Dollenganger 02 Petals On the Wind

by V. C. Andrews

  Slowly he puffed on the cigarette, and exhaled smoke. That smoke came my way and weaved around my head, neck, body--and chased off the scent of roses. "Remember when you came," he began, taking his time, "you were so bitter from your loss of Cory, to say nothing of how you felt about your mother. How could I tell you my own sordid story when already you'd known too much pain? How was I to know you and I would become lovers? You seemed to me only a beautiful, haunted child--though you've touched me deeply--always you've touched me. You touch me now, standing there with your accusing eyes. Though you are right. I should have told you.' He sighed heavily.

  "I told you about the day Scotty was three, and how Julia took him down to the river and held him under the water until he was dead. But what I didn't tell you was she lived on. . . . A whole team of doctors worked on her for hours on end trying to bring her out of the coma, but she never came out."

  "Coma," I whispered. "She's alive now, and still in the same coma?"

  He smiled so bitterly, and then looked up at the moon that was smiling too, sarcastically, I thought. He turned his head and allowed his eyes to meet with mine "Yes, Julia lived on, with her heart beating, and before you came along with your brother and sister I drove every day to visit her in a private institution. I'd sit beside her bed, hold her hand, and force myself to look at her gaunt face and skeleton body. . . . It was the best way I had to torment myself and try to wash away the guilt I felt. I watched her hair become thinner each day--the pillows, covers, everything covered by her hair as she withered away before my very eyes. She was connected to tubes that helped her to breathe, and a tube was in her arm through which she was fed. Her brain waves were flat, but her heart kept on beating. Mentally she was dead, physically she was alive. If she ever came out of the coma, she'd never speak, move, or even be able to think. She'd have been a living dead woman at the age of twentysix. That's how old she was when she took my son down to the river to hold him under the shallow water. It was hard for me to believe a woman who loved her child so much could drown him and feel his struggles to live . . . and yet she did it just to get back at me." He paused, flicked the ash from his cigarette and turned his shadowed eyes to me. "Julia reminds me of your mother. . . . Both could do anything when they felt justified."

  I sighed, he sighed, and the wind and flowers sighed too. I think those marble statues sighed along as well, in their lack of understanding the human condition. "Paul, when did you see Julia last? Doesn't she have any chance at all for a full recovery?" I began to cry.

  He gathered me in his arms and kissed the top of my head. "Don't cry for her, my beautiful

  Catherine. It's all over for Julia now; she is finally at peace. The year we became lovers, she died less than a month after we started. Quietly she just slipped away. I remember at the time you looked at me as if you sensed something was wrong. It wasn't that I felt less for you that made me stand back and look at myself. It was a blend of painful guilt and sorrow that someone as sweet and lovely as Julia, my childhood sweetheart, had to leave life without once experiencing all the wonderful, beautiful things it had to give." He cupped my face between his palms, and tenderly kissed away my tears. "Now smile and say the words I see in your eyes, say you love me. When you brought Julian home with you, I thought it was over between us, but now I can tell it will never be over. You've given me the best you have within you, and I'll know that even when you're off thousands of miles, dancing with younger and handsomer men . . . you'll be faithful to me, as be faithful to you. We'll make it work, because two people who are sincerely in love can always overcome obstacles no matter what they are."

  Oh . . . how could I tell him now? "Julia's dead?" I asked, quivering, deep in shock, hating myself and Amanda! "Amanda lied to me. . . . She knew Julia was dead, and yet she flew to New York to tell me a lie? Paul, what kind of woman is she?"

  He held me so tight I felt my ribs ache, but I clung just as fast to him, knowing this was the last time I could. I kissed him wild and passionately, knowing I'd never feel his lips again on mine He laughed jubilantly, sensing all the love and passion I had for him, and in a happy, lighter voice he said, "Yes, my sister knew when Julia died; she was at her funeral. Though she didn't speak to me. Now please stop crying. Let me dry your tears." He used his handkerchief to touch to my cheeks and the corners of my eyes, then held it so I could blow my nose.

  I'd acted the child, the impulsive, impatient child Chris had warned me not to be--and I had betrayed Paul who trusted me. "I still don't understand Amanda," I said in a mournful wail, still putting off that moment of truth I didn't know if I could face. He held me and stroked my back, my hair, as I clung with my arms about his waist, staring up into his face.

  "Sweetheart, Catherine, why do you look and act so strange?" he said in his voice that had gone back to normal. "Nothing my sister said should rob us of taking what joy we can from life. Amanda wants to drive me out of Clairmont. She wants to take over this house so she can leave it to her son, so she does her best to ruin my reputation. She's very active socially and fills the ears of her friends with lies about me. And if there were women before Julia drowned my son, that was lesson enough for me to change my ways. There was no other woman until you! I've even heard it rumored that Amanda has spread it about that I made you pregnant and your D & C was actually an abortion. You see what a spiteful woman can do-- anything!"

  Now it was too late, too late. He asked me again to stop crying. "Amanda," I said stiffly, my control about to break. "She said that D & C was the same as an abortion. She said you kept the embryo, one with two heads. I've seen that thing in your office in a bottle. Paul, how could you keep it? Why didn't you have it buried? A monster baby! It isn't fair--it isn't-- why, why?"

  He groaned and wiped his hand over his eyes, to quickly deny everything. "I could kill her for telling you that! A lie, Catherine, all a lie!"

  "Was it a lie? It could have been mine, you know that. For God's sake, Chris doesn't know--he didn't lie to me too, did he?"

  He sounded frantic as he denied everything, and sought once more to embrace me, but I jumped backward, and thrust forth both arms to ward him off. "There is a bottle in your office with a baby like that inside! I saw it! Paul, how could you? You, of all people, to save something like that!"

  "No!" he flared immediately. "That thing was given to me years ago when I was in med school--a joke, really--med students play all sorts of jokes you'd find gruesome, and I'm telling you the truth, Catherine, you didn't abort." Then he stopped abruptly, just as I did, with my thoughts reeling. I'd betrayed myself!

  I began to cry. Chris, Chris, there was a baby, there was a monster just like we feared.

  "No," said Paul again and again, "it's not yours, and even if it were, it wouldn't make any difference to me. I know you and Chris love each other in a special way. I've always known it, and I do understand."

  "Once," I whispered through my sobs, "only once on one terrible night.

  "I'm sorry it was terrible."

  I stared up at him then, marveling that he could look at me with so much softness and so much respect, even knowing the full truth. "Paul," I asked

  tremulously, timidly, "was it an unforgivable sin?"

  "No . . . an understandable act of love, I'd call it."

  He held me, he kissed me, he stroked my back and began telling me his plans for our wedding. ". . . and Chris will give you away, and Carrie will be your bridesmaid. Chris was very hesitant and wouldn't meet my eyes when I discussed this with him. He said he thought you weren't mature enough to handle a complicated marriage like ours will be. I know it's not going to be easy for you, or for me. You'll be touring the world, dancing with young, handsome men. However, I'm looking forward to accompanying you on a few of those tours. 'lb be the husband of a prima ballerina will be inspiring, exciting. Why, I could even be your company doctor. Surely dancers need doctors on occasion?"

  I went dead inside. "Paul," I began dully, "I can't marry you." Then, quite out of cont
ext, I went on, "You know, wasn't it stupid of Momma to hide our birth certificates inside the linings of our two suitcases? She didn't do too good a job and the linings ripped and I found them. Without my birth certificate I couldn't have applied for a passport, and I also needed that certificate to prove I was of age to apply for a marriage license. You see, several days before our company flew to London Julian and I had blood tests and our marriage ceremony was just a simple one, with Madame Zolta and the company dancers there, and even as I said my marriage vows, and swore fidelity to Julian . . . I was thinking of you, and Chris, and hating myself, and knowing I was doing the wrong thing."

  Paul didn't say anything. He reeled backward, then staggered over to fall upon a marble bench. For moments he just sat, and then his head drooped into his hands and hid his face.

  I stood. He sat. He lost himself somewhere, while I waited for him to come back and rail at me. But his voice when it came was as soft as a whisper, "Come, sit beside me for a while. Hold my hand Give me time to realize it's all over between us." I did as he said and held his hand, while both of us stared up at the sky full of diamonds and dark clouds.

  "I'll never hear your kind of music again without thinking of you. . . ."

  "Paul, I'm sorry! I wish to God I'd have listened to my instinct that told me Amanda was lying. But the music was playing where I was too and you were far away, and Julian was there, pleading with me, telling me he loved and needed me, and I believed him, and convinced myself you didn't really love me. I can't bear to be without someone who loves me."

  "I'm very happy he loves you," he said, then got up quickly and started for the house, his strides so long and fast I'd never catch up even if I ran. "Don't say another word! Leave me alone, Catherine! Don't follow me! You did the right thing--don't doubt that! I was an old fool, playing with a young one, and you don't have to tell me I should have known better--I already know that!"

  Too Many Loves To Lose

  . Gone as deaf and stony as one of Paul's marble statues, I sat on the veranda and stared up at the night sky that was turning stormy and black with clouds. Julian came out to sit beside me and in his embrace I began to softly cry. "Why?" he asked. "You do love me a little, don't you? Your doctor can't be really hurt; he was very kind to me, and told me to come out and comfort you."

  It was then that Henny came out to signal with her lightning-fast signs that her doctor-son was packing for a trip and I was to stay here. "What's she saying to you?" asked Julian with annoyance. "Damn, it's like hearing someone talk in a foreign tongue. I feel so left out."

  "Stay here and wait!" I ordered, then jumped up to race into the house and fly up the back stairs, then on into Paul's room where he was flinging his clothes into an open suitcase on his bed. "Look," I cried in distress, "there's no reason why you have to leave! This is your home. I'll go. I'll take Carrie with me, so you need never see my face again!" He turned to give me a long and bitter look as he went on putting shirts in his bag.

  "Cathy, you've taken the wife I expected to have, and now you want to take away my daughter. Carrie is like my own flesh and blood, and she wouldn't fit into your kind of life. Let her stay with me and Henny. Let me have something to call my own. I'll be back before you go . . . and you should know that Julian's father is very, very ill."

  "Georges is ill?"

  "Yes. Perhaps you don't know that he's had kidney disease for several years, and has been on a dialysis machine for months. I don't think he'll live much longer. He's not my patient, but I stop in to visit him as often as I can, more or less to hear about you and Julian. Now will you please get out, Cathy, and not force me to say things I'd regret."

  I cried face down on my bed until Henny came into my room.

  Strong, motherly, dark hands patted my back. Henny's misting, liquid brown eyes spoke when her tongue couldn't. She talked to me with her gestures, and then took from her apron pocket a clipping from the local newspaper. An announcement of my marriage to Julian! "Henny," I wailed, "what am I going to do? I'm married to Julian, and I can't demand a divorce; he depends on me, believes in me!"

  Henny shrugged her broad shoulders, expressing that people were as complex to her as they were to me. Then quickly she signaled, "Big sister always been big trouble maker. One man already hurt, no good hurting two. Doctor good man, strong man, will survive disappointment, but young dancing man might not. Wipe away tears, cry no more, put on big smile and go downstairs and take hand of new husband. For everything work out for the best. You see."

  I did as Henny directed, and joined Julian in the living room, and there I told him about his father being in the hospital, and not expected to live. His pale face went even whiter. Nervously he chewed on his lower lip. "It's really that serious?"

  It had been my opinion that Julian didn't care much for his father, so I was surprised to see his reaction. At that moment Paul came into the living room with his suitcase and offered to drive us to the hospital. "And remember, my house has plenty of rooms, and there is no reason at all why the two of you should even consider a hotel. Stay as long as you like. be back in a few days."

  He backed his car out of the garage so Julian and I could join him on the front seat. Hardly a word was said until he let us out in front of the hospital, and sadly I hesitated before the steps, watching Paul drive away into the night.

  They had Georges in a private room, and with him was Madame Marisha. When I saw Georges in the bed, I drew in my breath! Oh! To be like that! He was so thin he seemed already dead. His face had a grayish pallor, and every bone he had jutted forward to make jagged peaks beneath the thin skin Madame M. was crouched at his side, staring down into his gaunt face pleading with her eyes, commanding him to hold on and live! "My love, my love, my love," she crooned as to a baby, "do not go, do not leave me alone. We have so much to do yet, to experience yet. . . . Our son has to reach fame before you die. . . . Hold on, my love, hold on."

  Only then did Madame Marisha glance up to see us there, and with her same old authority she snapped, "Well, Julian. You did finally come! And after all the cables I sent you! What did you do, tear them up and dance on, as if nothing matters?"

  I blanched, very surprised, and looked from him to Madame. "My dear mother," he said coldly, "we were on tour, you know that. We had engagements and contracts, so my wife and I kept our

  commitments."

  "You heartless brute!" she snarled, then gestured for him to come closer. "Now you say something kind and loving to that man on the bed," she hissed in a whisper, "or so help me God I'll make you wish you were never born!"

  Julian had a great deal of trouble making the effort to approach the bed, so much so I had to give him a shove, while his mother sobbed into a handful of pink tissues. "Hello, Father," was all he could manage, along with, "I'm sorry you are so ill." Quickly he came back to me, and held me hard against him I felt his whole body trembling.

  "See, my love, my sweetheart, my darling," crooned Madame Marisha again, once more bending above her husband and smoothing back his damp, dark hair. "Open your dear eyes and see who has flown thousands of miles to be at your side. Your own Julian and his wife. All the way from London they flew the moment they knew you were so sick. Open your eyes, my heart, see him again, see them together, such a beautiful pair of newlyweds--please open your eyes, please look."

  On the bed the pale, thin wraith of a man slitted his dark eyes and they moved slowly, trying to focus on Julian and me. We were at the foot of his bed, but he didn't seem to see us. Madame got up to push us closer, and then held Julian there so he couldn't back off. Georges opened his eyes a bit wider and thinly smiled. "Ah, Julian," he sighed. "Thank you for coming. I have so much to say to you--things I should have said before. . . ." He faltered, stammered, "I should have--" and then he broke off. I waited for him to continue--and I waited. I saw his wide open eyes glaze and go blank and his head stayed so still. Madame screamed! A doctor and nurse came on the run, and shooed us out as they began to work over Georges.<
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  We formed a pitiful group in the hall outside his room, and in only a short while the gray-haired doctor came out to say he was sorry, all had been done that could be done. It was over. "It is better so," he added. "Death can be a good friend to those in extreme pain. I wondered how he held on so long. . . ."

  I stared and stared at Julian, for we could have come back sooner. But Julian made his eyes blank and refused to speak. "He was your father!" screamed Madame as tears streaked her cheeks. "For two weeks he suffered, waiting to see you before he could let himself die and escape the hell of living on!"

  Julian whirled, his pale skin flamed with bright red fury, as he lashed out at his mother, "Madame Mother, just what did my father give me? All I was to him was an extension of himself! All he was to me was a dance instructor! Work, dance, that's all he ever said! He never discussed what I wanted besides the dance; he didn't give a damn what else I wanted, or what else I needed! I wanted him to love me for myself; I wanted him to see me as his son, not just as a dancer. I loved him; I wanted him to see I loved him, and say he loved me in return . . . but he never did! And try as I would to dance perfectly, he never gave me a compliment-- for I didn't do anything nearly as well as he could have done it when he was my age! So, that is what I was to him, somebody to step into his shoes and carry on his name! But, damn him, and you, I've got my own legal name . . . Julian Marquet, not Georges Rosencoff, and his name will not live on and steal from me what fame I achieve!"

  I held Julian in my arms that night,

  understanding him as I hadn't before. When he broke and cried, I cried along with him, for a father he'd professed to despise, when underneath he loved him. And I thought of Georges, and how sad it was that he tried, too late, to say what he should have years and years ago.

  So we'd come from a honeymoon where we had achieved a certain amount of fame and publicity, and given many, many hours of hard work, only to attend the funeral of a father who wouldn't live to know about his son's accomplishments. All the glory of London now seemed shrouded in funeral mists.