Casteel 04 Gates of Paradise (22 page)

The truth is I'm not sure I should remain here much longer and I want to talk with you about it. Please come now. You don't need special permission. Come the day you receive this.
Love, Annie
.
I put it into an envelope, sealing it immediately. Then I addressed it the same way I had addressed the first letter I wrote him, the one Millie Thomas never gave Tony.
"Do you want to remain in your wheelchair to eat or return to bed?" Mrs. Broadfield asked as soon as she returned with my tray of food.
"I'll remain in the wheelchair."
She put the tray down to fetch the small table that went over the arms, fit it into place, and brought me the tray. I lifted the silver cover and looked at a breast of plain boiled chicken, a portion of green peas and carrots, and a slice of buttered white bread. It looked like hospital food.
"Rye Whiskey prepared this?"
"I had his helper prepare it, following my specific instructions."
"It looks . . . blah."
"I thought you were hungry."
"I am, but I was expecting something different . . something Rye made. Everything he makes is special."
"He's been using too much spice and making your food too exotic."
"But I like it; I eat everything now, and that's what Dr. Maiisoff wanted, isn't it?" I protested.
"He also wants you to eat things that are easy to digest. Considering your condition--"
I slammed down the lid over the plate. Something proud sprang into my spine. I could put ice into my words, too, I thought. I sat back, crossing my arms over my chest.
"I want something Rye makes. I won't eat this."
She stared down at me. I knew she was burning with anger, but she kept her eyes clear, calm, and unreadable. There was even a small, tight smile around her lips.
"Very well." She took the tray. "Maybe you're not as hungry as you think."
"I am hungry. Tell Rye to make me something."
"Something was made for you; you don't want it," she said as if stating the obvious, simple fact.
"I may be crippled, but I still can enjoy food. Ask Tony to come here, please," I instructed.
"You don't realize how you're acting, Annie. I'm just trying to do what I know is best for you."
"I have had no trouble digesting anything Rye has made so far."
"All right," she said, relenting. "If you have to have something he makes,Ill ask him to fix the chicken."
"And I want him to fix the vegetables and potatoes, too. And I want some of his homemade bread."
"Don't complain later when you have stomach problems," she said before leaving. She just had to have the last word. But I saw how to get her to do what I wanted--just ask for Tony.
Tony arrived before Mrs. Broadfield returned with my new food.
"Well now, how are you feeling?"
"Tired, but hungry. I'm waiting for Mrs. Broadfield to return with something Rye Whiskey makes. I don't want to be troublesome, but I didn't like what she had brought me." I told him because I thought she would complain to him about me later and give only her side of the story.
"Don't you worry about that," he soothed. "You're no trouble. I'm sure Rye wouldn't mind cooking around the clock for you."
"No, I know he won't mind."
"You sound irritable."
I didn't respond for a few moments, and then I turned to him abruptly.
"Tony, I know Mrs. Broadfield is a professional and I'm lucky to have a nurse who has experience with my problems and who is a therapist as well, but she can be very trying."
"I'll speak to her," he said. His eyes were soft and sympathetic, and I trusted he knew just what I meant. "My main concern is that you be happy, Annie. Everything else comes second. You know that, don't you?"
"Yes, Tony. I do appreciate what you have been doing." I felt myself calm down. Then I remembered the letter in my lap.
"Tony, I have written another letter to Luke. Would you please see that it is delivered to him . . . special delivery, so he gets it immediately."
"Of course."
He took it from me and put it into his suit jacket quickly.
"Let me go down and look into your food. Can't have you going hungry long in my house."
"It's all right now. I can wait."
"I'll just look into it anyway. AndIll speak to Mrs. Broadfield."
"I don't mean to make extra trouble."
"Nonsense. I told you. You come first. It's the way I want it," he assured me, and pivoted on his heel. "Oh, Tony . ."
"Yes?" He turned back at the door.
"Is there someone else here? A woman?"
"A woman? You mean besides Mrs.
Broadfield?" His blue eyes narrowed.
"Yes. I wheeled myself out before and wandered into another suite, just like this one, and---"
"Oh." He took a few steps back. "You mean you went to Jillian's suite."
"Jillian's?" But Jillian had been dead so long, I thought. That suite looked like it was being used today.
"Yes. I must have left the door open. I usually don't like anyone going in there," he said, his tone harder and sterner than it had ever been.
"I'm sorry. I--"
"That's all right," he said quickly, "no harm done. I've kept the room just the way it was the day she died. It's always been hard facing the fact that she's gone."
"Why are all the mirrors gone?"
"That was part of her madness toward the end. Anyway, there's no one else here," he said quickly. Then he forced a laugh. "Don't tell me you, too, are seeing Rye's ghosts." He shook his head and strutted off.
Another room kept like a museum? Did Tony move from one moment in the past to another, keeping his memories vivid by keeping up the illusion of Jillian still being here? I could understand why a lonely man might hold onto mementoes, pictures, letters, things that had a special and loving meaning for him, but to keep her room the way it had been the very day she died . . that was eerie. A chill passed through me and for the first time I wondered if it wasn't time for me to demand I be returned to Winnerrow.
Shortly afterward, Mrs. Broadfield returned with a new tray of food. This time she had brought me some of Rye's famous fried chicken, his special whipped potatoes, and steamed vegetables that smelled fresh and delicious. I was so hungry and everything looked so good, I gobbled my food.
Mrs. Broadfield stood back, her face
expressionless but her eyes cold. It was as if she wore a mask and only her eyes peeped through this granite face. She went into the sitting room and returned soon after I had completed my meal.
"It was delicious," I said.
"Do you want me to help you back into bed?"
"No, I think I'll remain sitting up in the chair and watch television."
She took the tray and left. I took the remote control and turned on the television set. I settled on a movie I had never seen and sat back, but what seemed to be only minutes later a sharp pain stabbed across my abdomen. I groaned and pressed my palms against my belly. The pain ceased and I sat back, taking deep breaths; but then it came again, this time with a great deal more ferocity, tearing up and down my stomach and sending pain into my chest.
I heard my stomach bubble. I knew that I was going to have an accident any moment.
"Mrs. Broadfield!" I called.
"Mrs. Broadfield!"
I screamed. But she didn't respond. I started to wheel myself toward the doorway.
"Mrs. Broadfield!"
It was happening. My body was rebelling.
"Oh no.
Mrs. Broadfield!"
By the time she arrived, I was doubled up in the wheelchair and a mess.
She stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips, a sharp, cold smile of self-satisfaction carved on her stone face.
"Don't say I didn't tell you so," she said, shaking her head.
Bent over in the chair, I could only moan and plead for her to help me.

Mrs. Broadfield wheeled me in to the bathroom quickly. She began to fill the tub, and then she stripped me down, peeling the clothing off me roughly. I felt like a ripe banana in the hands of a starving monkey. If she could have torn off my skin, I think she would have done it. All the while she said nothing, but I could read the repeated "I told you so's" in her furious eyes. I moaned, still clutching my stomach.

"It feels like someone's in there lighting matches," I cried, but my complaints fell on deaf ears. She wiped me down with some towels and then, pulling me up and tugging me out of the wheelchair, she literally dumped me into the hot water. She was very powerful for a woman her size.

As soon as I was submerged, she turned off the faucet and I slipped lower and lower until the water was up to my neck. Although it was as hot as ever, it seemed to bring some relief. I closed my eyes and lay back, still whimpering softly.

"What's wrong?" he called from the sitting room.
"Close the bathroom door!" I pleaded.
Mrs. Broadfield smirked,
"Just sit there and soak," she commanded and left the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind her. Even so, I overheard their conversation.
"Has something happened to Annie, Mrs. Broadfield?"
"I pleaded with her not to eat those spicy, exotic meals your chef often makes. I even had the other cook prepare something proper and nutritious, but she was stubborn and insisted on having your chef's food, so I had to go back and have him prepare it."
"I know, but--"
"Her stomach is sensitive, as is most of her body. I tried to explain, but she is in a rush to recuperate, and like most teenagers, won't listen to older people who have experience."
"Should I send for the doctor?" he asked anxiously.
"No, I can handle it. She will be uncomfortable for a while, but there is no need to send for the doctor."
"Is there anything I can do?" God bless Tony, I thought. He sounded so concerned, his voice full of worry and sympathy in contrast to Mrs. Broadfield's stern, correct tones.
"No, get her cleaned up, medicated, and comfortable. By morning she should be better, but her stomach will be even more sensitive. What you can do is speak to that chef and tell him to prepare food exactly as I instruct him from now on."
"I will.'
I heard Tony leave, and moments later Mrs. Broadfield returned to the bathroom. She loomed over me. My tears mingled with the droplets of steam that ran down my reddened cheeks. Suddenly her stone face softened and, like a wax bust a little too close to heat, her lips dipped, the corners of her mouth widened, her puffy cheeks drooped, and her eyes watered with sympathy.
"You poor child. If only you would have listened . . . to have such unnecessary pain on top of the agony already wreaked upon your tormented body."
She knelt down beside me and took a washcloth to my face to wipe away my tears.
"Just close your eyes and relax a little longer. I'll have you up and out of here in moments. We'll dry you off, dress you in a clean, crisp nightgown, and give you something to relieve the abdominal cramps. Then you'll sleep like a baby."
"I don't understand . . . nothing I ate before did this to me."
She lowered the washcloth to my neck and shoulders, wiping my skin in small, soft circles as lovingly as would one polishing fine china.
"You're in my hands now. Let me do my work and you'll recuperate as you should, when you should, Annie. Will you let me do what I am being paid to do?"
I nodded, my eyes closed now. The pain had eased some, although my stomach was still bubbling and threatening. Mrs. Broadfield ran her fingers down between my breasts and pressed the palm of her hand against my abdomen. When I opened my eyes, I saw her face was so close to mine I could read the pores in her skin, see the little hairs in her nostrils and the cracks in her lips.
"It's still very active in there," she whispered. She turned her eyes on mine, but she had a faraway look.
"Can I come out of the water now?"
"What? Oh . . yes, yes." She stood up quickly and reached for the towels. Then she helped me out of the tub and wiped my body dry. After I put on the new nightgown, she assisted my return to bed and gave me two spoonfuls of a gray, chalky liquid. Moments later the bubbling in my stomach ended and she then gave me a sleeping pill.
I did as I was told . . . closed my eyes and fell asleep, eager for the relief sleep would bring. Before I drifted off, I opened my eyes once and saw her standing beside me, looking down at me like a cat who had trapped its mouse in a corner and hovered confidently above its prey, now enjoying the torment it could lay upon its weaker and pathetic counterpart.
Tomorrow I would feel better, I thought, and tomorrow Luke would receive my letter and would come to me. I had a dream about him. In it he was a knight on a white horse. He came galloping through the tall gates of Farthy and came charging into the mansion, rushing up the stairs to my room. He threw open the doors and came to my bed, where he quickly embraced me. I was so happy to see him, I put all restraint aside and kissed him fully on the lips. My nightgown slipped off my shoulders and he pressed his lips to my naked breasts, closing his eyes and inhaling as if I were a rose.
"Oh, Luke," I moaned, "how I've waited for you, how I've longed for you."
"My Annie." He caressed me gently, making my body sing with every kiss, until the tingles reached my legs and filled them with renewed strength and life. "I must take you away from here so we can be free to be lovers forever and even"
He scooped me into his arms and carried me out and down the stairs. I was still half naked, but I didn't care. He put me on his horse and we rode off, away from Farthy. I looked back only once in the dream, and when I did, I saw Tony in a window watching, his face torn by sadness. Only there was also a dark, shadowy figure standing behind him. I couldn't see his face, but I felt sad about leaving him. I reached back, as if calling to him, and then I awoke.
All the next morning and part of the afternoon, I remained in bed. Mrs. Broadfield decided we would have to skip my therapy for one day. She had Rye Whiskey prepare hot oatmeal for breakfast and allowed me very sweet tea and toast and jelly the rest of the day. Toward mid-afternoon I felt strong enough to get into my wheelchair. A little after two o'clock Rye appeared, still dressed in his apron. Mrs. Broadfield had gone for a walk.
He entered, looking timid, remorseful. I knew immediately that he felt responsible for what had happened to me.
"How ya feelin', Miss Annie?"
"Much better, Rye. Now don't you go blaming yourself. There was no way for you to know what would and wouldn't disturb my digestion. Nothing you made had disturbed it before," I pointed out, widening my eyes for emphasis. He nodded thoughtfully. I could see there was something on his mind.
"Dat's what I was thinkin', Miss Annie. I didn't put nothin' inta the meal I hadn't put in befo'."
"It was my fault," I stressed. "I shouldn't have sent Mrs. Broadfield back with the food your helper had prepared."
"I'll say. She come rushin' inta dat kitchen, flames in her hair, and slaps the tray down. I jumped a mile. Den she says, fix your special chicken, vegetables and potatas. I was doin' it anyway for Mr. Tatterton, so I said, it's all ready, ma'am. She grunts and I dished out de platter."
"Then what happened?"
"Nothin'. I give it to her to take back, 'cause we ain't got the maid no more, an' she takes the tray.
Only I forgots the bread, so I come after her. I catched her because she stopped in the dining room to add in the medicine and--"
"Medicine? What medicine?"
Rye shrugged. "Medicine, she told me. To help you digest the food."
"I never had that before."
"I gives her the bread and she goes up ta yer room and next thing I know, Mr. Tatterton's rushing about, frantic because the food made ya so sick. He come in ta see me 'bout it and I said, yessir, listen to whatever the nurse tells me. Dat was dat. But ya feelin' better now?"
"Yes, Rye. You're sure she put medicine in my food?"
"In de potatoes. She was mixing it up when I comes out of the kitchen. Hope it didn't ruin the taste, I thought, but I was too scared ta say dat ta her. She must be a good nurse; she can scare the sickness right outta ya."
"If she wants . ." I said knowingly. That was no medicine. She was taking revenge on me for insisting on the food, for defying her. My God, I thought, I'm in the hands of a sadistic, vengeful, hateful person. All this pain and embarrassment was her doing? "Or maybe she puts the sickness into you, too," I added, nodding knowingly. Rye understood.
"Miss Annie . ." He turned and looked at the empty doorway to be sure no one was coming. "Maybe ya better already. Maybe it be best ya go on home now."
"What?" I smiled with confusion. "You want me to go home?"
"I better gets back to ma kitchen. Glad ya feelin' better, Miss Annie." He hurried out before I could ask him another question, but there was no doubt in my mind that he knew more, much more, about what was going on at Farthy.
Tony didn't appear until dinner time. I was given the meal I had originally sent back: a breast of boiled chicken, peas and carrots, and bland mashed potatoes. Mrs. Broadfield smiled widely as she brought in the tray and placed it on my chair table. She stood nearby and watched me eat, just to be sure I could take in solid food again, she said.
"Did you put anything in this to help my digestion?" I asked. Her smile evaporated.
"What? Like what?"
"I don't know . . . like what you put in my food when you brought me my dinner the second time last night," I said, my eyes narrowing on her.
"What? Who told you such a thing?" She didn't look angry; she looked amused, as if she were talking to a complete idiot. The tight, cynical smile around her lips infuriated me.
"Rye told me;" I spit back at her. "He came up to see how I was doing and he told me he saw you putting in what you told him was medicine after you took the tray out of the kitchen."
"What a story." She laughed; a thin, chilling laugh. "Why would he make up such a thing? It's ridiculous to suggest it."
"You did it," I said accusingly.
"My dear girl, he's merely trying to cover up his own guilt for what happened to you. The first day we arrived here, I went to see him and specifically told him he must eliminate spicy foods from your diet. You'll remember I told him not to give you heavy sweet things, but he sent up that chocolate cake anyway. He's either stubborn or stupid. I'm sure Mr. Tatterton was quite upset with him and might even have fired him."
"Fire Rye?" It was my turn to laugh and make her feel ridiculous. "You don't realize how long they've been together. Rye's family here; he'll be here until the day he dies. And as for him feeling guilty, that's even more ridiculous. Rye is a wonderful cook. People don't get sick from the food he makes," I continued, challenging her, my eyes burning through her. She shook her head and looked away. That confirmed my suspicions.
"Nevertheless, Mr. Tatterton was upset with him. Now why don't you finish your food before it gets cold. I'd like it to be warm when it hits your stomach." She spun on her heel and left the room.
Soon after, Tony arrived.
"How are you doing, Annie? I called Mrs. Broadfield twice today and she said you were coming along fine."
"She's been lying to you," I snapped. I was determined this would all come to an end or I would leave immediately.
"What? Lying?"
"I didn't get sick from any spicy food, Tony. The food wasn't overly spiced, it was poisoned!" I declared. He stared at me a moment, his eyes widening.
"Poisoned? Do you realize what you're saying? Maybe you're just--"
"No, Tony, listen. If you really care for me, listen," I said. That got to him. He came closer. "Mrs. Broadfield is a competent nurse, technically competent, but she's not a nice person and she hates wealthy people. She thinks wealthy people, especially young wealthy people, are spoiled rotten and weak. You should see her face when she talks about it--she becomes even uglier, ghastly, hideous, monstrous."
"I had no idea," he said in amazement.
"Yes, and she can't stand being challenged. Why, even if I ask a question about what she's doing, she becomes enraged. When I demanded Rye's tasty food and challenged her command, she made up her mind to teach me a lesson. Rye was just here to apologize, and he told me she had taken his food and put something in it, claiming it was medicine, but I don't get any medicine in my food, Tony. You know that. She brought about this painful and embarrassing scene just to teach me a lesson," I repeated, my rage and fury bright, my face hot with anger.
He nodded. "I see. Well then, I think it's time we terminated her services, don't you?"
"Yes, Tony. I won't stay here another day with that woman."
"Don't you worry about it. You won't have to. I'm going to pack her off tonight. We'll spend a little more time finding a suitable replacement, but I'm sure we will very quickly," he added with confidence.
"Thank you, Tony. I didn't want to make trouble, but--"
"Nonsense. If you're not happy and comfortable with your nurse, you won't improve. And I certainly don't want someone as sadistic as this woman seems to be. Anyway," he said, "put all that behind you now. I'll handle it. Let's turn our attention to other, brighter and more cheerful things." He looked around. "I know just what else is wrong. You're sitting and lying around doting on your illness too much. Look at this room . . it's a duplication of a hospital room . . . wheelchairs, walkers, medicines, special trays and basins . . depressing," he said, shaking his head. "But I've got just the magical medicine for you." His blue eyes twinkled with glee like the eyes of a mischievous little boy.
"Magical medicine! What is it?"
He held his hand up to indicate I should be patient.
Then he went out of the suite. A moment later Parson appeared, carrying a long carton. He put it down by the window and turned to Tony.
"You want it here, Mr. Tatterton?"
"Exactly."
"What is that?"
"You'll see," he said and took my now empty tray off my wheelchair. He put it on the dresser and pulled my wheelchair back to the bed so he could sit beside me on the bed and both of us could watch Parson unpack whatever was in the carton. Moments later I realized what it was--an artist's easel. Parson assembled it quickly and adjusted it so I could paint from a sitting position.
"Oh, Tony, an easel! How wonderful," I cried. "It's the best one money can buy," Tony announced proudly.
"Oh, Tony, thank you, but--"
"No buts. You've got to get back into the swing of things. That's what everyone I've spoken to about you tells me." He nodded to Parson, who left and returned with two more cartons, one filled with artist's supplies and one with paper. Tony set up a sheet on the easel immediately.
"I don't know much about the rest of this stuff. I simply gave orders to my purchasing agent to go out and buy everything a budding young artist requires. There's even a beret in here somewhere." He sifted through the carton until he found it, a black beret, and put it on me. I laughed.
"See? I've already got you smiling and laughing." Then he came over and put the hat on me. "Black is your color, Annie." He turned me toward a mirror so I could see myself. "Feeling inspired already?"
I was. Just the sight of myself in that beret brought back the dreams I had almost forgotten. Art filled my life with an inner joy and meaning nothing else could. I hadn't realized how much I had missed it. The accident and the aftermath had separated me from all the people and things I loved, especially my artwork. Maybe that was another but more significant reason why I had felt like half a person up until now. I was so afraid that all the sadness and the tragedy had made me incapable of calling up the innermost feelings and inspiration that could be transformed into something beautiful. What if I lifted the brush to the canvas and saw only a blank, stark-white field forever and ever?