, you’re not dead, she stammered as she tried to quickly adjust her worldview.

              And then Ling saw her grandfather.  He was in another room, preparing a canvas.  She beamed.  She didn’t want her father to see how much more she loved her grandfather, who still looked just as he did the last time she saw him, a frail eighty-eight year old man.  She felt a flood of emotions that she couldn’t control and wept.  Possibilities began to race through her mind:  He’s still alive.  He has no idea how much his life has meant to me.  I can tell him now. 

              Ling’s grandfather, the man who painted melancholy and loneliness with flat brown colors—the man that perhaps no one could understand unless their lives were painted with sadness—Ling saw in him what she often finds in older men who have attained a crown of mastery and self-discovery:  a father figure.

              Seeing her grandfather alive filled her heart with joy.  She could imagine him, over a hundred years old, still making his own egg tempera paints, still falling in love with grassy hills, winter and autumn landscapes, still in love with the wrinkled faces of his friends and the beautiful nude models—still searching for a truth that eludes lovers persistent enough to chase after it.

              Ling looked at him for a long while as he pulled on the canvas, stapling it to the wooden stretcher.  He turned to look at Ling, and she noticed that he had become Diego. 

...

              The next morning, Ling stood with Diego just outside his drawing class.  The two were sipping coffee, peering inside the room and admiring the work of a particular student.

              “The funeral is Monday,” Diego said.  “And then I’m leaving for the West Coast.”

              “How’re the kids?” Ling asked.

              “As good as can be expected, I suppose.  My sister’s moving in finally, so they won’t be alone.”

              “When someone dies—you never get over it.  At least they have you.  You always seem to know what to say.”

              “I don’t know what to tell them.”  Diego’s shoulders slumped as if his entire being had been defeated.  “I remember when I first thought I had found all the answers.  I was about Alex’s age.  I saw one of those televangelists with the big hair on TV.  He said to call the phone number at the bottom of the screen to be saved.  A little old lady answered the phone and screamed with joy.  It was pretty exciting, but the high wore off after a few days.” 

              Ling nodded.  “I could probably use some kind of spiritual awakening at this point in my life.”

              “A few years later, I was watching a rebroadcast of the Live Aid concert.  I saw my favorite band performing—”

              “And don’t tell me—you got saved again-”

              “Close.  I still remember their words:  We’re an Irish band—we come from Dublin City Ireland.”

              Ling smiled.

              “Then I heard that echoing guitar—so beautifully repetitive.  That was long before I knew anything about minimalism.  The song was about loving people despite their addictions.  Watching it was like having a religious experience.”

              “And it changed your life?”

              “I actually went to see those guys in concert when they came to the US.  The whole thing started with what sounded like church organs.”

              “Ah, so that’s when you found God.”

              “Yeah—it was such a high.  But then the high eventually wore off.  Every day can’t be a concert.”

              “Bummer.”

              “I backpacked across Europe to find myself.”

              “Hmm—nice.”

              “I saw Koyaanisqatsi.”

              “I love that movie.”

              “It was a lot more effective than backpacking Europe, and a lot cheaper.”             

              “And you found yourself?”

              “Pretty much—And then I started reading books about Eastern philosophy and Zen.  I went through such a transformation.  I was like a born-again Buddhist, of the Zen variety, practicing non-judgment, acceptance, detachment.  I was so happy.  It felt so good not to judge anyone.  I was walking around—in love with life—the leaves on the trees were so green, and everything was so beautiful.  What a high.  But then the high wore off.”

              “Sorry.”

              “I know Eastern religions work for a lot of people.  They say they have happiness and inner peace and all that, but all I do is think.  I can’t stop my mind to meditate.  It’s impossible for me.  So guess what I tried next?”

              “What?”

              “I started going to church.  I fell in love with the people there.  It changed my life.  I had some profound experiences there—synchronicity and all that stuff.  Everything was going great, until 9/11.  Church was never the same after that.  We all became deeply divided about going to war.  Politics destroyed the church.  I felt heartbroken.  My friend, Jerry—he never let anything get to him.  He always knew how to get along with everyone.  But I guess I never had that kind of maturity.  I couldn’t stand being in that place anymore.  I moved as far away as I could.  I don’t think I ever recovered.  It seems that’s just the way it is with everything.  The secret to life is to fall in love—and stay in love.  But the high always seems to wear off.”

              “There’s nothing you can do about falling in love,” Ling said.  “It just happens.”  As Diego gazed at the students and their artwork, Ling felt herself blushing.  She looked up at him, unsure if she wanted to be caught in her infatuation.

              “Mr. Alonso, I have a question,” said one of the students.

              Diego glanced at Ling, but didn’t notice she had fallen completely in love with him. 

              “I guess I’ll talk to you later,” Ling said.

              Diego went inside the room and Ling walked back to her class, confident that her high would never wear off.

              Ling’s therapist was a woman in her fifties from India.  She had compassionate, priestly eyes and a soft soothing accent.  Her linen blazer and flower bib necklace gave Ling something ornate to look at while the two searched for answers.

              “What’s he like?” she asked.

              “Perfect,” Ling replied.

              “You must really care about him.”

              “I can’t stop thinking about him.  But I’ve tried to stay busy like you told me.”

              “Go anywhere interesting?”

              “I went to Vizcaya again.”

              “I’ve never been there.  Can you describe it to me?”

              “Well, there’s a limestone barge half submerged in Biscayne Bay with sculptures and obelisks.  It looks like a sinking ship.”

              “And why do you mention that first?”

              “I don’t know.”

              “Keep going.”

              “They have Italian and French style gardens—fountains, a beautiful European-like villa.  The guy who built it—they say he suffered from depression.  He had some kind of anemia.  He felt sick all the time.  Vizcaya was a huge exciting project for him.  It was what kept him going.  After it was finished, he lived there nine winters, and then he died.”

              “What’s your favorite thing about it?”

              “I love the fact that there’s a hidden room behind the library.  It’s a jib door made of bookshelves.  The books in the door are fake.”

              “Can you describe the bookcases?”

              “Neoclassical—looks like rosewood.  They go almost to the ceiling.  The books are behind glass.  The Memoirs of Cardinal de Retz—mysterious writings to an unknown woman in the sixteen-hundreds.  That’s a faux book; all you see is the spine.  And there are lots of real books, encyclopedias and history books—all kinds of books.”

              “It’s amazing that you can remember all that.  The memoirs seem to stand out for you.”

              “A religious guy and his scandalous writings.  Don’t know much about it.”