Family Storms (25 page)

Kiera tried her best to make my accomplishments sound insignificant, especially after I played my first piece of music just before dinner one night in the living room. She didn't want to listen, but both Mr. and Mrs. March insisted. I tried not to look her way, because her sour expression was enough to make Mr. Denacio himself fumble the notes.

“I can't believe how quickly she learned how to read music,” Mr. March said when I finished.

“Maybe she already knew,” Kiera suggested. “From her old school.”

“We had no orchestra, no band,” I said. “The school had major cutbacks in financing, and art and music were dropped.”

“We know that to be true,” Mr. March said.

“Well, her mother might have taught her stuff,” Kiera insisted.

“I don't think so,” Mrs. March said, her eyes fixed on me
with such adoration I had to blush. “She had other things on her agenda.” She turned to Kiera. “Like survival.”

Frustrated, Kiera went into retreat. She didn't say anything more about me or my past. When our first report cards came out and I had all A's, she was practically a candidate for a straitjacket. She had nothing higher than a C and had two C-minuses. Mr. March looked disappointed, but it was Mrs. March who went after her at dinner that night.

“You told me you and your friends formed this homework club for after-school sessions because the first half of your senior year was so important, didn't you?”

“These teachers hate me,” Kiera moaned. “They resent us because we're so rich.”

Her father looked up. “Why, did someone say something to you that would indicate that?”

“They don't come right out and say it, Daddy. They're too smart for that, but I can see it in their faces.”

“That's ridiculous,” Mrs. March said. “Every girl and boy in that school comes from a wealthy family. How else could they attend with the tuition being as high as it is? No one would single you out for that, Kiera. It's a pathetic excuse for your failure to care about your work.”

“Your mother's right, Kiera,” her father said. “If a girl like Sasha can do so well, considering her background, you can, too. I want to see more of an effort from you.”

Her face deflated. Her eyes filled with tears. She looked at me and bit down on her upper lip. “It's the therapy!” she cried. “It's driving me nuts. I can't think.”

“You could go to prison if you don't follow through on that,” her mother said.

Kiera looked to her father, but he didn't disagree.

“Well, you'll just have to put up with me until I'm finished with it, then,” she said in the exact manner and tone of a spoiled girl. She went back to her pouting and pecked at her food.

I didn't gloat, but inside I felt good about myself for the first time in a long time. It inspired me to work even harder. I was beginning to enjoy the clarinet, as well, and some nights I practiced for close to two hours. I overheard Kiera complain to her father about the noise, but he told her just to put on her earphones like she did most of the time. That brought a smile to my lips.

Kiera wasn't yet at the point where she would talk to me during the school day, but I did often notice her watching me when I was with other students in the cafeteria. A few times, I ate outside with some of my classmates, and I thought she was going to come over to say something, but she didn't. I thought she was looking at me differently, too. I didn't see the disdain or disrespect as much. It was more as if she was curious about me, which only made me feel even better about myself.

Usually, if she did say anything to me after school, it was sarcastic or biting, but one day, she followed me out and said, “You're hanging around with nerds and losers. If you stop, the other girls might invite you to something.” She didn't wait for me to reply. She kept walking to catch up with her friends.

Did I hear right?
I wondered. From her tone, it sounded as if she was trying to give me good advice, looking out for my interests. What was she up to now? Had Mr. and Mrs.
March come down on her for not being friendlier to me? Had she been promised something if she was? I couldn't imagine ever trusting her or believing her, and yet there was a part of me that wanted to do just that.

All I should want to do is hate her,
I thought. It was easier to hate her when she was so aggressive and arrogant and mean. I hated her for being rich and pretty and popular with her friends, too. However, somehow, no matter how I tried to fight it back, I was beginning to pity her. In her mind, she was losing her father and had already lost her mother. Maybe she was becoming more of an orphan like me.

With all that I was being given materially as well as emotionally now, it was sometimes hard to remember that I was an orphan. One afternoon, whether she had intended it or not, Mrs. March reminded me. As usual, Grover was there to take me home at the end of the school day, but when he opened the rear door for me, I saw Mrs. March sitting there smiling. I was so surprised that I didn't move.

“Get in, silly,” she said.

I did, and Grover closed the door. Mrs. March had said nothing the night before or at breakfast to indicate that she would be with Grover. I first thought she was on her way back to the mansion and had timed it so she could detour with the limousine to the school, but that wasn't it.

“I'm taking you to see something,” she said.

“Where?”

“You'll see very soon. How was your day?”

I showed her a math test I had taken. I had gotten a ninety-eight, and I had an A on my english essay. She looked at it all and widened her smile.

“Mr. March has gotten to where he's actually bragging about you. I heard him talking to Mrs. Duval yesterday. We're all very proud of your accomplishments in so short a time, Sasha.”

“Thank you.”

I saw that we were not going in the direction of the mansion.

“Where are we going?” I asked again.

“To see a promise fulfilled,” she replied. “Is it true that you might actually be in the spring concert this year?”

“Mr. Denacio mentioned it, but he didn't say for sure,” I replied.

She nodded but looked as if she knew something more. “It would be something for a first-year instrumental student to be included in the school's senior orchestra. I knew the clarinet would come naturally to you.”

I had to admit that I didn't think I would enjoy playing it as much as I had.

“You deserve your moments of happiness,” she told me. “That's what today is about.”

She sat back, and we drove on. Soon it became obvious to me where we were heading, and the realization made me tremble in a way I hadn't for some time. Minutes later, we turned into the cemetery and drove as far as we could before Mrs. March and I had to get out and walk the rest of the way to Mama's grave. As we drew closer, I realized why she had brought me.

There on the tombstone was the inscription I had wanted. Under Mama's name and dates, it read, “who showed her daughter a little bit of heaven.” And beneath
that was the calligraphy for
heaven.
It looked just like Mama's work hanging in the Gravediggers.

Mrs. March stood back and smiled as I stepped up to the stone and touched the engraved words. The engraving certainly made the tombstone special, but as I stood looking at it, I simply couldn't imagine Mama lying below, shut up in the dark, cool earth. Most of the years we had been together, she had felt trapped, trapped by Daddy's betrayals and failure to provide for us as well as he should have, trapped after he had deserted us, and then trapped by our terrible fate. She had certainly trapped herself with her drinking, and now death had trapped her. How could I free her?

“Is it like you wanted it?” Mrs. March asked. Without turning, I nodded. “I'll wait for you in the car, Sasha,” she said, and walked away.

I felt my legs weaken and sat on Mama's grave with my forehead just touching the cool headstone.

“Don't worry, Mama,” I whispered. “I haven't forgotten you. I'll never forget you, no matter how much they give me or do for me, no matter where I go and what I become. You will always be with me.”

I thought I was going to sit there and cry, but I didn't. Instead, I tightened up inside with a resolve that made me feel stronger, harder. I took some deep breaths, and then I kissed the tombstone, rose, and started back to the car.

When I got in, Mrs. March said, “I was hoping this would please you and not make you sad, Sasha.”

“Yes, I'm pleased. Thank you, Mrs. March.”

She stared at me a moment, looking a bit hurt. What did she expect me to call her, “Mother”?

“Let's go home, Grover,” she said, and we drove out of the cemetery.

Neither of us spoke for quite a while. I stared out my window. Just before we were home, she told me that for the first time since I had arrived, she had to go away that coming weekend with Mr. March.

“It's a traditional thing we do this time every year. We meet some of Donald's old friends in San Francisco and go to Carmel. I'll leave very specific instructions with Mrs. Duval, who is quite capable of looking after things, and after you, while I'm gone, and I'll call often.”

“I'll be okay,” I said.

“Of course you will. Why shouldn't you?”

I thought she might add that Alena had always been okay while she was gone, but she said nothing more. The night before they left, both Mr. and Mrs. March warned Kiera not to take advantage of their absence. Even Mr. March sounded firm and threatening. Kiera kept her head down and didn't come back with any smart remarks. The last few days, she had come home right after school and shut herself in her room, and when she returned from her therapy sessions, she not only shut herself in her room but also refused to come down to dinner.

At first, I thought all of this was her way of playing her parents again. She was hoping to punish them for forcing her to fulfill her obligations to the court and continue the therapy she hated, but she said nothing about it to them when she was at dinner. To my surprise, in fact, she showed them her math and science tests, on which she had received high-B grades.

Mr. March looked very pleased. “This is very good, Kiera,” he said. He turned to Mrs. March. “Some people just take a little longer to wake up to what's important.”

“Yes,” she said, but she didn't look as convinced about any change as he did. “Do keep it up, Kiera.”

Because of some change in her schedule, Kiera had a therapy session on the Friday the Marches left for their extended weekend holiday. As usual lately, when Kiera returned, she went directly into her room and asked that her dinner be brought up. I ate alone. Both Mrs. Duval and Mrs. Caro kept appearing to talk and keep me company. They both seemed nervous for me.

“Don't worry,” I told them. “I've eaten alone many times.”

“I'm sure you have, dearie,” Mrs. Caro said. She sighed deeply and returned to the kitchen.

Afterward, I watched some television and then practiced some music Mr. Denacio had given me. By nine-thirty, I was feeling tired enough to go to sleep and prepared for bed. After I put out the lights and slipped under my blanket, I listened to what I thought of as the grand house's sad silence, but suddenly I heard a different sound. I listened harder and then rose and pressed my ear to the wall between Kiera's suite and mine. I was sure of it now. She was crying. It wasn't someone on television. It was Kiera.

Full of curiosity, I put on my robe and stepped into the hallway and up to her door. I stood there for a moment, listening. Again and again, I heard the distinct sound of her sobbing. It was a sound that every part of me should enjoy,
I thought, but I didn't feel the satisfaction I would have expected or hoped to feel. I even tried to ignore her sobbing and turn to go back to my suite, but it was as if my feet were glued to the floor. I had no idea what I expected, but I knocked softly. Her sobbing continued, so I knocked a bit harder, and then it stopped.

“Who is it?” I heard her ask.

“Sasha,” I said, anticipating some nasty remark to send me back to my own suite. Instead, she opened the door.

She was in her nightgown. Her hair looked as if she had been standing in an open convertible going seventy miles an hour. She wiped tears away from her cheeks and turned to go back to her bed, surprising me again by leaving her door open. I stepped in and closed it behind me.

“Why are you crying?” I asked. She lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling.

“It's the therapy,” she replied.

“Oh,” I said, waiting for her to complain, but she surprised me again.

“It's been giving me nightmares.”

“Nightmares?”

I stepped closer to her bed. I saw that she had taken off her clothing quickly, tossing it every which way, a blouse on the floor, her skirt on a chair, socks and shoes at another place on the floor, her panties beside them. In fact, the room looked as if someone had entered it in a rage and attacked it. Books and magazines were on the floor by a table, and items on her vanity table were turned over, uncovered, and scattered.

“What sort of nightmares?” I asked.

Still looking up, she spoke like someone in a trance. “Nightmares about that night. I can't get your mother's face out of my mind. I told my therapist, and he said that was good.”

She finally looked at me.

“Can you imagine that? He said it was good, good that I see her almost every night now, good that I dream about that night. I don't sleep. I feel like I'm coming apart inside, and he nods and says, ‘You're making progress, Kiera. That's good.'

“Every time I go to see him now, I begin to shake. He has this calm, soft voice, but it doesn't make it any less painful. And it makes it painful to look at you,” she added in a louder, strained voice, her lips trembling. She turned away to illustrate her point.