Truth or Lies? by A. Gomez (book club recommendations txt) 📗

laundry and do the ironing too when needed. The laundry room was as big as the bedroom Betty and I shared with Lilly, minus the bathroom. It had two washers and two dryers, two ironing boards and two irons. The room had a door with a window that led to the backyard garden. Surprisingly, this window didn’t have shutters or any sort of blinds. I walked straight to it and looked out through the window. I couldn’t see hardly anything, just trees, bushes and more bushes. I couldn’t see the wall either. Either the wall was hidden behind the very tall bushes or the laundry room was at an angle where one couldn’t see the wall. I was sure the door was locked and booby-trapped, making it almost impossible to open.

Debbie didn’t pay much attention at what I was doing. She kept going on and on about where I could hang the clothes, fold the clothes, and something about stain removers.

“That door is always locked and has an alarm on it too, so there’s no way you can open it and if you did manage to open it the alarm would go off,” Debbie offered.

Yup. I knew it. I glanced at her, stone-faced, and then back out the window. I said nothing. She led us down a hallway. She was going to show us where the downstairs linen and towel closet was. Washing linens and towels was to be the “extra chores” we were supposed to have. As we made our way down the hall, that Andy Warhol caught my eye again. It was in Victor Chang’s office, or I suspected it was his office. Betty Lou and I walked in, not bothering to tell Debbie we were making a pit stop. Debbie just kept walking without the slightest idea we were no longer following her. I stood in front of it, gazing at it, admiring it, not knowing how to feel about this particular piece. I had never really liked Andy Warhol but there was something about this piece that was speaking to me. Was it the colors? They were all very bright and bold, just like my makeup. Her bright red lips jumped out at me and her yellow hair as well. It was nothing extraordinary, really, just the actress Ingrid Bergman, wearing a hat that the artist decided to color purple.

“This is called Ingrid Bergman With Hat, 1983.” Chang was at my side, interrupting my introspection. “It is by Andy Warhol. He started out as a commercial illustrator in New York City before he began to make art for galleries.”

We stood there for a moment in silence, admiring the print. Painting?

“I really like it, Isabel. The lady in the picture looks pretty just like you. I also like how the colors are so pretty and happy,” Betty commented. I nodded, slightly grinning.

“Please, tell me your thoughts, Dr. Langley. You’re so quiet.”

I tilted my head to one side and opened my mouth to speak when Debbie rushed in.

“Isabel!” she yelled, out of breath.

Chang, Betty and I spun, eyeing her. She stopped in her tracks and looked contrite. “I lost… I mean I couldn’t find…” She was at a loss for words.

Chang, impassive as ever, just looked at her for the longest few seconds before he decided to speak. “It’s fine, Debbie, I’ll handle it from here.”

“But I haven’t finished showing them what they need to do,” she said, sounding affronted and annoyed. I didn’t want any problems, especially for Betty’s sake so Betty and I started to head out with Debbie.

“You can show them later,” he snapped. “Dr. Langley and her young friend are here with me at the moment.” I froze. Betty and I looked at each other, bewildered at what he could want with both of us. I swallowed the lump in my throat and turned around. And with that, Debbie left us.

“Please, you were about to tell me your thoughts before we were so rudely interrupted.”

Betty and I glanced at each other one more time before we walked back in front of the painting. “Well, I was just thinking how this piece is not really modern art yet you have it here among a collection of modern art. It’s as if you purposefully did it this way. This room is not just filled with modern art—sculptures, paintings and prints, but the décor in the room is also very modern. This desk, for instance. Its lines are sleek and straight yet at the corners and its edges soft and curved. The legs are jagged, angling in and out as if an artist was trying to sculpt something out of them but then decided not to. Its color is not just white but it’s more of a mother-of-pearl white. When the sun hits it just right it gives off a slightly different tone or hue. It is a work of art all on its own. It’s as if this room is a piece of art and this Andy Warhol is your focal point. My eye went straight to it. In fact, it almost speaks to me.” I paused for a moment, gazing at the Andy Warhol. “I’ve never really liked Andy Warhol but there’s just something about this one.”

I glanced at Chang who was grinning from ear to ear. “Dr. Langley, you surprise me yet again. I acquired this Andy Warhol many years ago and this room just sort of happened around it. I never really thought of my office in the way you just described it but now that you’ve said it, you are absolutely spot on,” he chirped with his Chinese accent. “I didn’t want any other piece in here eclipsing it so I suppose I did do this on purpose.” He chuckled.

I forced a giggle, eyeing his computer. “In fact, your desk is such a magnificent piece I wouldn’t put anything on it except a vase of