Garden of Shadows (Dollanganger)

by V. C. Andrews

  For days he wouldn’t mention her name, nor would anyone in his presence. If he said anything, it was always prefaced with, “When this is over …” I could imagine his nightmares, the nightmares that shadowed his days. Corinne’s hauntingly beautiful face had seized him and dragged him into endless dreams of loss and defeat. They lingered on the surface of his skin until he became a ghost himself.

  John Amos and I would take out the Bible and lay it across Malcolm’s chest, open to the pages we wanted to read. I had, like Malcolm before me, gone through a transformation with John Amos’s help. I now knew I could trust his connection to God completely, for, not even knowing the secret about just who Corinne was, he had instinctively seen the truth, and tried to lead me to it before it was too late. But I, indeed, had been too blind to see. I was determined never to be blinded again. “Olivia,” John Amos would comfort me, “the ways of the Lord are mysterious but always just. I know He will give you an opportunity to redeem the heinous sin of your daughter and her uncle.”

  His words froze my heart.

  “The truth is always found in our Lord,” he continued. “Get down on your knees, woman, and save your soul.”

  “I can’t get down on my knees, for I haven’t been honest with the Lord. You don’t know the whole truth.”

  “Come, Olivia, confess everything.”

  I knelt beside him. “Oh, John, it’s worse than you imagined.” I felt the devil gripping my throat, but I forced the words through his evil fingers. “Christopher is not really Corinne’s half uncle. He is her half brother.”

  “What! My God, woman, how could this happen!”

  “You see, John Amos, Malcolm was in love with Alicia and he made her pregnant after Garland died, and he forced her to give Corinne to us. And then she went away. And no one ever knew I wasn’t really Corinne’s mother.” I looked at the floor, my face filled with shame, too much shame to face John Amos.

  “Rise up, woman,” he commanded me. “For you know the depth of your sin—you have not so much sinned as been sinned against, and God has already sent down his sword to fell your husband. He shall do the same to his children, I assure you, He shall do the same. Now we must watch over Malcolm, Olivia, watch over his business dealings, take control of this heathen household and turn it to God again. Let us pray, Olivia. Our Father, who art in heaven …”

  As though my confession brought hope back into Foxworth Hall, Malcolm’s speech began improving. The doctor explained that although he might improve even more, he would never speak normally again. Because of the way his facial muscles had collapsed, he looked as though he wore a perpetual happy smile. In a strange, almost eerie way, that smile of distortion suggested the charm and handsomeness he had once enjoyed as a young man. It was as though a mask of his former self had been cast in ceramic and pressed onto his face forever.

  When I felt charitable, I permitted him to be wheeled to his desk so he could look over the papers and the business dealings I had managed. At first I simply followed the regular order of things, studying Malcolm’s work and making decisions in a like manner. But after a while, when I felt confident enough, I made decisions that were purely my own. I moved money around the stock market, changed procedures in some of the mills, bought and sold some real estate.

  At first he was shocked by my independent activity. He demanded I return things to the way they had been, but I ignored those demands.

  I had also provided a large annual salary for John Amos, transferring funds regularly to his personal accounts. Despite Malcolm’s illness, it took him only moments to realize it. He held up the bank statement.

  “Malcolm, you have to understand that things are not as they were. You should be grateful for what you have left considering all that you brought upon yourself. And you should be grateful that you have me and John Amos at your side. Could you imagine a woman like Alicia or even your daughter contending with all this? Would she be able to assume these business responsibilities? Would things be running as smoothly? Could she even set eyes on you in your deformed state?” I asked bitterly. “What she would do is run off with all your money; that’s what,” I added in a fury. I walked over to the desk and easily took the bank sheet out of his hands.

  One day, almost two years after his stroke, Malcolm looked up from his wheelchair while I worked behind his desk. I had him wheeled into the library occasionally while I worked and read him some of the decisions I had made and some of the results. I knew he didn’t want to be there, and he especially didn’t want to hear of my actions; but it brought me some pleasure, so I had him wheeled in and excused his nurse.

  This particular day, an early spring day, the sunlight pouring through the window behind me and warming my back, I saw that Malcolm had a new expression on his face. It was a softer expression than usual. His eyes were gentle, the blue in them almost warm. I knew he was thinking of something that brought him good memories. I paused in my work and looked up expectantly.

  “Olivia,” he said. “I must know something; I must learn something. Please,” he pleaded. “I know you have hard feelings for me, but be merciful enough to grant me this one request.” I was reminded of the Malcolm who had first come to New London, the one who filled my heart with such hope and promise, the one who had walked with me along the ocean front and made me feel I could be cherished and loved like any other woman.

  “What is this request?” I asked, sitting back in the seat. He leaned forward hopefully.

  “Hire some detectives to find out what happened to Corinne and Christopher. Where have they gone? What are they doing? And … and …”

  “And if they have had any deformed children?” I asked coldly. He nodded.

  “Please,” he begged, leaning as far forward as he could in his wheelchair.

  So many nights I had lain awake thinking about Christopher and Corinne, trying to harden my heart against them, but in a small corner that perhaps even God didn’t see, loving them still. “You told her she was dead that day she revealed her love for Christopher. Resurrecting her now will bring only pain and agony.”

  “I know, but I can’t face the fact that I will go to my death not knowing the full extent of what … of what I’ve begun. Please grant me this. I beseech you. I promise never to ask anything else of you, to make no demands, to sign over anything you want, whatever,” he said. The tears rolled from his eyes, a symptom of his condition. He often cried at the slightest provocation, but the doctor told me he was often not aware of it himself.

  To me he looked pitiful.

  Suddenly, a feeling of utter defeat came over me as I looked at the broken, twisted man in the wheelchair. For the first time, I realized that something of mine had been damaged. Once I had had a strong, powerful husband, a man respected and feared in the community and business world. Despite what our relationship had been, I was still Olivia Foxworth, wife of Malcolm Foxworth, a leader of men. Now I had a pathetic invalid, merely a shadow of his former self.

  In a real sense, Corinne and Christopher had done this to us. Where were they now? How well had they fared? Did the God who could wreak such havoc and vengeance upon the House of Foxworth follow them too?

  “Very well,” I said. “I will do so immediately.”

  “Oh, thank you, Olivia. God bless you.”

  “It’s time for you to go back to your room and rest,” I told him.

  “Yes, yes. Whatever you say, Olivia.” He turned about, making a pathetic effort to wheel himself away. I called for the nurse and she pushed him to his room. All the while he kept mumbling, “Thank you, Olivia. Thank you.”

  I sent for John Amos immediately.

  “I want you to go into Charlottesville,” I said as soon as he came into the library, “and hire the best detectives you can find to trace the whereabouts of Corinne and Christopher. I want to know all about them, every little detail that can be discovered.”

  John scowled.

  “What is the reason for this?” he asked. Then he saw the anger ris
e in my face. “Of course, if it’s what you want.”

  “It’s what I want,” I said distinctly.

  He nodded quickly. “I’ll go immediately.”

  A little more than a month later, we received our first detailed report. John Amos brought the detective into the library. Malcolm was still in his room. I wasn’t going to tell him anything until I learned it first myself.

  The detective was a homely little man who looked more like a bank teller. Later I was to learn that that was an advantage for him. No one took any notice of him. His name was Cruthers and he had poor-fitting thick-lensed glasses that continually slipped down the bridge of his nose as he spoke. I was impatient with him, but I forced myself to listen.

  “They live under the name of Dollanganger,” he began. “That’s why it took me a while to track them down.”

  “I’m not interested in the details of your struggle, Mr. Cruthers. Just give me the facts you have learned,” I demanded sternly.

  “Yes, Mrs. Foxworth. Christopher Dollanganger is working as a public relations executive for a large firm located in Gladstone, Pennsylvania. From what I could gather, he is very well liked,” he added.

  “Public relations?” I said.

  “Of course, after you and Malcolm pulled out your financial support of Christopher, he could not continue in medical school,” John Amos said, and smiled. Cruthers stared at John.

  “Go on with your report, Mr. Cruthers,” I commanded.

  “Mrs. Dollanganger is considered an attractive and good wife and mother.”

  “Mother?” I said quickly.

  “They presently have a son, a boy almost two. The boy’s name is Christopher.”

  “What have you learned about him?” I asked softly. My heart beating quickly in anticipation.

  “A beautiful child,” he said. “I saw him. Golden hair, blue eyes. Seemingly a bright boy.”

  “It can’t be,” I said. I sat back. “These are not the same people. Perhaps these two are a different Christopher and Corinne. Yes,” I said, convinced of the possibility. “You’ve traced the wrong couple.”

  “Oh, but pardon me, Mrs. Foxworth, no. No, there’s no doubt about who they are. I had pictures, don’t forget. I’ve seen them both close up. They are your Christopher and Corinne.”

  “They are not mine,” I insisted. He looked to John Amos and then stood there silently. “What else have you learned about them?” I asked.

  “Well now, Mrs. Dollanganger is pregnant again,” he said tentatively.

  “Pregnant?” I looked to John Amos. There was a wry smile on his face again. He nodded. “This time the child will be different,” I whispered.

  “What’s that, Mrs. Foxworth?” Cruthers asked.

  “Nothing. I want you to stay with this and report here the day Mrs. Dollanganger gives birth. I want to know all about the new child. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I do, Mrs. Foxworth. I’ll stay on it. She’s due soon.”

  “Good,” I said. “You shall receive a check in the mail tomorrow.” I gestured for John Amos to show the detective out.

  For a while I simply sat there digesting the information. Then I rose and started for Malcolm’s door. I paused just before opening it.

  No, I thought. Not yet. Not until we know about the new child.

  19

  The End of the Line

  THE DAYS, THE MONTHS, THE YEARS PASSED, TRICKLING like grains of sand through an infinite hourglass. I found relief only in prayer and work. Cruthers had made two more appearances at Foxworth Hall, the first to announce the birth of a healthy girl named Cathy; the second, eight years later, to make an even more startling announcement—the birth of twins, a boy and a girl, once again healthy and perfect. It seemed Christopher and Corinne’s family were all bright and beautiful; in fact, Mr. Cruthers reported, they were known in their town as the Dresden dolls, because of their beautiful blond hair, their blue eyes, their flawless complexions.

  I never told Malcolm about Mr. Cruthers’s visits. His stroke had aged him quickly, although he seemed to have reached a point from which he would degenerate no further.

  Of course, his temperament changed. In the beginning, when he first had his stroke and his heart attack, there was still some fight left in him; he hadn’t accepted his condition as permanent then. But when he sat in his wheelchair now, there wasn’t that impatience, that stiff, demanding posture that revealed the battle continuing within him. The defiance that had once resided in his blue eyes gradually departed. His eyes dimmed like candles in the night, their once bright flames growing smaller and smaller as they lost the energy that had once fueled them.

  And the shadows began to move in around him. Often I would find him content to sit in the darkest corner of his room or of the foyer. This man, who had once moved with such energy and power that he appeared to manufacture his own light, now sat draped in darkness. Slowly, with painstaking determination, the shadows of Foxworth Hall were claiming him.

  Although his speech had improved to the point where he was easily understood by anyone, he began to refrain from conversation. His nurses, and he had nearly a dozen different ones over the years, learned to read his gestures and knew what he wanted when he waved his hand or jerked his head. The only times his voice rose was when he joined John Amos and me in our daily prayers.

  I knew that his effort to survive and bear the pain and indignity of age and sickness came from his great desire to see and believe in his own redemption. We asked God to make good use of us, and we pleaded for His forgiveness.

  I moved back and forth from the religious world to the business world, each time fully submerging myself in the work and the demands each required, for as long as I was occupied, I was comfortable and secure. I grew to despise those quiet moments when I was afforded some relaxation. Relaxation meant confronting my memories. Those memories hovered about me, buzzing in the back of my mind like a circle of mad insects, looking for an opportunity to pierce my fortress of relative peace. Old voices echoed; shadows and ghosts slipped along corridors, resurrected by the sight of one of Mal’s or Joel’s old toys, of the piano, now forever silenced in the parlor, of Corinne’s old room.

  I tried to avoid whole sections of the house, staying away from the north wing. I kept the door to the Swan Room closed and I kept the door to Malcolm’s trophy room closed. I had pieces of furniture, trunks, pictures, and articles of clothing taken up to the attic. I did all that I could to hold back the past, to dam it up behind a protective wall of distance and time; but it had its ways of slipping through.

  Memories and time took their toll on me as well. Once again my life was painted gray, as it had been before I came to Foxworth Hall, as I had feared it always would be. But I no longer feared gray, I had become one with it. It was the only color I wore, it was the color of my hair, the color of my eyes, the color of my hopes, the color of my life.

  This was who I was; this was who I had become. Prayer and work had hardened me until I was a statue of myself. But I was convinced that this was what God wanted; this was what God had designed.

  A letter, a pink, perfumed letter, changed all that. One afternoon, as I was sorting through my mail, I came upon a pale rose envelope so startling among the white formal business letters. It was addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm Neal Foxworth. I recognized the handwriting immediately. It still had the girlish swirls, but now the letters were oddly shaky. I sat for minutes, staring at the unopened envelope. What could Corinne want from us now? Hadn’t she done enough? And yet, and yet my heart jumped for joy when I recognized that girlish handwriting. How I missed the life and love she had brought to Foxworth Hall. The only warmth in my life had fled along with Corinne and Christopher. Did she miss us as much as we missed her? I had to find out. With trembling fingers I opened the envelope.

  In my hand the letter felt as soft and warm as if it were made of her very flesh. My own pounding pulse drummed through my veins until I felt it at the tips of my fingers. As I began to r
ead, I heard her voice and saw her blue eyes pleading.

  Dear Father and Mother,

  I know how strange it must be for you to receive a letter from me after all these years. Unfortunately, the first letter I write to you must be one filled with tragic news. My Christopher, our Christopher, beautiful, gentle Christopher, who I know you loved despite everything, is dead.

  Yes, dead. He was killed by a drunken driver. And on his thirty-fifth birthday!

  But there is good news too. We have been blessed with four beautiful children, all with golden hair and blue eyes, with wonderfully perfect features, bright and lovely children, children you would be proud to call your grandchildren. We have a son, Christopher, fourteen; a daughter, Cathy, twelve; and twins, Cory and Carrie, four. How Christopher loved them so, and how they loved him.

  And Christopher was doing so well. He couldn’t go on to become a doctor. It was a terrible sacrifice, but one he was willing to make in the name of love. It was painful to watch him put aside his medical studies and take up another profession so that we could live and raise our family in comfort and security. But I blame no one, no one; and neither did he. He never stopped loving you and talking about all that you did for him. You must believe I am saying that because it is true. Please, please, believe me. You surely remember him and how he was and know that he would be that way even to the day he died.

  I am writing to you now because Christopher’s death has left us on the verge of destitution. I am selling everything of value just to keep us alive, fed, and clothed. I know that it was my own fault that I was never serious enough to develop any skills which could be put to practical use now. I take full responsibility for that. Mother certainly provided me with enough of a model, but I could never hope to have her strength and fortitude.