Page 27 of Portrait of A Lost Artist
“My sister was just seventeen years old the last time I saw her.” I explain to her, remembering how Lucy looked the day before I lost her. Her newly blonde hair framed a face unlike mine, with delicate, understated features. Unlike my preference for bold expression, she seemed poised to follow my father’s path into the world of business. “Lucy, that was her name.”
“Was?” Veronica mumbles.
“Was.”
“Lucy meant to go to Europe for her education. She still had one more year left of high school, but she was eager to move into adulthood, so she was mostly jumping around Europe, from here to there, building her future. We hadn’t seen each other in a while, and when she arrived, I had promised that we would go out for lunch.” I remember just how excited Lucy was. She was on her tiptoes, telling me to rush the day before, because she had to tell me about her newest boyfriend and how much she had loved Madrid. “I...I have to tell you something. I...I’ve been exposed to...to alcohol for a long time. I started drinking when I was maybe fourteen, and then there was...weed. And, for a time, cocaine. I’m, uh...fairly wealthy. Enough to...to afford it, and, well, not be judged for it.”
Veronica doesn’t bat an eye at my words, pouring the black beans now that the water has boiled before nodding. She takes a seat on the empty counter, feet dangling. “I understand. That’s...why you’re trying to pull away from it.”
“I’ve let that take the best years of my life from me. I don’t recall a lot of the things I’ve lived. My first kiss is a blur. I don’t remember getting home. I’ve forgotten birthdays and Christmas eves...” I trail, closing my eyes and shaking my head to battle the thoughts of not telling her. She will probably hate me after this, thinking I am the biggest and most privileged asshole to date, but she was honest with me, so why wouldn’t I be? “Anyway, I totally forgot I had to have lunch with her the day after, so I went out drinking with a few friends. Partying in Beverly Hills, I mean. It was twelve o'clock the next day and I was still shitfaced. I think I must’ve been high when I picked up her call and told her where I was. She had to drive a bit to get there...” I didn't tell her that the paparazzi were also looking for me, hiding in some mansion in the depths of Beverly Hills, or that she took my car instead of hers. They followed her to get a picture of me, but she got distracted. “Before she knew it, she was sliding off the tracks and the car ended up...destroyed. My parents called me saying my sister had an accident, and I got there as quickly as I could.” Only to find a bunch of paparazzi taking pictures of her corpse and me, of course, because seeing my family lose their biggest angel was something to showcase in magazines. And they did, which is even worse. “When I got there, my sister had broken a few of her bones. Her face was...”
My eyes closed tightly, remembering the blood that surrounded her face, torn until it was unrecognizable.
It wasn’t until Veronica slid off the counter, her hands settling on my shoulders, her voice an inaudible murmur, that I registered the tremors shaking my body. “Shh, I’m here. You’re here. You’re not there. It wasn’t your fault.”
I open my eyes, her features blurred by the tears. I battle letting them fall. After all, who am I to cry when I was the reason my sister had the accident?
“She died that afternoon. Two years after and I blame myself for it, because I should’ve gone to that fucking lunch. I wish I was the one in the car every day of my life. I want nothing more than to pay for what she went through because of me.”
“You didn’t know. You had your own issues, and I’m sure she wouldn’t blame you for it. You weren’t the one on the road. You weren’t in the car.”
“She was so young...”
“And I have a brother, too, so I can understand how much she means to you. Lucy shouldn’t have gone that early,” Veronica tells me, grasping my face in her hands before tugging me closer in a hug. My cheek rests on her shoulder and I let myself cry the tears that no one else had seen.
“I came here because I couldn’t stand it anymore. I don’t...I don’t want to party and feel as fucking empty as I always do. I want to be sober enough to live my life again.”
“You looked for help, Nathan, and that’s more than what anyone else can ask from you,” Veronica whispers, pulling away from me to rub the tears off my face. “And you have people who care for you here, who live through your art and smile at what you’re able to do. You have me who believes you are more than what you think you are. You’re not the drinks you had, or the drugs you use. You’re who you decide to be the moment you opt to change.”
“Alright...” Using my wrist, I rub my eyes before more tears could spill before huffing towards the ceiling. “Enough of me being sappy. There. That’s...uh...that’s actually the first time I’ve told that to anybody.”
Veronica’s lips tighten in a smile before she hums. “I’ll treasure this secret for us. Forever.”
“Thank you.” I mouth, feeling a tinge of pain blast through my temples before I groan. “Sorry to break the moment, but...uh...” I sniffled through the obviousness of me being uncomfortable at baring my deepest secret to her. “My head is killing me, and you said you had a remedy for a hangover.”
She chuckles at my words. “You’ve got to wait. The soup will be bland if we eat it now, but I think I have some painkillers in the bathroom. We could sit down, watch that episode I missed from my Telenovela, and then we can eat.”
“Not sure watching you coo over a guy spitting all over a woman’s face is supposed to cure my hangover.”
“It’s called French kissing, dumbass. Look it up.” Or try it; if she granted me the opportunity, I probably wouldn’t miss the chance. “I’ll get the painkillers. Go lay on the couch and start the episode again.”
This Sunday morning—or afternoon, I have yet to check my phone—differs from what I am used to, but Veronica makes it so much better with just her presence alone.
