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! (87 page)

Watching Chris, I believed we shared the same thoughts. I saw him swinging a bat when he was ten to smash a ball over the fence, and then he’d run like mad to touch all bases in the quickest possible time, when he could have walked and made his home run. But that wasn’t his way, to make it look too easy. I saw him racing on his bike yards ahead of me, then slowing down deliberately so I could catch up and we’d both reach home at the same time. I saw him in the locked room, in his bed three feet from mine, smiling encouragingly. I saw him again in the attic shadows, almost hidden in the immense space, looking so lost and bewildered as he turned away from the mother he loved . . . to me. Vicariously we’d shared so many romances while lying on a dirty old mattress in the attic while the rain pelted down and separated us from all humanity. Was that what did it? Was that why he couldn’t see any girl but me? How sad for him, for me.

The university planned a huge luncheon celebration, and at our table Carrie babbled away, but Chris and I could only stare at each other, each of us trying to find the right words to say.

“Dr. Paul has moved into a new office building, Cathy,” gushed Carrie breathlessly. “I’d hate him being so far away, but I am going to be his secretary! I am going to have a brand new electric typewriter colored red! Dr. Paul thought a custom-painted typewriter of purple might look a little garish, but I didn’t think it would, so I settled for second best. And nobody ever is gonna have a better secretary than I’ll be! I’ll answer his phone, make his appointments, keep his filing system, do his bookkeeping, and every day he and I will eat lunch together!” She beamed on Paul a bright smile. It seemed he’d given her the security to regain the exuberant self-confidence that she’d lost. But I was to find out later, sadly, this was Carrie’s false facade, one for Paul, Chris and me to see, and when she was alone, it was far different.

Then Chris frowned and asked why Julian hadn’t come. “He wanted to come, Chris, really he did,” I lied. “But he has obligations that keep him so busy he couldn’t spare the time. He asked me to give you his congratulations. We do have very tight schedules. Actually, I can only stay two days. We’re going to do a TV production of
Giselle
next month.”

Later we celebrated again in a fine hotel restaurant. This was our chance to give Chris the gifts each of us had for him. It had been our childish habit to always shake a present before it was opened, but the big box Paul gave Chris was too heavy to shake. “Books!” said Chris rightly. Six huge, fat medical reference volumes to represent an entire set that must have cost Paul a fortune. “I couldn’t carry more than six,” he explained. “The remainder of the set will be waiting for you at home.” I stared at him, realizing his home was the only real home we had.

Deliberately Chris saved my gift for last, anticipating this would be the best and in that way, just as we used to, we could stretch out the enjoyment. It was too large and much too heavy to shake and besides I cautioned him it was fragile, but he laughed, for we used to always try and trick the other, “No,
it’s more books—nothing else could be as heavy.” He gave me a funny, wistful smile that made him seem a boy again.

“I give you one guess, my Christopher Doll, and one hint. Inside that box is the one thing you said you wanted more than anything else—and our father said he would give it to you the day you got your black doctor’s bag.” Why had I used that kind of soft voice, to make Paul turn his eyes and narrow them, and see the blood that rose to stain my brother’s cheeks?
Were we never to forget, and change? Were we forever going to feel too much?
Chris fiddled with the ribbons, careful not to tear the fancy paper. When he stripped off the paper, tears of remembrance welled in his eyes. His hands trembled as he carefully lifted from the cushioned box a French mahogany case with a gleaming brass lock, key and carrying handle. He gave me a tortured look even as his lips quivered, seeming incredulous that after all these years I’d remembered.

“Oh, damn it, Cathy,” he said all choked up with emotion, “I never really hoped to own one of these. You shouldn’t have spent so much . . . it must have cost a fortune . . . and you shouldn’t have!”

“But I wanted to, and it’s not an original, Chris, only a replica of a John Cuff Side Pillar Microscope. But the man in the shop said it was an exact duplicate of the original and a collector’s item nevertheless. And it works too.” He shook his head as he handled the solid brass and ivory accessory instruments, and the optical lens, the tweezers, and the leather-bound book titled
Antique Microscopes, 1675-1840.

I said faintly, “In case you decide to play around in your spare time, you can do your own research on germs and viruses.”

“Some toy you give,” he said, gritty-voiced, and now the two tears in the corners of his eyes began to slide down his cheeks. “You remembered the day Daddy said he would give me this when I became a doctor.”

“How could I forget? That little catalog was the one thing you took of yours that wasn’t clothes, when we went
to Foxworth Hall. And every time he swatted a fly, or killed a spider, Paul, Chris would long to have a John Cuff microscope. And once he said he wanted to be the Mouseman of the Attic, and discover for himself why mice die so young.”

“Do mice die young?” asked Paul seriously. “How did you know they were young? Did you capture baby ones, and mark them in some way?”

Chris and I met eyes. Yeah, we’d lived in another world back when we were young and imprisoned, so that we could look at the mice who came to steal and nibble on our food, especially the one named Mickey.

*  *  *

Now I had to go back to New York and face Julian’s wrath. But first I had to have a little time alone with my brother. Paul took Henny and Carrie to a movie while Chris and I strolled the campus of his university. “And you see that window up there on the second floor, the fifth from the end there—that was my room I shared with Hank. We had a study group of eight guys, and all through college and med school we stuck together, and studied together, and when we dated, we dated together.”

“Oh,” I sighed. “Did you date a lot?”

“Only on the weekends. The study schedule was too heavy for socializing during the week. None of it was easy, Cathy. There’s so much to know, physics, biology, anatomy, chemistry, and I could go on and on.”

“You’re not telling me what I want to hear. Who did you date? Was there, or is there, someone special?”

He caught my hand and drew me closer to his side. “Well, should I begin to list them one by one, and by name? If I did it would take several hours. If there had been someone special, all I would do is name one—and I can’t do that. I liked them all . . . but I didn’t like any well enough to love, if that’s what you want to know.”

Yes, that was exactly what I wanted to know. “I’m sure
you didn’t live a celibate life, even though you didn’t fall in love . . . ?”

“That’s none of your business,” he said lightly.

“I think it is. It would give me peace to know you had a girl you loved.”

“I do have a girl I love,” he answered. “I’ve known her all my life. When I go to sleep at night, I dream of her, dancing overhead, calling my name, kissing my cheek, screaming when she has nightmares, and I wake up to take the tar from her hair. There are times when I wake up to ache all over, as she aches all over, and I dream I kiss the marks the whip made . . . and I dream of a certain night when she and I went out on the cold slate roof and stared up at the sky, and she said the moon was the eye of God looking down and condemning us for what we were. So there, Cathy, is the girl who haunts me and rules me, and fills me with frustrations, and darkens all the hours I spend with other girls who just can’t live up to the standards she set. And I hope to God you’re satisfied.”

I turned to move as in a dream, and in that dream I put my arms about him and stared up into his face, his beautiful face that haunted me too. “Don’t love me, Chris. Forget about me. Do as I do, take whomever knocks first on your door, and let her in.”

He smiled ironically and put me quickly from him. “I did exactly what you did, Catherine Doll, the first who knocked on my door
was
let in—and now I can’t drive her out. But that’s my problem—not yours.”

“I don’t deserve to be there. I’m not an angel, not a saint . . . you should know that.”

“Angel, saint, Devil’s spawn, good or evil, you’ve got me pinned to the wall and labeled as yours until the day I die. And if you die first, then it won’t be long before I follow.”

B
oth Chris and Paul, to say nothing of Carrie, persuaded me to go back to Clairmont and spend a few days with my family. When I was there, surrounded by all the cozy comforts, the charm of the house and the gardens had their chance to beguile me again. I told myself this was the way it would have been if I’d married Paul. No problems. A sweet, easy life. Then, when I let myself wonder how Julian was faring, I thought of all the mean and spiteful ways he had of annoying me by opening my mail from Paul or Chris, as if he were looking for incriminating evidence. No doubt when he flew back from Spain, he’d deliberately let my house plants die as a way to punish me.

There must be something weird about me,
I was thinking as I stood on the balcony overlooking Paul’s magnificent gardens. I wasn’t that beautiful, or that unforgettable, or that indispensable, to any man. I stayed there and let Chris come up behind me and put his arm about my shoulders. I leaned my head against him and sighed, staring up at the moon. The same old moon that had known our shame before, still there to witness more. I didn’t do anything; I swear I didn’t, just let his arm
stay about me. Maybe I moved a little to contour myself against him when he had me in a tight embrace. “Cathy, Cathy,” he groaned, pressing his lips down into my hair, “sometimes life just doesn’t have any meaning without you. I’d throw away my M.D. and set out for the South Pacific if you’d go with me. . . .”

“And leave Carrie?”

“We could take her with us.” I thought he was playing a game of wishing, like we had when children. “I’d buy a sail boat and take out tourists, and if they cut themselves I’d have all the training to bandage their cuts.” He kissed me then with the fervor of a man gone wild from denial. I didn’t want to respond, yet I did, making him gasp as he tried to coax me into his room.

“Stop!” I cried. “I don’t want you except as a brother! Leave me alone! Go find someone else!”

Dazed and hurt-looking, he backed off. “What kind of woman are you anyway, Cathy? You returned my kisses—you responded in every way you could—and now you draw away and pull the virtuous act!”

“Hate me then!”

“Cathy, I could never hate you.” He smiled at me bitterly. “There are times when I want to hate you, times when I think you are just the same as our mother, but I don’t ever stop loving once I start!” He entered his room and slammed the door, leaving me speechless, staring after him.

No!
I wasn’t like Momma, I wasn’t! I’d responded only because I was still seeking my lost identity. Julian stole my reflection and made it his. Julian wanted to steal my strength and call it his own; he wanted me to make all the decisions, so he couldn’t be blamed when a mistake was made. I was still trying to prove my worth, so in the end I could disprove the grandmother’s condemnation.
See, Grandmother, I am not bad or evil. Or else everyone wouldn’t love me so much.
I was still that selfish, ravenous, demanding attic mouse who had to have it proven time and time again that I was worthy enough to live in the sunlight.

I was thinking about this one day when I was on the back veranda, and Carrie was planting pansies she’d grown from seed, and beside her were little pots with tiny petunia settings. Chris came out from the house and tossed me the evening newspaper. “There’s an article in there that might be of some interest to you,” he said in an off-hand way. “I thought about not showing it to you, but then I decided I should.”

The husband and wife ballet team of Julian Marquet and Catherine Dahl, our own local celebrities, seems to have parted company. For the first time Julian Marquet will partner a ballerina other than his wife in a major television production of
Giselle
. It has been rumored about that Miss Dahl is ill, and also rumored that the ballet team are about to split.

There was more to read, including the fact that Yolanda Lange was to replace me! This was our big chance—another of many, to make stars of ourselves, and he was putting Yolanda in my part! Damn him! Why didn’t he grow up? Every chance we had he blew it. He couldn’t lift Yolanda easily, not with his bad back.

Chris threw me a strange look before he asked, “What are you going to do about it?” I yelled back, “Nothing!” For a second or two he didn’t say anything.

“Cathy, he didn’t want you to come to my graduation, did he? And that’s why he’s put Yolanda in your role. I warned you not to let him be your manager. Madame Zolta would have treated you more fairly.”

I got up to pace the porch. Our original contract with Madame Z. had expired two years ago, and all we owed her now was twelve performances a year. The rest of the time Julian and I were freelance, and could dance with whatever company we chose.