Page 3 of The Lies I've Told
Especially if it might be my last.
My stomach clenched as I popped open the bottle. Forgoing a glass, I brought it straight to my lips. Taking a long, hard pull, I tried to drown out my pain with a single gulp.
Coming up for air, I nearly choked on it, the very real feeling of my emotions still so present. Still so real.
So, I drank again.
And again.
Until the tears fell from my eyes and the sobs tore from my lips, and I fell into oblivion.
I awoke to the blinding glare of the sun streaming in through the windows and a buzzing sound against my forehead.
“What the…” I mumbled, waving a sleepy hand in front of my face before I realized the buzzing sound was in fact my phone. Lifting my head proved to be a monumental task, last night’s alcohol making me feel like I was being split in two.
“Bloody hell,” I cursed to no one in particular as I grabbed my now-silent phone with one hand and my throbbing head with the other.
Deciding I might never get up again if I lay back down, I forced myself up and toward the sink, trying to focus on my phone as I walked. There were several messages and texts from James—all of which I ignored or deleted—a final total from the gallery director, Harry, as well as a request to set up another showing. I chose to pass on replying to that and several others like it and moved on to a rather curious email from a Dean Sutherland.
Why did that name sound familiar to me?
In the fifteen years since I’d left England in pursuit of my artistic aspirations, I’d worked with a lot of clients. In the beginning, I’d done just about anything for a sale even if meant practically giving away a piece. Now, my artwork was world-renowned.
But one thing never changed.
I always remembered names.
But Mr. Sutherland wasn’t a patron. No, he was something else.
I couldn’t stop thinking about it as I made my way into the kitchen. After I downed several Advil and started an entire pot of coffee made entirely for myself, I decided to finally open up the email and give my poor memory a refresher.
Dr. Mr. Fisher,
My name is Dean Sutherland, and I am writing on behalf of the town of Ocracoke, North Carolina. You were kind enough to lend your artistic abilities to our small town not too long ago when we were in need of a memorial for the thirteen locals and tourists who had lost their lives in a ferryboat tragedy.
The reason I am writing you today is because, unfortunately, our town finds itself in need of your talents once again. Just last night, the monument you’d created was vandalized and destroyed.
Being a close-knit community, we are devastated—not only by the crime, but also because many of our families and survivors, myself included, no longer have a place to grieve, remember, and reflect.
This is why I’ve taken it upon myself to ensure that this beacon of hope is returned to us—as soon as possible.
The town and I are asking if you could please find it in your heart to replace what was lost—with compensation, of course. I know the art was one of a kind, but I’m hoping you can possibly re-create a sliver of the beauty that once stood on our shores, if only so our town can move on once again.
Thank you,
Dean
His contact information was included, and after reading through the email again, I found myself looking up his name, still stumped on where I’d heard it—because I remembered the man who’d hired me for the job—a old fellow with a gruff, Southern accent with the last name Joyner.
So who was Dean?
Google proved useful as usual, and after a few clicks, I found myself face-to-face with a real-life hero.
Although he hadn’t been when I knew him before.
Dean Sutherland was one of the names I’d researched when trying to find my inspiration for the piece I created for the town of Ocracoke. He was a survivor of the ferry boat explosion, losing an arm in the process. But he’d gone on, as I discovered now in my cursory search online, to do a decent number of good deeds—including saving a man from a boating accident and founding several water camps for disabled kids.
“This doesn’t have to be the end.”James’s voice rang in my head as I tried not to compare my current situation with that of Dean Sutherland’s.
