Casteel 04 Gates of Paradise

by V. C. Andrews

  "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?

  "I don't know, Tony."

  "Well, you'll try, won't you? You'll at least try. Promise?"

  I hesitated, looking at him hopefully.

  "Well? Do you promise?"

  "I'll try, Tony. I promise."

  "Well now." He clapped his hands. "I'll just leave you to your work, then. In a day or so I expect to see something magnificent."

  "Don't expect too much, Tony. I was never really that good anyway and--"

  "You're much too modest. Drake has told me. He even brought back one of your paintings."

  "He did!" I exclaimed.

  "It's hanging in my office downstairs."

  "He didn't tell me he did that. Which painting?"

  "The one with the little sparrow on the magnolia tree. I love it. I hope you don't mind his bringing it to me."

  "It's not that I mind . . . but he should have told me. He should have asked," I said, gently chastising, even though I felt flattered and happy about Drake's appreciation of my artwork.

  "Well, I asked him to bring one and he was just trying to please me. Don't be too hard on him," Tony pleaded.

  "All right, Tony. I won't." He smiled and started to leave the room. "Tony," I called.

  "Yes?"

  "If Luke doesn't call by seven o'clock, I want you to have me taken to a phone to call him. I can't understand his failure to come or to respond to our letters and calls. Something must be wrong."

  "If something is wrong, Annie, you should be shielded from it awhile longer. I'll tell you what--I'll call him myself if he doesn't call."

  "But you just said you won't tell me if something is wrong."

  "I'll tell you. I promise."

  "Tony, I want a phone installed here. I can't stand the isolation. Please ask the doctor to put permit it."

  Tony seemed pained by my use of the word "isolation," but I couldn't help it. That was how I felt. He grimaced.

  "It's not that you're not doing everything you can for me, Tony. And I do appreciate it, really I do, but I miss my friends and the life I had before. I'm a young woman who was about to start the most exciting part of her life. I can't help being lonely, even though you and Drake have paid as much attention to me as you can. Please, speak to the doctor," I begged.

  His face softened. "Certainly. I'm sure he'll agree. You're on your way toward a full recuperation. I'm positive. Paint, eat well, rest, and you'll be on your feet sooner than you think."

  "Come right up after you call Luke." He nodded and left.

  I sat there quietly for a moment, thinking about all that had happened. Perhaps Tony was right . . I shouldn't dote on my illness and these sad thoughts any longer. He had promised to get rid of Mrs. Broadfield immediately. But even with a thoughtful, compassionate nurse, I would still feel entrapped.

  Tony could surround me with the most expensive equipment and bring me one thing after another: televisions, stereos, whatever, and I still wouldn't be content. I missed my own room, the scent of my linens and pillow, the fluffy feel of my feathered quilts. I missed my own dresses and shoes and combs.

  I missed giggling on the phone with girlfriends, listening to music alone or with friends at the luncheonette. I missed parties and dancing and laughing with people my age. I missed the simplest things and the most complicated things. I missed seeing flowers blossom in our front yard or watching Mommy crochet quietly in the living room. I missed Daddy reading the newspaper, turning those big pages thoughtfully, and occasionally looking over them to wink at me.

  Most of all "missed Luke. I missed the sight of him coming down the street or watching him without his being aware as he sat outside on the gazebo waiting for me. I missed our nightly talks on the phone.

  Once upon a time, hardly a day passed that we didn't see each other or speak to each other, and now he seemed thousands of miles away, a lifetime away, distracted by his own private world, perhaps. It tore my heart to shreds just thinking about it. But Tony was right. I shouldn't dote on my condition. The only way to be with Luke was to get hold of myself and make myself well again.

  I should begin to return to my former self as much as possible, and one way to start that return was to paint again. I wheeled myself to the easel and looked into the carton of supplies. Slowly, I unpacked the things I would need to begin.

  But what would I paint? 1 wondered. As if in answer, the window drew me to it and I gazed out toward the Tatterton family cemetery. I took out the pencil and began to sketch, working as if one of Rye Whiskey's spirits had taken hold of my arm and guided my fingers across the blank white sheet. And as I drew, the tears began to come.

  Just like any other time when I started a painting, I soon lost myself in my work. It was truly as though I had shrunk and become a tiny figure in the sketch, moving over the scene, di
recting my larger self to draw this and fix that. The world around me faded away; I lost track of time and even place. I didn't even hear Tony return, and I had no idea how long he was standing just behind me, watching me work. I jumped when I realized he was there.

  "Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you, but I didn't want to disturb you and ruin your mood. I know how you artists need your concentration. Jillian's just like that. I mean, she was just like that whenever she drew or painted something. I could be standing there for hours and hours and she wouldn't take the slightest note of it. It always amazed me--fascinated me, I should say--and I find you just as fascinating when you work, Annie," he added. He said it so intensely, I couldn't help but blush.

  He smiled and then remembered why he had come. "Oh. I wondered if you were going to need your sleeping pill. Before she left in a huff, Mrs. Broadfield left some instructions. If she hadn't, I would have reported her and she would have never gotten another job."

  "No, I think fall asleep without any help tonight,

  Tony. Thank you."

  "Fine. I'll just let you work awhile longer and then stop by to see if you need any assistance getting yourself to bed." He flashed a smile and started to leave.

  "Oh, Tony," I called. He turned back. "What happened when you phoned Luke?"

  "Oh, I haven't gotten to that yet, Annie. I dealt with Mrs. Broadfield first. I'm sure you understand. try to reach him right now," he said, and left. I went back to my work.

  Hours later I fell back in my chair, mentally exhausted. I had really been like one in a daze, because when I looked at my work now, it was as though someone else had done it and left it there before me.

  I had drawn a window frame to serve as the frame for the picture. The monument loomed large at the center of the picture, the other tombstones barely sketched in around it. There was a figure kneeling before the large stone. It wasn't Tony and it wasn't me; it was the dark, mysterious man I had seen before. His face was blank; but he was tall and lean.

  I looked at my palette and thought about the colors I would use. It seemed to me the painting should be all grays and blacks; they fit the mood. I decided to put off painting the morning, when I might be in a lighter and happier mood. When I turned from the window, I saw the charm bracelet Luke had given me. Mrs. Broadfield had taken it off quickly when she stripped me down after my stomach problems. Now it lay on the night table by the bed. It was well after eight PM, so Tony would have called him by now. Why hadn't he come up to report on the call as he had promised he would? Did this mean Luke was still unreachable or had made some other excuses for not coming to visit me?

  I sat back in my chair and took deep breaths to calm my pounding heart, which seemed more like a military drum being thumped in the middle of a battle. How I wished I could find things out for myself.

  I wasn't feeling sorry for myself as much as I was feeling angry, and something told me that was good, that was the beginning of a fight to return to health and strength. Frustration turned my hands into fists and tightened my spine like a rope being pulled firmly from both ends. None of this was going to change when Mrs. Broadfield's replacement arrived, no matter how nice she was.

  I would still have to get up when others wanted me to get up, eat when others wanted me to eat and what they wanted me to eat, take therapy when someone said it was time, nap at her command, dress, wash, go to the bathroom when she decided I should, and speak to people when she wanted me to speak to people. I've become a puppet, and my nurses, my doctors, even Tony, have become the puppeteers, I thought.

  "No!" I screamed to an empty room. I felt my anger and frustration flowing down my body, warming the blood that ran through my rebellious legs. Suddenly there was a twinge; something electric shot through my lower spine. At first it was like a pinprick on the backs of my thighs, then it became a tingling along my ankles and into the tips of my toes. I willed my feet to press against the pads of the chair.

  I felt the pressure against the soles of my feet. I felt tension in my legs, wobbly and weak, but nevertheless, tension. This time when I made an effort to rise out of the chair, I wasn't depending entirely on my arm strength. My legs were aiding. I was getting a response to my mental commands. It was working! I was doing it! Doing it! . . My entire body trembled, but I felt it . . . I could work myself into an unsteady standing position. I was making it happen, doing what I had taken for granted most of my life, but achieving what now was a major accomplishment! My heart pounded with anticipation and happiness. My body was responding!

  It seemed to take hours instead of moments, but I was rising out of the chair, guiding myself by holding the arms as I began to stand. Just as I reached the full upright position, my legs shaking like toothpicks asked to hold a weight far too heavy for them, Tony came in. He stopped and looked at me in amazement,

  "Tony . . . I just tried and it happened! My legs are working, Tony! Really beginning to work! But it feels so funny, like I'm standing on air." I wobbled when I laughed.

  "Easy," he said, stepping forward slowly and holding his hands out as though he were speaking to a potential suicide victim out on a window ledge. "Don't try to walk yet. You don't want to break any bones."

  He didn't look as happy and as excited by it all as I had expected he would. If anything, he looked annoyed. Why wasn't he as happy as I was? It was happening, what we had all hoped would happen was happening!

  "I'm going to get better! I am!" I emphasized, in an attempt to evoke some excitement in him. But he didn't change expression.

  "Of course you are," Tony said calmly. "But don't rush things now. Take it easy. You'd better sit down again," he said.

  "But I don't feel tired yet, and it feels so good to be standing on my own two feet! Oh, Tony, it feels so good . . . so wonderful to do a simple thing like stand up! I wish Drake could have been here to see; I wish Luke . . . what about Luke? You called him, didn't you?"

  "Yes, I called him," Tony said.

  "Oh, I'll stand for him! You'll tell me exactly when he's coming up and stand just as he comes through that door and--"

  "He can't come tomorrow," Tony declared flatly. "He has some sort of entrance exam to take."

  The excitement that had blown me up so, seeped out as if I were a leaking balloon. I could feel my newfound strength weakening, my pounding, stronger heart softening, that hateful shadow falling over it again.

  "What? But that can't possibly take him all day."

  "It's just not convenient. Maybe the day after or on the weekend. He wasn't sure."

  "Wasn't sure? Luke said he wasn't sure?"

  Suddenly my legs became like jelly. Without warning they lost all their firmness. I screamed. Tony lunged forward, unfortunately not reaching me in time to prevent me from crashing to the floor.

  EIGHTEEN Rebellion

  . The first thing I thought after I regained consciousness was I was wearing a different nightgown, one of the silk ones Tony had brought me at the hospital. That meant he had changed me before the doctor's arrival. But why? Had I torn it when I fell unconscious? It was embarrassing to realize he had taken off my nightgown and dressed me while I was unconscious. He was much older, a great-grandfather, but still . . . he was a man!

  Before I could ask him about it, he and Dr. Malisoff rushed into my room. My thoughts cleared and I remembered my physical accomplishments. It was happening--I was really recovering! Despite my collapse, I knew it was true. There was an end in sight to this existence as an invalid. My heart was cheered. Soon I would once again walk unaided, never again to be dependent upon nurses and doctors, medicines and equipment.

  I waited patiently but excitedly as Dr. Malisoff completed his examination of me--testing my reflexes. Tony waited near the door.

  As I lay there in bed, I again felt an awakening in my lower limbs and knew something significant had begun to happen. And even though the doctor wore his expressionless, analytical face, I could see something new in his eyes when he gazed down at me.

  "Well?" I
asked anxiously. Tony stepped forward to hear what he would say. "Am I

  improving?"

  "Yes," he said, "your legs are coming back; your reflexes are stronger."

  "Oh, thank God! Thank God! Thank God!" I chanted. I looked at Tony, but he seemed troubled. The doctor decided to have a quick consultation with him. I waited again as they spoke in the sitting room. Why they had to do it beyond my hearing, I couldn't understand. The only thing I could think was, he didn't want me to get too excited. When they returned, they both looked happier.

  "Annie," the doctor said, "you are definitely on the way to a complete recovery; however, it is very important, especially now, that you don't rush things and cause a setback."

  "Oh, I won't."

  "What you must do is follow my orders to the letter, okay?" I nodded. He could have told me to cut all the grass at Farthy with a pair of scissors and I would have agreed. "The reason you collapsed after you stood up is you are still physically exhausted. We want to build your strength for the battle ahead, now that your legs are returning. I am going to adjust your therapy. have given Mr. Tatterton some simple instructions to follow. In any case, I will return the day after tomorrow and examine you again."

  "Can't I begin to use the walker in the morning? I want to try to stand and walk as soon as I get up." Dr. Malisoif looked at Tony and then squeezed his chin with his thumb and forefinger as he considered me.

  "Annie, I've described the stages of your recuperation to Mr. Tatterton in great detail. Don't do anything without asking his permission first, okay?"

  "Yes, but--"

  "No buts. Buts create complications," he added, smiling. "Can I depend on you?" I shifted my eyes away, unable to hide the sad expression on my face. "Now, now, you should be happy. You're on your way." He patted my hand and started out. Tony shook his hand and then remained behind. He looked down at me with sad blue eyes.

  "After you passed out, I was sure we would have to bring you back to the hospital. Now we have good news, but you don't look happy."