Read Online Drawn to Life by Elisabeth Wagner - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elisabeth Wagner
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afford jetting around the world? By depriving the poor and catering to the rich?
I inhaled deeply and massaged my temples, shifting my weight from one leg to the other. “Now I understand why everyone hates you,” I said. No answer. No reaction. Nothing.
I dropped my hands, crossed my arms. We stared at each other for a long time, our stances identical. I saw my father’s matching anger in the tension in his jaw and the pulsating veins in his throat.
Did I want what he had? Could I stomach what he did? I wanted to be an architect but not at any cost. Not here. Not where the price was human dignity.
I yanked my black tie from around my neck and threw it at his feet. “I’m out of here. You can go on without me. I’m not doing this. Find another model for your ads. It makes me sick to think people will identify my face with your dirty practices.”
His expression turned even grimmer. He took a step toward me until our faces were only inches apart. He hissed through his teeth. “What do you think I trained you for all those years? Why did I encourage you to finish school early? Why did I pay for all that education, for all that you have, when you’re letting me down now? A true son doesn’t behave like this. A true son works side by side with his father in the family business and supports his decisions. I’ve built this company so that you could own it one day, lead a good life like me. And now you’re throwing it all away? That’s foolishness!”
“No, Dad, it’s not. Find another face. Find another idiot, one who doesn’t care what you do. Leave him all your money. I’m out of here.” I turned my back and walked away.
I heard him holler behind me, “Don’t count on any further support. From now on, you’re on your own!” And then I heard my father say, “You’re no longer my son.”
I froze, trying to understand what that would mean to me. To be on my own. Then I moved on, into a new life.
Chapter 10
Samuel—Am I a Stalker?
En route to Budapest, June 2012
I rose from my seat and stepped into the aisle, where her black sketchbook was still lying on the floor. She apparently hadn’t noticed it had fallen.
I picked it up to hand it to her. She’d closed her eyes again, her chest gently rising and falling. She’d tucked up her legs, and her arms were wrapped around her knees. Her entire appearance was different now.
When I’d first seen her sleeping, she’d seemed happy and at peace, but now . . . Now she seemed fragile, vulnerable . . . as if she needed protection to keep the world at bay.
She was so still. How could someone fall asleep so fast? It hadn’t been more than five minutes since she’d settled down.
I was still holding her book. Looking down, I opened to the page marked by a ribbon. I couldn’t help myself. It seemed important that I know more about her.
I saw an astonishingly skilled pencil drawing showing the vigorous new growth of a plant rooted in the palm of a hand. The rendering was amazing, the hand incredibly realistic. I was impressed.
My curiosity grew as I turned the pages. Countless drawings, each one better than the next—flowers, meadows, sunsets in a city. Life in all its vibrancy. Faces, laughter. Portraits of men and women, all depicted in high spirits. Many of the drawings were of one man, her artist’s perspective capturing every angle of his face. His eyes. His mouth. He must be special to her.
On the last page, I found a self-portrait. The most beautiful smile I had ever seen on her face. Yet there was more to it. Her eyes beamed with the joy of being alive. With energy. Her loveliness was breathtaking. She looked the same right now on the train—and yet different.
In the drawing, an abundance of long, straight hair framed her face. As far as I could tell, she now had short hair under her hat.
“Give that to me!”
I started. She snatched the book out of my hands. Our fingertips touched, but only for a second.
I raised both hands, palms
I inhaled deeply and massaged my temples, shifting my weight from one leg to the other. “Now I understand why everyone hates you,” I said. No answer. No reaction. Nothing.
I dropped my hands, crossed my arms. We stared at each other for a long time, our stances identical. I saw my father’s matching anger in the tension in his jaw and the pulsating veins in his throat.
Did I want what he had? Could I stomach what he did? I wanted to be an architect but not at any cost. Not here. Not where the price was human dignity.
I yanked my black tie from around my neck and threw it at his feet. “I’m out of here. You can go on without me. I’m not doing this. Find another model for your ads. It makes me sick to think people will identify my face with your dirty practices.”
His expression turned even grimmer. He took a step toward me until our faces were only inches apart. He hissed through his teeth. “What do you think I trained you for all those years? Why did I encourage you to finish school early? Why did I pay for all that education, for all that you have, when you’re letting me down now? A true son doesn’t behave like this. A true son works side by side with his father in the family business and supports his decisions. I’ve built this company so that you could own it one day, lead a good life like me. And now you’re throwing it all away? That’s foolishness!”
“No, Dad, it’s not. Find another face. Find another idiot, one who doesn’t care what you do. Leave him all your money. I’m out of here.” I turned my back and walked away.
I heard him holler behind me, “Don’t count on any further support. From now on, you’re on your own!” And then I heard my father say, “You’re no longer my son.”
I froze, trying to understand what that would mean to me. To be on my own. Then I moved on, into a new life.
Chapter 10
Samuel—Am I a Stalker?
En route to Budapest, June 2012
I rose from my seat and stepped into the aisle, where her black sketchbook was still lying on the floor. She apparently hadn’t noticed it had fallen.
I picked it up to hand it to her. She’d closed her eyes again, her chest gently rising and falling. She’d tucked up her legs, and her arms were wrapped around her knees. Her entire appearance was different now.
When I’d first seen her sleeping, she’d seemed happy and at peace, but now . . . Now she seemed fragile, vulnerable . . . as if she needed protection to keep the world at bay.
She was so still. How could someone fall asleep so fast? It hadn’t been more than five minutes since she’d settled down.
I was still holding her book. Looking down, I opened to the page marked by a ribbon. I couldn’t help myself. It seemed important that I know more about her.
I saw an astonishingly skilled pencil drawing showing the vigorous new growth of a plant rooted in the palm of a hand. The rendering was amazing, the hand incredibly realistic. I was impressed.
My curiosity grew as I turned the pages. Countless drawings, each one better than the next—flowers, meadows, sunsets in a city. Life in all its vibrancy. Faces, laughter. Portraits of men and women, all depicted in high spirits. Many of the drawings were of one man, her artist’s perspective capturing every angle of his face. His eyes. His mouth. He must be special to her.
On the last page, I found a self-portrait. The most beautiful smile I had ever seen on her face. Yet there was more to it. Her eyes beamed with the joy of being alive. With energy. Her loveliness was breathtaking. She looked the same right now on the train—and yet different.
In the drawing, an abundance of long, straight hair framed her face. As far as I could tell, she now had short hair under her hat.
“Give that to me!”
I started. She snatched the book out of my hands. Our fingertips touched, but only for a second.
I raised both hands, palms
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