Secrets 02 Secrets in the Shadows

by V. C. Andrews

  "That will be something. I'm happy for you, Alice. Really, I am," she said.

  "Thank you, Grandma. Where's Grandpa?"

  "He went down to the grocery for me. We need some milk for the morning. Do you want him to call you when he comes home?"

  "No, it's fine. Tell him hi and . . ." "Yes?"

  "That's all. I'll talk to you in a few days," I said. "Bye."

  "Okay, Alice. Take care of yourself," she said, her voice drifting off, as if the phone line had been dying slowly or as if she'd been on a ship leaving port.

  I'm the ship leaving port, I thought and hung up. Aunt Zipporah was watching me.

  "Everything all right?"

  "Yes," I said. "It's fine."

  "Good."

  She returned to work, helping to put away some things in the refrigerators.

  I watched a dark-haired boy in jeans and a sweatshirt with cutoff sleeves come in and

  deliberately choose a table in the far right corner of the cafe. He sat and started to read what looked like a notebook. I glanced at Cassie, who looked up at him and then back at her textbook.

  How odd, I thought and walked over to her. "Want me to take him?" I asked.

  "Take him as far away as you can," she replied. "If he orders anything, it will only be a cup of coffee, and he'll spend an hour sipping it and sitting at the table. He'll leave you a dime."

  She returned to her reading.

  Everyone else was occupied, and there were no other customers in the cafe who needed attention at the moment. The boy, who looked old enough to be in college, didn't seem to care or mind that no one was hurrying to attend to him. He continued scribbling in his notebook, his head down. When I approached him, he didn't look up until. I said, "Excuse me."

  When he looked up, I was looking into what I thought were the deepest dark green eyes I had ever seen. He was good-looking, with a strong, firm mouth, nearly perfect nose and sharply cut jaw. He pushed back some strands of his hair and looked at me as if I had said the most unusual or weird thing.

  "You're excused," he said and looked at his notebook again.

  "I meant, can I help you?"

  "Oh." He looked up at me again, this time more intently. "You're new here, huh?"

  "No. I've been here summers for the past two years."

  "Summers," he said disdainfully. "I've just started coming in here this past spring, so you're new to me."

  "Whatever," I said. "Are you here for anything?"

  He looked around as if this was the first time he was asked and wasn't sure what the cafe was or had to offer.

  "Coffee," he said. "Black. Hot."

  He returned to his notebook. I glanced at Cassie, who was watching, a wry smile on her face. She shrugged at me and returned to her textbook. I went to get the boy his coffee. He didn't look up as I returned or even when I put it on his table, but just as I turned to leave him, he asked, "Are you going to college here?"

  "No. I'm going to start high school here in the fall, however."

  He looked back at his notebook as though I held no more interest since I wasn't a college student. "I'm going to live with my aunt and uncle, who own this cafe," I added, feeling the need to impress him with something. He looked up with real interest. "Where are your parents?"

  "I don't have parents to take care of me," I replied.

  He stared with his mouth slightly open. I waited another few moments, and then I went back to the counter. Mrs. Mallen had returned, and she began asking me questions about my grandparents, my school year. It was pretty obvious to me that Aunt Zipporah had told her nothing. She did express some concern about my limp.

  "I don't recall your limping last summer."

  "I was in an automobile accident," I said, "and had to have an operation. This is the best they could do for me."

  "Oh my.--I' m so sorry. You don't seem that disabled, however," she added quickly.

  "No, I don't seem so," I said.

  Some new customers arrived for a late dinner, and Cassie rose to take care of them. I glanced at the boy, whom I caught looking at me periodically now. Aunt Zipporah came out from the kitchen and asked me to accompany her to the grocery store.

  "They won't need us here anymore tonight, and I have things I have to get for the house."

  I nodded, made out the check for the boy in the corner and went to his table.

  "Do you want anything else?" I asked him. He looked up.

  "Yeah. World peace," he said.

  "Very funny. I have to go. You can pay this at the cash register," I said and left the check.

  "Wait a minute."

  "Yes."

  "You always have that limp?"

  "No. I was in a car accident."

  He nodded, as if he had expected that answer.

  What a rude person, I thought. Most people wouldn't be so abrupt and direct when it came to someone who had a physical disability

  "Were you the driver?"

  "Did you sue?"

  "No," I said, smirking "The boy driving died."

  "Really?"

  "Yes really. Do you have enough yet for your news article?" I asked.

  "Not yet, butI'll keep working on it."

  "Work on your manners, too," I said and left him.

  "What were you talking so much about with Duncan Winning?" my aunt asked after I took off my waitress apron and we started out of the cafe.

  "He was being nosy, asking one question after another. You know him?"

  "Know of him thanks to Mrs. Mallen, who knows all the local gossip and is better than the local newspaper. She says his mother is very involved with her church and pastor." She winked. "Maybe too involved, according to Mrs. Mallen."

  "What happened to his father?"

  "She says he ran off and left them when Duncan was ten or eleven."

  "Does he attend college here?"

  "No. He's still in high school. I hear he's a very bright boy, but very strange." She paused and, with a half smile, added, "Be careful, Alice. You don't need any more strange people in your life. We're enough."

  I laughed, but when I looked back through the window at Duncan Winning, I saw he was looking after me.

  And he was smiling.

  12 A New Room

  . After I helped Aunt Zipporah get the things she needed for the house, I wanted to help her put things away, but she wouldn't hear of it.

  "I can take care of it, Alice. You should rest, get yourself acclimated," she told me. "I rushed you out before to get to the restaurant."

  "This isn't my first time staying here, Aunt Zipporah. I don't need to get acclimated."

  "No, but you've been through a lot more than

  you might realize. And here you are putting down

  stakes in a new world. You deserve some time to

  yourself, honey. Besides, I want you to start thinking

  how you would fix up the room to your liking.

  Change anything you want and let me know what else

  you need, lamps, pillows, anything. The room is never

  used until you're here anyway. Tyler's parents are both

  gone, and his sister lives in Canada, as you know." "I don't have to change anything," I said. "You'll see. You're going to be living in that

  room for quite a while now," she said. "I don't want

  you just to be comfortable. I want you to like where

  you are," she added. It almost sounded like a warning. "Okay, Aunt Zipporah."

  She paused, put her hands on her hips and

  squinted at me with a half smile on her face. "You know what, Alice. I know it's a sign of

  respect and everything, but you don't have to call me

  Aunt Zipporah all the time. You can just call me

  Zipporah. Besides, I'd like us to be friends more than

  relatives, if you know what I mean."

  I smiled. "Yes, I do. Thanks."

  "That's nice to see, Alice."

  "What is?"

  "Your smil
e," she said. She gave me a kiss on

  the cheek and I went to my room.

  I finished unpacking what I had brought and

  thought about what Aunt Zipporah asked me to do. I

  knew that my grandmother was always itching to get

  her hands on the inside of this house. Whenever we

  had made a trip here and were heading home, she

  would rattle off a list of things she would do, from

  repainting rooms, to covering bare wood floors, as

  well as changing furniture, hanging pictures and

  certainly replacing the "old, tired window curtains that

  droop over those windows. I'm afraid my daughter

  was never much of a homebody," she told me.

  "Sometimes, I think she and Tyler could live well in a

  tent." My grandfather always laughed about it.

  "They're ex-hippies, Elaine."

  "Please, spare me."

  "That's what makes for horse races," he would

  say. "Everyone's different."

  My grandmother would just grunt.

  She was right about the windows, however. The

  curtains--a sheer, faded white material that had long

  lost its shape--did seem to droop rather than hang.

  Years and years of sunlight had beaten them to

  nothing more than yellowing rag material. My

  grandmother was sure to be here soon. Why not

  impress her by fixing up this room? I thought. And

  then I realized what Aunt Zipporah was really after in

  asking me to do this. She wanted to be sure I was

  committed to living here and I wasn't only playing

  with the idea. When my grandmother saw the

  changes, she would-be convinced of my intentions as

  well.

  I started to make a mental list.

  Besides the curtains, I thought we should put

  down some area rugs. The floor had grayed and aged,

  especially in the corners. I didn't feel right asking for

  a full carpet, but area rugs would help. I would get something happier for bedding. The drab light brown comforter added nothing to the queen- size bed. It had a blah headboard, just a smooth piece of wood and no footboard. It needed help. The room could use more lighting. A standing lamp at least, set up near the small desk in the corner, would work, especially when

  I was attending school and doing homework in here. I looked at the large and smaller dresser. On

  both, the handles and the wood itself needed a good

  polishing. They looked like leftovers from a thrift

  shop somewhere. They probably were, I thought.

  While Aunt Zipporah tended to some other things

  around the house, I went down the hall to the pantry

  and located the cleaning materials, a pail, and a mop,

  and began working on the room. Because the curtains

  did little in the way of blocking the sunlight anyhow, I

  took them down and folded them. My cleaning and

  polishing didn't make a dramatic difference, but at

  least it made some difference.

  Aunt Zipporah stopped in and looked around. "So I see you took my advice and began.

  Good," she said. "What else would you do?" I rattled off my mental list, and she agreed. "All good ideas. Let's get on that in the

  morning. Tyler won't need us until just before lunch. It'll be fun," she added, nodding as she looked around the bedroom. "I haven't done anything with this house for some time. As I'm sure my mother has told you

  many times," she added, winking.

  I laughed. There was no sense denying it. We

  both knew Grandma too well.

  "I'm tired, and Tyler will be home any minute.

  I'm going up to do some reading. Do you need

  anything else?"

  "No, I'm fine, Aun . . . Zipporah."

  "That's it," she said. "Welcome back, honey. I

  hope it works for you. You deserve a break." "Thanks," I said. She gave me a hug and went

  upstairs.

  Although I had slept here so many times before,

  the realization that this was to be my home for at least

  a year, if not more, settled in. When I came here for

  the summers, it was more like an extended weekend.

  In the middle of both summers I returned to the Doral

  House for my grandfather's birthday. I never felt very

  far away or apart from either him or my grandmother,

  but after the accident and all that aftermath and now

  with my new plans unfolding, Aunt Zipporah was

  right: this did feel different.

  For one thing, there was nothing here that in any way attached me to or suggested my mother. Maybe my grandmother didn't understand, or maybe it was because she did understand that she was always so frightened about my wanting to be in the attic so much, but I wanted to be in there because it was there that I felt close to my mother. There I could imagine her, paint her, act as she might have acted and, in

  doing all that, keep myself close to her.

  Sometimes, when I returned from school and

  went up to the attic, I imagined her waiting for me.

  She would, as any mother would, be full of questions

  about my schoolwork, my friends, my interests and

  activities. I pretended she was there, because even if it

  was only in my imagination, there was someone there

  to listen to my complaints.

  Without the attic, there was no way to pretend

  here. I was really on my own finally, and that was

  good. I realized that without that independence, I

  would always be disabled in more than just the

  physical way.

  I loved both my uncle and my aunt and really

  did enjoy being with them, but when I dressed for bed

  and turned off the lights, even the stars I saw through

  the window looked sad and alone, blinking away

  tears, crying for me. There was a different kind of silence here, too. This house didn't creak as much as the Doral House, and I was downstairs, not upstairs. Any sounds my aunt and uncle made were carried off in a different direction, except, of course, for their

  footsteps.

  Once last summer, I woke in the middle of the

  night and heard their footsteps. I had forgotten where

  I was and I sat up, my heart pounding, because I

  thought I was back in the Doral House hearing my

  mother walking back and forth above me in the attic. I

  thought I wasn't imagining it. Then I realized I was at

  my uncle and aunt's home and it was the two of them

  walking. I relaxed, but I'll never forget the

  disappointment I felt, too.

  Now I lay back on the pillow and listened with

  my eyes opened, and I thought that somewhere out

  there, somewhere far away, my mother was asleep or

  lying in bed as I was. Perhaps her eyes were opened

  too, and maybe, just maybe, she was remembering

  giving birth to me and wondering what I was like

  now, what I looked like, and thinking about what she

  would say to me if, we ever met.

  I felt sorrier for her than I did for myself. Imagine not remembering you had lost

  something, someone, so precious, and then one day

  realizing it.

  It would come like a hard blow from out of the

  blue. It had to be terribly frightening. How do you forget something so traumatic and important to you? Maybe she began to shout and they had to give

  her something to keep her quiet.

  And maybe that caused her to forget again, and

  just like a bubble popping, I was gone, lost to th
at

  place where everything forgotten and never retrieved

  is stored somewhere so deep down in the darkness

  that even God had forgotten it existed.

  I shuddered and closed my eyes.

  Sleep surprised me like raindrops surprised the

  surface of a lake.

  Tyler was always up early, even before the sun

  had risen. Both summers I was here, I found he was as

  good as any alarm clock, because he was not lightfooted and he had to have a cup of coffee before he

  left for the cafe. Aunt Zipporah told me he does it half

  out of a need to make our kitchen necessary. "He

  believes things are like people. If they're not needed

  or used, they fall apart faster."

  The cacophony of sounds coming from the

  kitchen, cups clanking, cabinet doors banging, chairs

  screeching as they were glided over the floor, and the pot itself being rapped on the stove, would make anyone imagine a monkey had gotten loose in the house. Aunt Zipporah would chastise him, reminding him I was there, sleeping downstairs, and he always promised to take care next time to be quieter, but I think he was always too lost in his own thoughts to

  remember that sort of promise.

  I saw no reason to stay in bed anyway, so I

  rose, washed and dressed before he left. He was

  sitting and sipping his coffee when I entered the

  kitchen. The sun had just begun to peek over the

  horizon, and early rays made the world look slightly

  tinted red. The sleeping birds began to stir, and I

  could hear them chirping just outside the opened front

  windows.

  Uncle Tyler looked up, surprised.

  "Hey. You're up? Oh no, I made too much

  noise" "I'm glad you did," I said and poured myself a

  cup of coffee.

  "Mornings are the best time of day for me," he

  said. "Zipporah likes to read herself to sleep and could

  be up into the wee hours. Me? I hit the pillow and I'm

  off. It gets her so annoyed. Sometimes, I try to stay

  awake just to make her happy, but my eyelids have a

  mind of their own."

  I laughed and sat across from him.

  "So," he said, "tell me. It was terrible for you,

  the accident, all of it, right? I imagine you don't want

  to relive those details."

  "No, enough time's gone by." I explained about