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! (58 page)

C
arrie decided. We stayed. Even if she hadn’t decided, still we would have stayed. How could we not?

We tried to give Dr. Paul what money we had left. He refused. “You keep that money for yourselves. You worked hard to get it, didn’t you? And you might as well know I’ve seen my attorney so he can fill out the petitions that will bring your mother to Clairmont. I know you believe she won’t come, but you can never tell. If I’m so lucky as to win permanent custody, I’ll give each of you a weekly allowance. No one can feel free and happy without some money in his pocket. Most of my colleagues give their teenage children five dollars a week. Three dollars should be enough for a girl Carrie’s age.” He planned to buy all our clothes and everything else we needed for school. We could only stare at him, amazed he’d be so generous—again.

A few days before Christmas he drove us to a shopping mall that was carpeted in red; the ceiling was a glass dome; throngs of people swarmed about as pop Christmas music played. It was like fairyland! I glowed; so did Carrie and Chris—and our doctor. His huge hand held Carrie’s small
one as Chris and I held on to each other. I saw him watching us, enjoying our wide-eyed stares. We were charmed by everything. Awed, impressed, very wanting, fearful too he would see and try to satisfy all our yearnings.

I turned in circles when we reached the department that sold clothes for teenage girls. Dazzled and bewildered by so much, I looked at that, and looked at this, and couldn’t decide what I wanted when everything was so pretty and I’d never had the chance to shop for myself before. Chris laughed at my indecision. “Go on,” he urged, “now that you have the chance to fit yourself perfectly, try on what you like.” I knew what he was thinking, for it had been my mean way to complain that Momma never brought me anything that fitted right.

With great care I selected parsimoniously the outfits I thought suitable for school that would begin for us in January. And I needed a coat, real shoes, and a raincoat and hat and umbrella. Everything that kind-hearted, generous man allowed me to buy made me feel guilty, as if we were taking advantage of him.

To reward me for my slowness and my reluctance to buy too much, Paul said impatiently, “For heaven’s sake, Cathy, don’t think we’re going shopping like this every week. I want you to buy enough today to last you through the winter. Chris, while we finish up here, you dash on to the young men’s section and begin picking out what you want. While you do that, Cathy and I can outfit Carrie with the clothes she needs.”

I noticed that all the adolescent girls in the store were turning to stare at my brother as he made his way to the young men’s department.

At last we were going to be normal kids. Then, when I felt tentatively secure, Carrie let out a howl to shatter crystal palaces in London! Her cries jolted the salespeople, startled the customers, and a lady bumped her baby-stroller into a dummy who went crashing down. The baby in the stroller added his screams to Carrie’s!

Chris came on the run to see who was murdering his small sister. She stood, feet wide apart, head thrown back, with tears of frustration streaming her cheeks. “Good God, what’s wrong now?” asked Chris as our doctor looked dumbfounded.

Men—what did they know? Obviously Carrie was outraged by the pretty little pastel dresses brought out for her approval. Baby clothes—that’s what. Even so, all were too large, and none were red or purple—absolutely not Carrie’s style at all! “Try the toddler department,” suggested the heartless, haughty blonde with the beehive hair. She smiled graciously at our doctor who appeared embarrassed.

Carrie was
eight!
To even mention “toddler clothes” was insulting! She screwed her face into a puckered prune. “I can’t wear toddler clothes to school!” she wailed. She pressed her face against my thigh and hugged my legs. “Cathy, don’t make me wear pink and blue
baby
dresses! Everybody will laugh! I know they will! I want purple, red—no baby colors!”

Dr. Paul soothed her. “Darling, I adore blond girls with blue eyes in pastels, so why not wait until you’re older to wear all those brilliant colors?”

Bittersweet milksop like this was something someone as stubborn as Carrie couldn’t swallow. She glared her eyes, balled her fists, prepared her foot for kicking and readied her vocal cords for screaming when a middle-aged, plump woman who must have had someone like Carrie for a granddaughter suggested calmly that she could have her clothes custom made. Carrie hesitated uncertainly, looking from me to the doctor, then to Chris and back to the saleslady.

“A perfect solution!” said Dr. Paul enthusiastically, looking relieved. “I’ll buy a sewing machine and Cathy can make you purple, red, and electric-blue clothes, and you’ll be a knock-out.”

“Don’t wanna be no knock-out—just want bright colors.” Carrie pouted while I was left with my mouth agape. I was a
dancer
, not a seamstress! (Something that didn’t escape
Carrie’s knowledge.) “Cathy don’t know how to make good clothes,” she said. “Cathy don’t do nothing but dance.”

That was loyalty. Me, who’d taught her and Cory to read, with a little help from Chris. “What’s the matter with you, Carrie?” snapped Chris. “You’re acting like a baby. Cathy can do anything she sets her mind to—remember that!” The doctor readily agreed. I said nothing as we shopped for an electric sewing machine.

“But in the meantime, let’s buy a few pink, yellow and blue dresses, all right, Carrie?” Dr. Paul grinned mockingly. “And Cathy can save me tons of money by sewing her own clothes too.”

Despite the sewing I’d have to learn, heaven was ours that day. We went home loaded, all of us made beautiful in barber shops and beauty salons; each of us had on new shoes with hard soles. I had my very first pair of high-heeled pumps—and a dozen pairs of nylons! My first nylons, my first bra—and to top it all off, a shopping bag full of cosmetics. I’d taken forever to select makeup while the doctor stood back and watched me with the queerest expression. Chris had grumbled, saying I didn’t need rouge or lipstick, or eyeshadow, liner and mascara. “You don’t know anything at all about being a girl,” I answered with an air of superiority. This was my first shopping binge, and by heaven I was making the most of it! I had to have everything I’d seen on Momma’s fabulous dressing table. Even her kind of wrinkle cream, plus a mud pack for firming.

No sooner were we out of the car and unloaded than Chris, Carrie and I dashed upstairs to try on all our new clothes. Funny how once new clothes had come to us so easily and hadn’t made us happy like this. Not when no one would see us wear them. Yet, being what I was, when I slipped on the blue velvet dress with tiny buttons down the front, I thought of Momma. How ironic that I should want to cry for a mother we’d lost, who I was determined to hate forever. I sat on the edge of my twin bed and pondered this. Momma had given
us new clothes, toys and games out of guilt for what she was doing, depriving us of a normal childhood. A childhood we’d never have the chance to recover. Lost years, some of the best years, and Cory was in a grave, no new suits for him.

His guitar was in the corner where Carrie could wake up and see it and the banjo. Why was it us who always had to suffer, why not her? Then, suddenly it hit me! Bart Winslow was from South Carolina! I ran down to our doctor’s study and purloined his big atlas, then back I raced to the bedroom, and there I found the map of South Carolina. I found Clairmont . . . but didn’t believe my eyes when I saw it was a twin city to Greenglenna! No, that was too much of a coincidence—or was it? I looked up and stared into space. God had meant for us to come here and live near Momma—if she ever visited her husband’s home town. God wanted me to have the chance to inflict a little pain of my own. As soon as I could, I was going to Greenglenna and look up all the information I could about him and his family. I had five dollars a week—to order a subscription of the community paper that told of all the social activities of the wealthy people who lived near Foxworth Hall.

Yes, I was gone from Foxworth Hall, but I was going to know every move she made, and when she came this way I’d know that too! Sooner or later, Momma was going to hear from me, and know I would never, never forget or forgive. Somehow, in some way, she was going to hurt ten times more than we had!

With this decided, I could join Chris and Carrie in the living room to model all our new clothes for our doctor and Henny. Henny’s smile beamed like a dazzling sun. I watched the bejeweled eyes of our benefactor, only to see them shadow over as he frowned reflectively. I saw no admiration or approval. Suddenly, he got up and left the room, offering a weak excuse of needing to do some paperwork.

Soon Henny became my mentor in all things domestic.
She taught me to bake biscuits from scratch, and tried to teach me how to make rolls light and fluffy.

Wham!
went Henny’s hand into the dough. Henny wiped her hands clean of flour and dashed off a note.
Henny got bad eyes for seeing small things like needle eyes. You have good eyes you sew on doctor son’s missing shirt buttons—yes?

“Sure,” I agreed without enthusiasm, “I can sew holes, and I can also knit, crochet, needlepoint and do crewel work. My mother taught me how to do all those things as a way to keep busy.” Suddenly I couldn’t speak. I wanted to cry. I saw my mother’s lovely face. I saw Daddy. I saw Chris and me as children hurrying home from school, rushing in with snow on our shoulders to find Momma knitting baby things for the twins. I couldn’t help but bow my head into Henny’s lap and begin to cry, really bawl. Henny couldn’t speak, but her soft hand on my shoulder showed she understood. When I glanced upward, she was crying too. Big, fat tears that slid down to wet her bright red dress. “Don’t cry, Henny. I’ll be happy to sew on Dr. Paul’s missing buttons. He’s saved our lives, and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him.” She gave me a strange look, then got up to fetch years of mending and perhaps a dozen shirts with missing buttons.

Chris spent every available moment with Dr. Paul who was coaching him so he could enter a special college-prep school in midterm. Carrie was our biggest problem. She could read and write but she was so very small. How would she manage in a public school where children were not always kind?

“It’s a private school I have in mind for Carrie,” explained our doctor. “A very good school for young girls, run by an excellent staff. Since I’m on the board of trustees, I think Carrie will be given special attention, and not subjected to any kind of stress.” He eyed me meaningfully.

That was my worst fear, that Carrie would be ridiculed and made to feel ashamed because of her overlarge head and undersized body. Once Carrie had been so beautifully proportioned,
so very perfect. It was all those lost years when the sun was denied us that made her so small. It was, I knew it was!

*  *  *

I was scared to death Momma would show up on that day she was supposed to appear at the court hearing. But I was certain, almost, that she wouldn’t come. How could she? She had too much to lose and nothing to gain. What were we but burdens to bear? And there was jail too, a murder charge. . . .

We sat very quietly with Paul, dressed in our best to appear in the judge’s chamber, and waited, and waited, and waited. I was a tight wire inside, stretched so taut I thought I might break and cry. She didn’t want us. Again she told us by not showing up, how little she cared! The judge looked at us with too much pity, making me feel so sorry for all of us—and so angry with her! Oh, damn her to hell! She gave us birth, she claimed to have loved our father! How could she do this to his children—her own children? What kind of mother was she? I didn’t want that judge’s pity, or Paul’s. I held my head high and bit down on my tongue to keep from screaming. I dared to glance at Chris and saw him sitting blank-eyed, though I knew his heart was being shredded, as mine was. Carrie crouched in a tight ball on the doctor’s lap, as his hands soothed her, and he whispered something in her ear. I think he said, “Never mind, it’s all right. You have me for a father and Henny for a mother. You’ll never want for anything as long as I live.”

*  *  *

I cried that night. I wet my pillow with tears shed for a mother I’d loved so much it hurt to think back to the days when Daddy was alive and our home life was perfect. I cried for all the good things she had done for us back then, and, most of all, for all the love she’d so generously given us—then. I cried more for Cory who was like my own child. And that’s when I stopped crying and turned to bitter, hard thoughts of revenge. When you set out to defeat someone, the best way was to think as they did. What would hurt her most? She wouldn’t
want to think of us. She’d try to forget we ever existed. Well, she wouldn’t forget. I’d see to it that she didn’t. This very Christmas I would send her a card, and sign it with this, “From the four Dresden dolls you didn’t want,” and I had to change that to “The three alive Dresden dolls you didn’t want, plus the dead one you carried away and never brought back.” I could see her staring at that card, thinking to herself,
I only did what I had to
.