Pearl in the Mist

by V. C. Andrews

  "Sure. I'm just so anxious to show you my progress. Progress," he added softly, "that came after I met you."

  "That's nice of you to say, Louis. But I don't know what I could have had to do with it."

  "I do," he said cryptically. "I'm warning you. I'll drive you crazy until you visit me," he teased.

  "All right," I said, laughing. "I'll come up on Sunday after dinner."

  "Good. Maybe by then I'll make even more progress and surprise you by telling you the color of your hair and the color of your eyes."

  "I hope so," I said, but after I hung up the phone, I felt a dark anxiety spiral its way up from the bottom of my stomach to my heart, where it settled like a dull ache. It was nice to have Louis feel that I was helping him, and it was flattering to think I could have such a dramatic impact on so serious a problem as blindness, but I knew he was putting too much importance on me and developing too much reliance on my company. I was afraid he would think he was falling in love with me and that he might even imagine that I was falling in love with him. Soon, I promised myself, soon I would tell him about Beau. Only now I was afraid it might shatter his delicate improvement; and his grandmother and his cousin, Mrs. Ironwood, would only have something else to blame on rue.

  I returned to my room and to my work and buried myself in the reading, the notes, and the studies because it kept me from thinking about all the sad things that had occurred and the heavy burdens I had been left to bear. The next day all of my teachers were understanding and cooperative, the warmest being Miss Stevens, of course. Returning to her class was like coming out of a dark, summer storm into the brightness of sunlight again. I returned to my unfinished paintings and we made a tentative date to meet at the lake on the school grounds Saturday morning to start some new work.

  Over the next few days, Gisselle continued to surprise me and the others with her new

  independence. Except for Kate's wheeling her about at times, she took care of her own needs. She kept the door to her room shut tight whenever she was in there. Samantha, on the other hand, looked sad and lost. Whenever Gisselle was with Kate and Jackie, the three ignored her. She trailed after them like a puppy dog who had been kicked and driven from its home but had nowhere else to go. Obviously under Gisselle's orders, Jacki and Kate joined her and refused to acknowledge or speak to Samantha. They acted as if she were invisible.

  "Why don't you try to make new friends, Samantha," I told her. "Perhaps you should even go to Mrs. Penny and request to be moved to a new quad."

  She shook her head vigorously. The thought of making such a dramatic break, even under these coinditions, terrified the shy, insecure girl.

  "No, it's all right. Everything will be all right," she said.

  On Thursday night, however, I returned from the library with Vicki and found Samantha curled up in her bed, sobbing softly. I closed the door and hurried to her bedside.

  "What is it, Samantha? What's my sister done now?" I asked in a tired voice.

  "Nothing," she moaned. "Everything's fine. We're . . . friends again. She's forgiven me."

  "What? What are you talking about? Forgiven you?"

  She nodded, but kept her back to me, the covers tightly wrapped around her body. Something about her behavior triggered my darker suspicions. My heart began to beat quickly in anticipation when I put my hand on her shoulder and she jumped as if I had touched her with fingers of fire. "Samantha, what happened here while I was away?" I demanded. She simply cried harder. "Samantha?"

  "I had to do it," she moaned. "They all made me. They all said I had to."

  "Do what, Samantha? Samantha?" I shook her shoulder. "Do what?"

  Suddenly she turned around and buried her face against my stomach while throwing her arms around my waist. Her body shook with sobs.

  "I'm so ashamed," she cried.

  "Ashamed of what? Samantha, you must tell me what Gisselle made you do. Tell me," I insisted, seizing her shoulders firmly. She sat back slowly, her eyes closed, and let her head fall back to the pillow. I realized she was naked under the blanket.

  "She sent Kate in to tell me to come into her room. When I did, she asked me if I wanted to be part of the group again. I said yes, but she said . . . she said I had to do penance."

  "Penance? What sort of penance?"

  "She said that while she was away, I dreamt of being like her. I wanted to be her, and that was why I used her lipstick and her makeup and her perfume. She said I was so sexually frustrated, I even put on her panties, but I didn't," Samantha insisted. "Honest, I didn't."

  "I believe you, Samantha. Then what

  happened?" Samantha closed her eyes and swallowed.

  "Samantha?"

  "I had to take off my clothes and get into the bed," she blurted.

  I held my breath, knowing what sort of sordid things Gisselle was capable of making her do.

  "Go on," I said in a breathy whisper.

  "I'm so ashamed."

  "What did she make you do, Samantha?"

  "They all did," she cried. "They taunted and cheered until I gave in."

  "Gave in to what?"

  "I had to take a pillow and pretend it was . . . Jonathan Peck. They made me stroke it and kiss it and . . ."

  "Oh no, Samantha." She shuddered with sobs.

  I stroked her hair. "My sister is a sick person. I'm sorry. You shouldn't have listened to her."

  "They all hated me," she cried in defense, "even the other girls in the dorm and the girls in our classes. No one would talk to me in the girls' room or in the lockers, and someone poured a bottle of ink over my social studies notebook today, blotting out all the pages." She cried harder.

  "All right, Samantha. It's all right," I said. I rocked her until her sobbing subsided. Then I stood up. "My sister and I are going to have a little chat right now."

  "NO!" Samantha said, seizing my hand. "Don't." Her eyes were wide with terror. "If you get her angry, she'll turn the girls against me again. Please," she begged. "Promise you won't say anything. She made me promise not to tell you what they made me do and she'll just accuse me of betraying her again."

  "She would make you promise that because she knows I'll go right in there and heave her out the window," I said. Samantha bit down on her lip, the alarm filling her face. "All right, don't worry. I won't do anything, but Samantha, are you all right?"

  "I'm okay," she said, wiping her face quickly. She forced a smile. "It wasn't so bad, and it's over. We're all friends again."

  "With friends like that, you don't need enemies," I said. "My grandmere Catherine used to say that even if we lived in a world without sickness and disease, without storms and hurricanes, droughts and pestilence, we would find a way to make the devil comfortable in our own hearts."

  "What?" Samantha asked.

  "Nothing. Are you moving back in with her?"

  "No. She still wants to live alone," Samantha said. "Is it all right if I continue to room with you?"

  "Of course. I'm just surprised. The second shoe hasn't dropped yet," I muttered, wondering what scheme Gisselle was designing to make life more unbearable for everyone, especially me, at

  Greenwood.

  The remainder of the week passed quickly and without incident. I didn't know whether being alone in the dorm and being responsible for taking care of her own basic needs was what exhausted her, but every morning when Kate finally wheeled her to the breakfast table, Gisselle looked half drugged. She sat there with her eyelids drooping and nibbled on something, barely paying any attention to the chatter around the table. She was usually the first to interrupt or to ridicule something someone else said.

  Then on Friday Vicki stopped me in the corridor after science class to tell me she had heard that Gisselle had fallen asleep in remedial reading. I imagined Gisselle was too stubborn to admit that caring for herself was draining her of whatever energy she possessed. Toward the end of the day, I stopped her in the corridor.

  "What is it?" she snapped. Fatigue made her even mor
e irritable than usual.

  "You can't go on like this, Gisselle. You're dozing in class, dozing at lunch, moping in your chair. You need help. Either take Samantha back in with you or move back with me," I said.

  The suggestion brought color to her face and perked her up.

  "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" she replied in a voice loud enough to attract everyone nearby. "You want me to be dependent, to have to scream for help whenever I want to brush my hair or my teeth. Well, I don't need you or darling Samantha in order to get myself around this school. I don't need anyone," she added and whipped the wheels of her chair hard to push herself off. Even Kate was left standing with her mouth open.

  "Well," I said, shrugging, "I'm glad she's trying to be independent. Let me know if she seems to be getting sick, though," I told Kate, who nodded and then ran after Gisselle. I went on to my art class.

  That night Beau phoned. I had been waiting anxiously for his call all week.

  "I thought I would sneak away tomorrow and come up to Baton Rouge to see you, but my father has restricted my use of the car since Daphne had a talk with him and my mother. She told them about my taking you up to the institution."

  "And that made them that angry?"

  "She said we disturbed Jean so much he has had to be given shock treatments."

  "Oh no. I hope it's a lie," I cried.

  "My father was furious, and then when she told them I was up in your room during the wake . . . I think she exaggerated what we were doing too."

  "How could she be so horrible?"

  "Maybe she takes lessons," Beau jested. "Anyway, I expect my restriction will be lifted at holiday time. It's only another ten days, right?"

  "Yes, but will your parents permit you to have anything whatsoever to do with me now?" I wondered aloud.

  "We'll manage. There's no way anyone can keep me from seeing you when you're here," he promised.

  He asked me about school, and I told him about Gisselle and how she was making everyone's life as miserable as she could.

  "You really have your hands full. It's not fair."

  "I made promises to my father," I said. "I have to try."

  "I overheard my father talking to my mother last night about Daphne," Beau said. "She and Bruce Bristow have made some drastic moves, foreclosing on some businesses and tenants to seize their property. My father said Pierre would never have been so cruel, even though it made good business sense."

  "I'm sure she's enjoying it. She has ice water running through her veins," I told him. Beau laughed and described again how much he missed me, how much he loved me, and how much he looked forward to our being together. I could almost feel his lips on mine when he threw me a kiss through the phone.

  When I returned to the quad, I half expected that Gisselle would be waiting for me in the lounge to interrogate me about the call, but she had the door to her room shut tight. Kate informed me that Gisselle had decided to go to sleep early. I thought about checking on her and reached for the doorknob, only to find she had locked the door. Surprised, I knocked gently.

  "Gisselle?"

  She didn't reply. Either she was already asleep or she was pretending to be.

  "Are you all right?"

  I waited, but there was no response. If that was the way she wanted it, I thought, that was the way it would be. I went to my own room to read and to write a letter to Paul before going to sleep. Miss Stevens and I had made a date to paint at the lake after breakfast the next day, and I was finally closing my eyes and looking forward to something again.

  Saturday morning was beautiful. The December sky was more of a crystalline blue, even the clouds looking like glazed alabaster. Miss Stevens was already at the lakeside, setting up our easels. I saw she had spread out a blanket as well and had brought a picnic basket along. The lake itself had a silvery blue sheen. Although the sun was bright, the air felt cool and invigorating. Miss Stevens saw me approaching and waved.

  "What a challenge it's going to be to mix paints to duplicate this color," she said, looking out over the water. "How are you?"

  "Fine and eager," I said, and we began. Once we got started, we both lost ourselves for a while in our work, the process itself absorbing us, seizing our minds. Often, would imagine myself to be one of the animals I painted in my settings, seeing the world from the eyes of a tern or a pelican, or even an alligator.

  We both had our concentration broken by the sound of hammering and looked at the boathouse to see Buck Dardar pounding on a lawn-mower blade. He paused as if he could feel our gazes and looked our way for a moment before starting again.

  Miss Stevens laughed. "For a while there I forgot where I was."

  "Me too."

  "Want something cold to drink? I've got iced tea or apple juice."

  "Iced tea will be fine," I replied. "Thanks."

  She asked me how Gisselle was coping since Daddy's death and our return, and I described her behavior. She listened keenly and nodded

  thoughtfully.

  "Let her alone for a while," she advised. "She needs to succeed at being independent. That will make her stronger, happier. I'm sure she knows you're there if and when she needs you," she added.

  I felt better about it, and then we painted some more before stopping to enjoy the picnic lunch she had prepared. As we sat on the blanket and ate and talked, other students walked by, some waving, some gazing curiously. I saw many of my teachers and even spotted Mrs. Ironside watching us for a few moments before crossing the campus.

  "Louis was right about this lake," I said when we resumed our work. "It does have a magic to it. It seems to change its nature, its color, and even its shape as the day moves on."

  "I love painting scenes with water in them. One of these days, I'm going to take a trip to the bayou. Maybe you'll come along as my swamp guide," she suggested.

  "Oh, there's nothing I'd love better," I said. She smiled warmly at me, and I felt as if I did have a big sister. It turned out to be one of the best days I had had at Greenwood.

  That night there was a pajama party at our dorm. Girls from the other dorms came over to listen to music, eat popcorn, and dance in the lounge. Afterward, they slept over, some sharing beds, some sleeping on blankets on the floors. During the night tricks were played. Some of the girls from the B quad downstairs went upstairs and knocked on a door. When the girls opened it, they threw pails of cold water over them and ran. Naturally, the girls upstairs had to respond. Somehow they had captured a couple of bullfrogs and cast them into the B quad lounge, sending the girls screaming through the corridors. Mrs. Penny was beside herself running from one section of the dorm to the other.

  To my surprise, Gisselle found all this immature and stupid, and rather than participating and devising things for her little group to do, she retreated again to the confines of her room, locking the door behind her. I began to wonder if she wasn't falling into a deep depression and if that wasn't partly responsible for her fatigue every morning.

  On Sunday I caught up on all my homework, studied for my English and math tests with Vicki, did my chores at dinner, and then dressed to go up to visit Louis. I told him not to bother Buck. I'd rather walk to the mansion. It was that nice a night, with a sky just blazing with stars, the Big and Small Dippers rarely as clearly delineated. I felt a pair of eyes on me as I walked and looked up and to my right to see an owl. I imagined that a human being walking alone at night through his domain was more of a curiosity to him than he was to me. It made me recall my life in the bayou and the feeling I used to have that animals there had grown accustomed to me.

  The deer had no fear about drawing closer. Bullfrogs practically hopped over my feet; ducks and geese flew so low over my head, I felt the breeze from their wings stir the strands of my hair. I was part of the world in which I lived. Maybe the owl here sensed I was a kindred spirit. He didn't hoot; he didn't fly away. He just lifted his wings gently, as if in greeting, and remained like a statue on a branch, watching.

  The large
plantation house loomed ahead of me, lights burning brightly on the galeries, even though many of the windows were dark. As I drew closer, I could hear the melodious tones of Louis's piano. I rapped on the door with the large brass ball knocker and waited. A few moments later Otis appeared. He wore a troubled look when he set eyes on me, but he bowed and stepped back.

  "Hello, Otis," I said cheerfully. His eyes shifted to the right to be sure Mrs. Clairborne wasn't watching from a doorway before he returned my greeting.

  "Good evening, mademoiselle. Monsieur Louis is waiting for you in the music studio. Right this way," he said, and began to lead me through the long corridor quickly, but I looked to my left just in time to see a door closing and thought I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Clairborne. Otis brought me to the studio doorway before nodding and retreating. I entered and watched Louis play for a few moments before he realized I had arrived. He wore a dark blue velvet sports coat with a white silk shirt and a pair of blue slacks. With his hair neatly brushed, he looked handsome. When he turned toward the door, he stopped instantly and sprung from his stool. I immediately noticed something different about the way he looked in my direction and the confidence with which he now walked.

  "Ruby!" He stepped quickly across the room to take my hand. "I can see you silhouetted clearly," he declared. "It's so exciting, even to view the world in grays and whites. It's so wonderful not to worry about bumping into anything. What's more, occasionally I get a flash of color." He reached up to touch my hair. "Maybe I'll see your beautiful hair before the evening comes to an end. I'll try. I'll think about it and I'll try, If I concentrate hard enough . . .

  "Oh," he said, stepping back a bit, "here I am going on and on about myself and not even asking you how you are."

  "I'm fine, Louis."

  "You can't be fine," he insisted. "You've been through a terrible time, a terrible time. Come, sit on the settee and tell me everything, anything," he said, still holding my hand and leading me toward the sofa. I sat down and he sat beside me.

  There was a new and brighter radiance in his face. It was as if with every particle of light that pierced the dark curtain that had fallen over his eyes, he came back to life, drew closer and closer to a world of hope and joy, returning to a place where he could smile and laugh, sing and talk and find it possible to love again.