The Flowers in the Attic Series: The Dollangangers: Flowers in the Attic, Petals on the Wind, If There Be Thorns, Seeds of Yesterday, and a New Excerpt! (61 page)

“I’m not a kid!”

“What are you then, some old lady of eighteen?”

I smiled, very pleased to think I looked
that
old. “Maybe so, maybe not.”

He grinned as if he had all the answers. From the way he bragged of being one of the hottest dancers in a New York company, maybe he
did
have all the answers. “I’m only here for the holidays—to do Madame a favor. Soon I’ll go back to New York where I belong.” He looked around, as if the “provinces” bored him beyond belief, while my heart did a flip-flop. I was hoping he was one of the dancers I’d work with.

We exchanged a few more words and then my musical cue sounded. Suddenly I was alone in the attic, with colored paper flowers dangling on long strings; nobody but me and that secret lover who danced always just ahead, never letting me get near enough to see his face. I danced out, fearful at first, and did all the right things, the
entrachets
, the arm flutters, the
pirouettes
. I was sure to keep my eyes open and my face always toward the viewers I didn’t see. Then the magic came and took me. I didn’t have to plan and count, the music told me what to do, and how to do it, for I was its voice and could do no wrong. And as always that man appeared to dance with me—only this time I saw his face! His beautiful pale, pale face, with the dark and, and the blue-black hair and the ruby lips.

Julian!

I saw him as in a dream, stretching out his strong arms as he went down on one knee, and the other leg pointed backward gracefully. With his eyes he signaled I was to run, then leap into his receiving arms.

Enchanted to see him there, a professional, I was halfway to him when a terrible pain seized my abdomen! I doubled over and cried out! At my feet was a huge pool of blood! Blood streamed down my legs; it stained my pink shoes, my leotards. I slipped and fell to the floor, and grew so weak I could only lie there and hear the screams. Not my screams, but Carrie’s. I closed my eyes not caring who it was who came to pick me up. From a far distance I heard Paul’s voice and Chris’s. Chris’s concerned
face hovered above me, with his love for me too clearly revealed; it both comforted me and frightened me, for I didn’t want Paul to see. Chris said something about not being afraid as blackness came and took me to a far, far place where nobody wanted me.

And my dancing career, not yet begun, was over, over.

Out of a dream of witches I emerged to find Chris sitting on the hospital bed, holding my limp hand . . . and those blue eyes, oh, God, those eyes . . . “Hi,” he said softly, squeezing my fingers. “I’ve been waiting for you to come around.”

“Hi yourself.”

He smiled and leaned to kiss my cheek. “I’ll tell you this, Catherine Doll, you sure know how to end a dance dramatically.”

“Yeah, that’s talent. Real talent. I guess I’d better go into acting.”

He shrugged indifferently. “You could, I guess, though I doubt you will.”

“Oh, Chris,” I stormed weakly, “you know I’ve ruined what chance I had! Why did I bleed like that?” I knew my eyes were full of fear. Fear that he saw and knew the cause. He leaned to draw me up into his embrace and held me fast against his chest.

“Life offers more than one chance, Cathy, you know that. You needed a D & C. You’ll be fine and on your feet by tomorrow.”

“What’s a D & C?”

He smiled and stroked my cheek tenderly, always forgetting I wasn’t as medically sophisticated as he was. “It’s short for a procedure in which a woman is dilated, and an instrument called a curette is used to scrape waste material from the lining of the uterus. Those missed periods of yours must have clotted and then broke free.”

Our eyes met. “That’s all it was, Cathy . . .
all
, nothing else.”

“Who did the scraping?” I whispered, scared it was Paul.

“A gynecologist named Dr. Jarvis, a friend of our doctor. Paul says he’s the best gyn. around.”

I lay back on the pillows, not knowing what to think. Of all times for something like that to happen—in front of everyone I was trying to impress. My God, why was life so cruel to me?

“Open your eyes, my lady Catherine,” said Chris. “You’re making too much out of this, when it doesn’t matter. Take a look at that dresser over there and see all the pretty flowers, real flowers, not paper ones. I hope you don’t mind if I took a peek at the cards.” Of course I didn’t mind what
he
did, and soon he was back from the dresser and putting a small white envelope in my flaccid hand. I stared at the huge floral bouquet, thinking it was from Paul, and only then did my eyes flick to the card in my hand. My fingers shook as I extracted from the envelope the small note that read:

Hope you recover soon. I expect to see you next Monday, three o’clock sharp.

Madame Marisha
.

Marisha! I was accepted! “Chris, the Rosencoffs want me!”

“Of course they do,” he said mildly. “They’d be just plain dumb if they didn’t, but that woman scares the hell out of me! I wouldn’t want her controlling my life, even if she is little. But, I guess you can handle her fine; you can always bleed on her feet.”

I sat up and threw my arms about him. “Is it going to work out for us, Chris? Do you really think it will? Can we be that lucky?”

He nodded, smiled and then pointed to another bouquet, one from Julian Marquet with another short note.
I’ll be seeing you when I fly down from New York again, Catherine Doll, so don’t forget me.

And over Chris’s shoulder, while his arms held me tight, Paul came into the room and hesitated near the doorway, frowning as he stared at the two of us, then he put on a smile and came forward. Quickly Chris and I drew apart.

T
here came a day in January when we had to part. We’d taken exams to grade our abilities, and, much to Chris’s surprise, and mine, we’d all done extremely well. I qualified for the tenth grade, Carrie for the third, and Chris for a college-prep school. But there was no happiness on Carrie’s face when she screamed out, “No! No!” Her foot was ready for kicking, her fists balled to do battle with anyone who tried to force her. “Don’t want no private ole school for funny lookin’ lil girls! I won’t go! You can’t make me go! I’m gonna tell Dr. Paul, Cathy!” Her face was red with fury and her weeping voice was a siren’s wail.

I wasn’t overjoyed by the idea of putting Carrie in a private school ten miles outside the city. The day after she left, Chris would be leaving too. I’d be left alone to attend high school—and we’d sworn a solemn vow never, never to part. (I’d forced myself to put back the hidden cache of food—and no one knew about that but Chris.) I lifted Carrie onto my lap to explain to her how Dr. Paul had selected this very special school and had already paid an enormous tuition. She
squinched her eyes shut and tried not to hear. “And it is
not
a school for funny little girls, Carrie,” I said soothingly and then kissed her forehead. “It’s a school for
rich
girls with parents who can afford the best. You should feel proud and very lucky to have Dr. Paul as our legal guardian.” Did I convince her? Had I ever convinced her of anything?

“I still don’t wanna go,” she wailed stubbornly. “Why can’t I go to
your
school, Cathy? Why do I have to go off all alone with nobody?”

“Nobody?” I laughed to hide what I was feeling, a reflection of her own fears. “You won’t be alone, darling. You’ll be with hundreds of other girls near your own age. Your school is an elementary one; I have to go on to high school.” I rocked her to and fro in my arms, and stroked her long, shining cascade of hair, then tilted her piquant dollface to mine. Oh, she was a pretty little thing. Such a beauty she’d be if only her body would grow in proportion to her large head. “Carrie you have four people who love you very much. Dr. Paul, Henny, Chris and me. We all want what’s best for you, and even though a few miles separate us, you’ll be in our hearts, in our thoughts, and you can come home every weekend. And, believe it or not, school is not such a dreary place, it’s fun, really. You’ll share a lovely room with a girl your own age. You’ll have expert teachers and, best of all, you’ll be with girls who will think you’re the prettiest thing they’ve ever seen. And you must want to be with other children. I know that being with a great many girls is loads of fun. You play games, and have secret societies and parties, and whisper and giggle all through the night. You’ll love it.” Yeah. Sure. She’d love it.

Carrie acquiesced only after she’d shed a waterfall of tears, her pleading eyes telling me she was going only to please me and her big benefactor whom she loved well. She’d sleep on nails to please him. And to her that school for girls was a bed of nails to endure. Just in time to hear, “Am I gonna stay there a long, long time?” Paul and Chris entered the living
room. The two of them had been sequestered in Paul’s study for hours, with Paul coaching Chris on some of the chemistry he’d neglected studying while locked away. Paul gave Carrie just one glance, saw her misery, then headed for the hall closet. Shortly, he was back with a big box wrapped in purple paper and tied with red satin ribbon three inches wide. “This is for my favorite blond,” he said kindly.

Carrie’s big, haunted eyes stared up at him before she smiled thinly. “Oh!” she cried in delight to open her gift and see the bright red leather luggage, complete with a cosmetic case outfitted with a gold comb, brush, mirror and little plastic jars and bottles, and a leather stationery case for writing letters home to us. “It’s bea-u-ti-ful!” she exclaimed, won over at once by everything red and so fine. “I never knew they made red suitcases and put gold mirrors and things in them.”

I had to look at Paul, who certainly didn’t think a little girl needed makeup.

As if he read my thoughts, he said, “I know it’s rather adult, but I wanted to give her something she can use for many, many years. When she sees it years from now, she’ll think of me.”

“That’s the prettiest luggage I ever saw,” I said cheerily. “You can put your toothbrushes, your toothpaste, your bath powder and your toilet water in your makeup case.”

“I’m not gonna put no nasty toilet water in my suitcases!”

That made all of us laugh. Then I was up and running toward the stairs, hurrying to my room to fetch a small box that I rushed back to Carrie. Gingerly I held that box in my hands, wondering if I should give it to her and awaken old memories. “Inside this box are some old friends of yours, Carrie. When you’re in Miss Emily Dean Calhoun’s School for Properly Bred Young Ladies and feel a little lonely, just open this box and see what’s inside. Don’t show the contents to everybody, just to very special friends.”

Her eyes grew large when she saw the tiny porcelain
people and the baby she’d loved so much, all stolen by me from that huge, fabulous doll house that she’d spent so many hours playing with in the attic. I’d even taken the crib.

“Mr. and Mrs. Parkins,” breathed Carrie, tears of happiness shining in her big, blue eyes, “and little baby Clara! Where did they come from, Cathy?”

“You know where they came from.”

She looked at me, holding the box full of cotton to cushion the fragile dolls and handmade wooden crib, all priceless heirlooms. “Cathy, where is Momma?”

Oh, God! Just what I didn’t want her to ask. “Carrie, you know we are supposed to tell everybody both our parents are dead.”

“
Is
Momma dead?”

“No . . . but we have to pretend she is.”

“Why?”

Once again I had to explain to Carrie why we could never tell anyone who we really were, and that our mother still lived, or else we’d end up back in that dreary northern room. She sat on the floor near her shiny new red luggage, with the box of dolls in her lap, and stared at me with haunted eyes and no comprehension at all.

“I mean this, Carrie! You are
never
to mention any family but Chris and me, and Dr. Paul and Henny. Do you understand?”

She nodded, but she didn’t understand. It was in her lips that quivered and in her wishful expression—she still wanted Momma!

Then came the terrible day when we drove Carrie ten miles outside the city limits of Clairmont to enter her in that fancy private school for the daughters of the affluent. The building was large, painted white, with a portico in front and the customary white columns. A brass plaque near the front door read, E
STABLISHED IN 1824
.

We were received in a warm and cozy-looking office
by a descendant of the school founder, Miss Emily Dean Dewhurst. A stately, handsome woman with startling, white hair and not a wrinkle to betray her age. “She’s a lovely child, Dr. Sheffield. Of course we’ll do what we can to make her happy and comfortable while she learns.”

I leaned to embrace Carrie who trembled and I whispered, “Cheer up, make an effort to enjoy yourself. Don’t feel abandoned. Every weekend we’ll come to take you home with us. Now is that so bad?”

She brightened and forced a smile. “Yes, I can do it,” she murmured weakly.

It wasn’t easy to drive away and leave Carrie in that beautiful, white, plantation house.