Chapter Twenty-Three
Twenty-Three
Sophie is quiet on the ride to my downtown apartment.
She greets me with a “Thanks, Auntie” and scoots into the back seat with Onix, who immediately rests his heavy head on her lap.
She strokes him mindlessly, and they both fall asleep.
When we get inside, she waits until my door is closed before she asks me the question that has been weighing heavy on her spirit.
“Mom says Dad will be okay,” she says. “Is that a lie?”
Typical Sophie, to come out of the gate swinging. I busy myself helping Onix out of his harness, and when I straighten, she’s still staring me down.
“We’re being optimistic,” I say.
“It’s brain cancer,” Sophie deadpans. “Isn’t it dumb to be optimistic?”
I fight back a grimace. Both Winona and Brandon are brilliant people; it should come as no surprise that their daughter is as well.
I hold out a hand for her coat, then stuff the pink puffer jacket into my closet as Sophie stands behind me, waiting for my response.
When Sophie first started asking questions—endlessly, at the tender age of three—she’d been impatient for answers, demanding and irritated when they didn’t come immediately.
Now I’ve learned that she appreciates thoughtfulness and truth over speed.
“Hope is never dumb, nugget,” I say.
It’s the right thing to say, because her doll eyes well with tears.
“Okay,” she says, nodding vigorously, as the tears begin to pour out. “If you say so.”
I pull her into my arms as her body shakes.
Her mother is probably crying like this too, alone in her bedroom, and I ache.
Brandon will never mean to me what he means to them, but I know him in a different way.
He’s never been my lover or my parent, but he has been my colleague and friend.
I have seen how he manages exhaustion, how he comports himself when his body is pushed to the limit. He will survive this.
I just have to figure out what exactly he’s surviving.
When I tuck Sophie in to sleep—in my bed, with Onix, who relishes the opportunity to snuggle with his second favorite person—I begin to research.
I’ve been considering supernatural explanations rather than scientific ones, but what if the culprit is biological?
Science, after all, is magic to the uninformed; I imagine that if I went backward in time and showed the people of eras past a device that could not only communicate with anyone across the globe but also record perfect images of them in motion, they would brand me a witch and keep hold of my phone as a cursed relic.
What if it’s something that sits latently in Leila’s and Julian’s bodies but can reanimate in the people they touch?
What if they have the effect of Toxoplasma gondii, the bacteria that removes fear from prey animals and leads them to deliver themselves to their predators, or the rabies virus, which creates a hysterical fear of water and an insatiable need for violence in its victims before killing them?
I think about Brandon’s obsessiveness over his wife, how he rushed to obey her commands—What if it’s caused by an autoimmune disease, like an encephalitis?
I’ve read books on miraculous recoveries from diseases thought to be entirely psychological; if there is a component of this in Brandon’s condition, it would do us good to find it.
I stay up too late going down rabbit holes with strange dead ends, wake up early, make Sophie a big breakfast. She’s in better spirits after blueberry pancakes and a good night’s rest, and on the drive to Oak Park she’s back to her chatterbox self, switching between her favorite K-pop songs and giving me the lowdown on the latest of her dance troupe drama.
I half listen, my mind coursing over what it learned last night.
I can’t stop thinking about The Recurring Nightmare.
Most of Margaret West’s work is abstract, and this piece, the sole work chosen to remain at Harrison Julian’s penchant for art appreciation is apparently genetic.
It is all both interesting and so unhelpful to my mission that I wonder if I should turn back, but then I remember that this is the only lead I have.
So I try a new angle.
“I hear you house some of their personal collections here,” I say. “I would love to see them.”
Matt grins wide. His enthusiasm is so palpable that I smile back, even through my nerves.
“I love their personal collections, but unfortunately they were closed to the public last week,” he says. “Which is a pity, because they contain some of my favorite works. Like, recently we had Margaret West, and she has this stunning recreation of The Nightmare that we got to keep.”
“Oh my gosh, I love that piece!” I say, hoping my expression gives easy, breezy, and not at all ravenous for more. “But it’s so different from Margaret’s typical work. I wonder why they chose that one.”
“They seem to prefer more allegorical or figurative paintings,” Matt supplies. “You know, big moral scenes, people, character. High drama, I like to say. The collection is pretty eclectic otherwise, but that’s the common thread.”
“That’s so cool. I wish I could see it,” I say, even as my heart races.
I reach into my purse for my wallet to pay the gallery’s twenty-dollar entrance fee, and when he accepts my card, I hold on.
He gives me a quizzical look, and I return it with a smile that I know is both sultry and conspiratorial.
“I mean…maybe I could. Maybe you could sneak me in.”
Matt gives me a squeamish look, but his eyes brighten, and I know already that I will get a yes.
It’s true that I’m not great at getting people to like me, but I do have a decent handle on my feminine wiles.
It’s the combination of a direct stare, an inviting smile and a dash of charm that does it every time.
“Well,” Matt says, “I probably shouldn’t, but…”
“There’s no one else here, Matt,” I say. “And this is your fault. You got me all excited for it. Besides,” I release my card and lean forward on the counter, balancing my chin on my hands, “I won’t tell if you don’t.”