Echoes of Dollanganger (7 page)

I was carefree and indifferent about it now, because I was afraid Momma would forget to do something about Thanksgiving for us, but she surprised me when she came into the attic with some decorations for our table and announced that they were for our Thanksgiving dinner, which she promised would be hot and wonderful, as wonderful as any.

“How could it be as wonderful?” Cathy whispered. “We don't have Daddy.”

“But we still have each other,” I replied. “We'll always have each other.”

She looked at me with grateful eyes. I always seemed to come up with the right answers for her. Sometimes, though, I thought she was sorry I had. She wanted me to be more of an ally, more impatient and disgusted with everything.

One thing that did bother both Cathy and me was that Carrie had completely forgotten what Thanksgiving was. She had been old enough to appreciate what we once had, but so much about our lives was beginning to fade and get lost in the fog of what had happened so quickly and where
we were now. When the door was shut and locked, it seemed to cut off our ties with our own past, slamming down on our happier memories.

My second pleasant surprise, however, was how wholeheartedly Cathy decided to get into it, fixing the table with the dishes and place settings that she had the twins help her create. She was almost frantic about making our table joyful. I tried to go along with the same enthusiasm, but I was worried about her. She acted as if she was convinced that this dinner would be more than a typical Thanksgiving celebration; it would be the dinner celebrating our escape into a new life. I have to admit that the way Momma described it and how happy she seemed certainly gave us that impression. She promised all sorts of wonderful food from the party our grandparents were having and described the festivities just the way she would before Daddy died. All of this was going to come to a quick end and a new beginning. Momma's promises were alive and well.

However, that day, the hour for our participating in the wonderful foods and desserts came and went. Every minute, every hour, was like another whiplash. Every creak in the floor or the walls turned our eyes to the door expectantly, but there was only silence and more disappointment.

We were all getting ravenously hungry in anticipation. Momma had done such a good job of describing it all. The twins were especially irritable as time passed. Cathy tried to calm
them with whatever we had to nibble on, but it wasn't working. I felt I was slipping myself, losing my control. I wanted to start screaming and pounding on the door, shouting, “Where are you? Where's our wonderful dinner? Where's our Thanksgiving?”

Finally, hours after she was supposed to be here, Momma arrived. There was the Thanksgiving food she had promised, but by now, it was cold, and the twins wouldn't eat any, and worst of all, Momma couldn't stay with us. What kind of a family dinner was this? Nevertheless, I was ravenous and couldn't get those pieces of turkey into my mouth fast enough. The twins moaned and complained more than ever. They wouldn't touch a thing. Desperate to have them eat something, Cathy prepared peanut butter sandwiches. Afterward, Cathy didn't have to say a word to convince me. I sat staring at the plates and thinking how miserable we really were.

Kane paused and looked at me. “I guess I know what we'll both be thinking about at our own Thanksgiving feasts,” he said. “How would you like eating alone with only your younger brother and sisters in an attic? No music, no conversations, nobody telling jokes, nothing but cold turkey and potatoes? I'll never complain about our Thanksgivings again. That's for sure.”

I nodded. He was right. How cruel. As if he knew what would follow in the diary, he put up his hand
before I could speak and began again, his voice firmer, the words now colored with anger so visible his face turned a shade of crimson. It riled up my sense of outrage, too. Kane had been right. It was different, more effective, to read Christopher's diary with someone else and see his reaction. I sat back, and he began again.

But the misery was yet to start. The following morning, Cory came down with a very bad cold. Two days later, Carrie was just as sick. These were very bad colds, more like flu. Momma came to treat them with aspirin and soup and juice, our grandmother following right behind her like some dark shadow cast by Death looking to get his hands on our little brother and sister. She hovered over Cory and Carrie and shook her head at the way we were making a big deal over their illness. She ridiculed whatever I suggested.

“Some doctor you'll be,” she said, and insisted they just had to tough it out like any other children. I was surprised Momma had told her what my ambitions were, but now I was upset she had. I glanced at Cathy, who would always come to my defense. I shook my head so she'd understand not to do or say anything nasty now. The twins were too sick.

At one point, Cory had a very high fever, but nothing impressed our grandmother, and Momma, to my great disappointment, didn't challenge her. To impress us with how serious she thought
it was, however, she claimed she had taken off from secretarial school just to care for them. I never told Cathy this, but I always suspected that Momma never went to any secretarial school. I couldn't even begin to imagine her doing that sort of work, and logically, why would she bring us here and put us through all this if we weren't going to live here but instead live in some apartment supported by her secretarial job? Of course, Cathy never thought of these things, and I wasn't going to say anything that would diminish her hope.

The twins' illness went on and on for nearly three weeks. Finally, they began to recuperate, but the illness had drained them. They were lethargic, wisps of themselves, sleeping more than usual, and difficult to get excited about any game or food.

I told Momma, and she decided that all we needed were vitamins. The words were barely out of her mouth before Cathy exploded, shouting at her to get us out or at least take the twins into the fresh air. She stomped her feet and raged. The twins were wide-eyed at her tantrum. They wanted to cry, but they were too frightened to utter a sound. She was making so much noise that I thought if no one else really knew we were here, they surely knew now. Momma pleaded with Cathy to calm down, telling her she couldn't risk taking the twins out and having us all discovered and revealed to her father. She insisted we were so close.

Cathy continued to rage. “Close, close, that's all we hear is that he's close!” she cried.

At one point, Momma cried back, “What do you want me to do, kill him?” Tears were streaming down her face. At that moment, I felt terrible for her. “There are eight servants working here,” she muttered. “They're like spies, watching me all the time, especially that John Amos. I never liked him. He's like a puppet. He'll do anything my parents tell him to do.”

The air seemed to go out of Cathy finally. She just glared at Momma, full of frustration and emotionally exhausted.

“You must be patient,” Momma added before she left, more like fled.

Before Cathy could start, I thought I had better attack her, because I felt just like she felt, but I couldn't show it. Of course, I wanted the twins out in the fresh air. We all needed it, but I told Cathy to stop picking on Momma, especially with her incessant questions, not one, by the way, that I hadn't thought of myself. But what could I do? I had to be stronger. If I fell apart, it would all be lost, all this suffering for nothing.

Kane paused and dropped his arms to his sides, staring ahead for a moment. He looked different. Those impish eyes were suddenly dark and troubled. He sat with a posture I thought was stiff, even uncomfortable for him. Then he turned and looked at me with such a cold, impersonal expression I had to hold my breath.

“What?” I asked in a whisper. “Why did you stop reading?”

“What do you think of me?”

“You?”

“Christopher, I mean. Do you hate him? You have to hate him for defending her, regardless of the reason. From what I read up to here, he's always defending her, no matter what.”

“I don't know. I don't hate him for that, but I would imagine Cathy has to be angry at him for taking Corrine's side all the time, especially now. However, she doesn't understand the danger, the risks involved with what she's asking her mother to do. It's complicated, Kane.”

“Yes,” he said, nodding. My answer seemed to please him, although he didn't smile. The pleasure was all in his eyes, the tiny movement at the corners of his mouth. “Of course, you're right. She can't understand the way Christopher can. She's too young. He's unselfish, that's all. He can see the bigger picture. He has the vision.” He paused and looked like he was struggling with troubling thoughts again. “Although . . .”

“Although what?”

“He seems like he would forgive his mother for anything. She risked the health of the twins for three weeks, and yet he was kind of calm about that. His little brother and sister suffered unnecessarily. Kids that age need their mothers around the clock when they're sick, and they needed to be in the sunshine.
What good will all the money in the world do them if they're physically and emotionally damaged? He knows that. Don't you think he knows that?”

“Yes . . . but . . .”

He shook his head. “I don't know, Kristin. At times, I feel like he almost worships her. Maybe it's even more than that.”

“What do you mean by more? You suspect an Oedipus complex?”

“Maybe. Yes. But that's not the full explanation. He wants to believe Corrine is doing the right thing for them so much he will avoid reality. And then sometimes I think he really believes her lies. I mean, come on. The old man's about to die, but he can attend a Thanksgiving dinner? What's with that?”

“I know. I wondered about that, too.”

“Actually, now that I give it more thought, Christopher's pretty gullible for someone who is supposed to be so bright that he can become a doctor. I want to be on his side, but he bugs me with his understanding and forgiveness. Sorry if I show it when I read aloud.”

“It's getting to you,” I said, nodding.

“It has gotten to me. I didn't want to say anything this morning when you told me you hadn't slept well. I had all sorts of nightmares after reading to catch up, especially after I read that part about Cory accidentally getting locked in that trunk. I'm not claustrophobic, but I don't think I ever get into an elevator without wondering what I'd do if it broke down.” He
looked at the diary in his hands. “Maybe you should be the one reading it aloud.”

“Oh, no, Kane, you read the diary well,” I said, and I smiled. “You even read Cathy well. Maybe you should go out for the spring play. Mr. Madeo would love you in the drama club, I'm sure.”

“No thanks. This is the only stage I want to be on right now, and with only you as an audience.” He laughed. “If any of my buddies knew what I was doing—”

“Which they'll never know,” I said sharply.

“Not from me. That's for sure.”

He stood up and looked around the attic with his shoulders up, embracing himself, and for the moment looking like someone who really was imprisoned, diminished by the small space and crawling into himself. He continued to look around, turning his head slowly and pausing at the windows.

“Even convicts in real prisons get time outside,” he muttered.

His gaze stopped when he reached me. It was as if he had forgotten that I was up here with him. He stared for a moment, and then his body seemed to fall back into the Kane I knew, his shoulders just a little slumped, his face framing that impish, offbeat smile that was so sexy.

“Speaking of spending time in an attic, however, I wouldn't mind being locked in here with you for a while,” he said. He sounded more like himself again. He started toward me, his eyes full of passion.

I held up my hand like a traffic cop. “But I'm your
sister,” I said, and he stopped. “Up here, as long as we're up here, I'm your sister. We behave toward each other like they do; otherwise, your whole theory of why we're here is lost.”

I wasn't saying it to be impish or defensive. I really believed it now.

I could see his mind spinning with conflicting desires. Was this it? Would he give up reading the diary in my attic? Or reading it at all? Is that what I wanted, what I hoped to hear? Was it unfair of me to tease him with the promise that it would be different once we left the attic?

“Right,” he said. He stepped back, looking insulted, taking on Christopher's posture again. “What kind of a brother do you think I am? You sound like you believe what the grandmother from hell believes about us.”

I started to laugh. He was so convincing, but then I decided to get right into it and be just as convincing. “Sorry. Oh,” I moaned as dramatically as I could, “I'm so sorry for doubting you, Christopher.”

“Right. You should be sorry. We Dollangangers, Foxworths, whatever we are, need to stick together.”

“Desperately,” I said. I was expecting him to laugh, but he didn't.

He nodded instead and returned to his chair, looking even more determined.

“I guess we'll have to wait to see what kind of a brother you really are. Won't we?” I teased, but that didn't bring a smile, either. He picked up the diary, glared at me defiantly, snapped his arms out firmly, and began to read again.

Christmas Eve now loomed on our horizon, but not like Christmas Eves before. This threatened to be dark and horrible, a pending electric storm of broken promises and memories dangling like broken tree ornaments. When Cathy muttered one night that it would soon be Christmas and reminded me that we had been here just about five months, I felt panic rise through me. Five months! One look at the twins, who were still so fragile and so subdued since their stubborn colds, and I knew I had to come up with something that would stave off any more sadness and disappointment.