Flowers in the Attic (Dollanganger 1) - Page 89

And that unknown author who'd written that if you had fame, it was not enough, and if you had wealth as well, it was still not enough, and if you had fame, wealth, and also love . . . still it was not enough--boy, did I feel sorry for him.

One Rainy Afternoon

. Chris was at the windows, both hands holding open the heavy tapestry draperies. The sky was leaden, the rain came down in a solid sheet. Every lamp in our room was lit, and the TV was on, as usual. Chris was waiting to see the train that would pass by around four. You could hear its mournful whistle before dawn, around four, and then later if you were awake. You could just barely catch a glimpse of the train that appeared to be a toy, it was so far away.

He was in his world, I was in mine Sitting crosslegged on the bed Carrie and I shared, I cut pictures from decorating magazines Momma had brought up for my entertainment before she went away to stay so long. I cut each photograph out carefully and pasted them into a large scrapbook. I was planning my dream house, where I would live happily ever after, with a tall, strong, dark-haired husband who loved only me and not a thousand others on the side.

I had my life mapped out: my career first, a husband and children when I was ready to retire and give someone else a chance. And when I had my dream home, I'd have an emerald-glass tub situated on a dais where I could soak in beauty oil all day long if I wanted to--and nobody would be outside the door, banging and telling me to hurry up! (I never had the chance to sit in the tub long enough.) From that emerald tub I'd step, smelling sweet of flowered perfume, and my skin soft as satin, and my pores would be forever cleansed of the rotten stench of dry old wood and attic dust permeated with all the miseries of antiquity. . . so that we, who were young, smelled as old as this house.

"Chris," I said, turning to stare at his back, "why should we stay on and on, and wait for Momma to come back, much less wait for that old man to die? Now that we are strong, why don't we find a way to escape?"

He didn't say a word. But I saw his hands clutch the fabric of the draperies harder.

"Chris . ."

"I don't want to talk about it!" he flared.

"Why are you standing there waiting for the train to pass, if you aren't thinking about getting away?"

"I'm not waiting for the train! I'm just looking out, that's all!"

His forehead was pressed against the glass, daring a close neighbor to look out and see him.

"Chris, come away from the window. Someone might see you."

"I don't give a damn who sees me!"

My first impulse was to run to him, to put my arms around him, and lavish a million kisses on his face to make up for those he was missing from Momma. I'd draw his head down against my breast and cuddle it there as she used to do, and he'd go back to being the cheerful, sunny optimist who never had a sullen angry day like I used to. Even if I did all that Momma did once, I was wise enough to know it wouldn't be the same. It was her he wanted. He had all his hopes, dreams, and faith wrapped up in one single woman--Momma.

She'd been gone more than two months! Didn't she realize one day up here was longer than a month of normal living? Didn't she worry about us, and wonder how we were faring? Did she believe that Chris would always be her staunchest supporter when she left us without an excuse, a reason, an explanation? Did she really believe that love, once gained, couldn't be torn asunder by doubts and fears, and could never, never be put back together again?

"Cathy," said Chris suddenly, "Where would you go if you had your choice of anywhere?"

"South," I said, "down to some warm, sunny beach, where the waves wash in gentle and low . . . don't want high surf with white caps . . . don't want the gray sea chafing against big rocks . . . I want to go where the wind never blows, I just want soft warm breezes to whisper in my hair and on my cheeks, while I lie on pure white sand, and drink up the sunlight."

"Yeah," he agreed, sounding wistful, "sounds nice the way you say it. Only I wouldn't mind a strong surf; I'd like to ride the crest of a wave on one of those surfboards. It would sort of be like skiing."

I put my scissors down, my magazines, my pot of rubber cement, and laid aside the magazines and scrapbook to fully concentrate on Chris. He was missing out on so many sports he loved, shut up here in one room, made old and sad beyond his years. Oh, how I wanted to comfort him, and I didn't know how.

"Come away from the windows, Chris, please."

"Leave me alone! I get so damned sick and tired of this place! Don't do this, don't do that! Don't speak until spoken to--eat those damned meals every day, none of it hot enough, or seasoned right--I think she does it deliberately, just so we'll never have anything to enjoy, even food. Then I think about all that money-- half of it should be Momma's, and ours. And I tell myself, no matter what, it is worth it! That old man can't live forever!"

"All the money in the world isn't worth the days of living we've lost!" I flared back.

He spun around, his face red. "The hell it isn't! Maybe you can get by with your talent, but I've got years and years of education ahead of me! You know Daddy expected me to be a doctor, so come hell or high water, I'm getting my M.D.! And if we run away, I'll never be a doctor--you know that! Name what I can do to earn a living for us--quick, list the jobs I can get other than a dishwasher, a fruit-picker, a shortorder cook--will any of those put me through college, and then through med school? And I'll have you and the twins to support, as well as myself--a ready-made family at age sixteen!"

Fiery anger filled me. He didn't give me credit for being able to contribute anything! "I can work, too!" I snapped back. "Between us we can manage. Chris, when we were starving, you brought me four dead mice, and you said God gives people extra strength and abilities in the time of great stress. Well, I believe He does. When we leave here and are on our own, some- how or other we will make our way, and you will be a doctor! I'll do anything to see that you get that damned M.D. behind your name!"

"What can you do?" he asked in a hateful, sneering way. Before I could reply, the door behind us opened and the grand- mother was there! She paused without stepping into the room and fixed her glare on Chris. And he, stubborn and unwilling to cooperate as before, refused to be intimidated. He didn't move from the window, but he turned to stare out at the rain again.

"Boy!" she lashed out. "Move away from that window--this instant!"

"My name is not 'boy.' My name is Christopher. You can address me by my given name, or don't address me at all--but never call me 'boy' again!"

She spat at his back: "I hate that particular name! It was your father's; out of the kindness of my heart, I pleaded his cause when his mother died, and he didn't have a home.

My husband didn't want him here, but I felt pity for a young boy without parents, or means, and robbed of so much. So I kept nagging my husband to let his younger half-brother live under our roof. So your father came . . . brilliant, handsome, and he took advantage of our generosity. Deceived us! We sent him to the best of schools, bought him the best of everything, and he stole our daughter, his own halfniece! She was all we had left then .. . the only one left . . . and they eloped in the night, and came back two weeks later, smiling, happy, asking us to forgive them for falling in love. That night, my husband had his first heart attack. Has your mother told you that-- that she and that man were the cause of her father's heart disease? He ordered her out--told her never to come back--and then he fell down on the floor."

Tags: V.C. Andrews Dollanganger Horror
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