Lauren Sanders has been left to start a 'new' normal life with her aunt and cousin after her family died. Everybody knows almost everything except for two things: Lauren's parents' mysterious death and her schizophrenia.
Lauren goes out on a mission...
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I rest my chin on top of my hands, bending my body forward as I listen to him speak whatever it is for me to know. I stopped drinking the beverage as the ice started to melt, making it taste more like water than what it was intended to taste like. Instead, I paid great attention to what he was saying as it was being revealed to my ears.
"I've known Cora since our first year in college. Both of us took fine arts, and I think your dad took journalism. They met at an art show, and I was there. Your dad was writing an article for the school paper, and your mom was one of the students whose work was handpicked by our art professor to be displayed at an art event."
The story seemed familiar as I remember the time Elise asked dad to tell us the story of how they met instead of reading us a bedtime story that one particular night. I remember him telling us that she never looked him in the eyes when they spoke to each other. She spoke primarily about the beauties of art as she gazes up at the ceiling, with her eyes sparkling, even in the dimmed lighting.
"Your mother, Cora..." Bill says, scratching his chin. "She suffered from a lot of things. Emotionally, physically, and mentally-wise."
He raised his newly ordered, steaming cup of cappuccino. As he takes a sip of his coffee, I observe his eyes crossing as he looks at what's inside of his mug.
"And as a creative, you can notice how she easily depicted those into her work," He continues to speak as soon as he placed the mug on the table, "The most natural form of art is the power of emotion. If you can't feel it, you wouldn't be able to use it to the best of your advantage. That's why your mom is one of the best artists."
I've watched my mom paint before, multiple times. How she deftly raises a paintbrush, dabs the bristle into some wet paint, and then lets her finger and hand flow freely as she paints with such confidence that it appears as though her mind is constantly at peace. I can only imagine her thoughts projecting a picture that she could only see with her eyes while the brush fill in the empty parts of the canvas.
"She was heavily traumatized by the abuse of your grandfather, and I don't recall much of the other details but I do remember the day he went to one of our art shows in New York during our sophomore year of college. She often seemed uneasy and unresponsive when others asked about her work, which I thought was highly unusual for her."
I laid back, taking in the conversation. Allowing my brain to process the new information it was taking in.
"She was staring at him intently. I remember her asking him to leave and telling him he wasn't welcome when she approached him. I vividly remember Cora pushing him and breaking one of the designs in the exhibit when he fondled her thigh."
I feel a surge of disgust washing over me as I picture how the scene unfolded in my head, "What about dad? I remember you two were in an argument."
I was seven years old when it happened. The first time I had seen my father raising a fist and aiming it at someone else's face. He was the type of person who never engaged in heated arguments with others and was best at suppressing and hiding his feelings, just like Elise usually was.
