Shooting Stars 01 Cinnamon

by V. C. Andrews

  Mommy was crying out even louder now, her shouts of pain echoing down the hallway and through the house.

  "He's not here at the moment," the secretary said. "But he has to be. The market is still open."

  "I'm sorry," she said.

  "Where is he?"

  "He didn't leave a number." she said.

  "It's an emergency," I continued.

  "Let me see if he answers his page," she relented. Why hadn't she said that first? I wondered. I held on, my heart pounding a drum in my ears.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "He's not responding."

  "Keep trying and if you get him, tell him my mother is being taken to the hospital."

  "The hospital? Oh. dear. Oh," she said. "Yes. I'll keep trying."

  I hung up just as Grandmother Beverly came up the stairs, looking more her age.

  "The doctor has called the ambulance," she said. She swallowed and continued. "It's no use. She has to return to the hospital. When I told him what she had done, he said he'd have her brought to the mental ward."

  "Mental ward?"

  "Of course. Look at her behavior. That's exactly where she belongs," she added with that damnable look of self-satisfaction I hated so much.

  She put her hands over her ears, but Mommy's heart-wrenching scream drove Grandmother Beverly back down the stairs to wait.

  I was hoping it would drive her out of our lives.

  2 Escape to Dreams

  Apparently. Daddy's secretary was unable to each him before the ambulance arrived. I returned to Mommy's bedroom and held her hand while she went through her imaginary labor pains. I guess I shouldn't say imaginary. The doctor would emphasize later that she actually felt the pain.

  "Psychosomatic pain is not contrived," he explained to Daddy when Daddy and I met with him in the corridor of the hospital. "The patient feels it: it's just caused by something psychological as compared to something physical." He looked at me and added. "We shouldn't get angry at her."

  "I'm not angry at her," I snapped back at him. "I'm upset."

  I almost added. I'm frightened, too, but he got me so angry I didn't want to confide in him.

  Afterward. Daddy and I sat in the hospital cafeteria having a cup of coffee. Daddy said he hadn't had a chance to eat anything so he nibbled on a Danish pastry.

  "When my secretary reached me. I was on my way home." he told me. "I stopped at the train station and called and Grandmother answered and told me what was happening so I came back as quickly as I could and took a cab here. Lucky Grandmother was still in the house."

  "It wasn't luck. Grandmother didn't want to come along. I drove myself and followed the ambulance. I'm sure she was afraid she might be seen by one of her society friends." I muttered.

  "That's not fair. Cinnamon. Your grandmother was never very good in hospitals. It makes her sick."

  "So? What better place to be sick if you have to be sick?" I countered,

  One thing Daddy wouldn't ever get from me was sympathy for Grandmother Beverly. I never saw her shed a real tear, not even at Grandfather Carlson's funeral. although I have seen her cry at sad scenes in her favorite old movies. She has a lock on the television set in the family room, fixing it on her oldtime movie channel. She complains incessantly about today's movies, television, music and books, calling it all depraved and claiming the most degenerate minds are responsible.

  Occasionally. I would sit and watch an old movie with her. Some of them are very good. like Rebecca. I especially liked the scene where the evil housekeeper, Mrs. Danvers, tries to talk the second Mrs. de Winter into jumping to her death. The first time I saw it. I thought she was going to do it. Mrs. Danvers made it sound so inviting. I felt like jumping.

  After I saw the movie. I began to think of Grandmother Beverly as our own Mrs. Danvers trying to talk Mommy into jumping off a cliff or at least helping drive her off the cliff of sanity into the bag of madness, where she now resided.

  "That's not funny. Cinnamon," Daddy said. "Some people have less tolerance for unpleasant things."

  "Grandmother Beverly? Weaker than other women? Please. Daddy," I said.

  He blinked and nibbled on his Danish, quickly falling back to his relaxed demeanor. Daddy has a quiet elegance and charm. He is truly a handsome man with rich dark brown hair and the most striking hazel eyes I have seen on any man. He has those long eyelashes, too, and a perfect nose and firm mouth. He's almost square-jawed with high cheek bones and a forehead that's just wide enough to make him look very intelligent. He's an impeccable dresser and never goes any longer than three weeks without having his hair trimmed.

  I understood why Mommy once told me he was the most attractive man who had ever looked at her twice. When she did speak about the early romantic days between them, she emphasized his solid, eventempered sensibility and how she had come to rely on him to keep her from going too far in one direction or another. Whatever happened to that? I wondered. It was almost as if he had abandoned ship.

  "Your mother could be here a while," he said. "Or, she could be moved to a more comfortable place, a place that specializes in her problems."

  "You mean a nut house?"

  "No, a clinic," he corrected sharply.

  I looked away. Tears didn't come into my eyes often, but when they did. I held them over my pupils tightly, battling to keep them locked behind my lids. I took deep breaths.

  "We've got to be strong," Daddy said. "For her."

  I looked at him. He was checking the time and looking toward the doorway.

  "I haven't even learned about today's market results. I hopped on the train as quickly as I could," he muttered.

  "Where were you. Daddy? Why weren't you in your office? I thought you have to be there to call your clients while the market is open."

  "Sometimes. I go to visit a big account," he explained. "Ifs good politics. I have an assistant who does a good job covering for me."

  "How come you didn't leave a telephone number where you could be reached?"

  "I just forgot." he said. "I left too quickly."

  Lying is an art form. I thought. Good lying, that is. It requires almost the same techniques, skills and energy that good acting requires. When you tell lies, you step out of yourself for a while. You become another version of yourself and yet, you have to do it so that the listener believes it's still you talking because he or she has come to trust you, have faith in you. I like making up stories, exaggerating, changing the truth a little-- or maybe a little more than a little- sometimes just to see how much I can get away with. It's all in how you hold your head, keep your eyes fixed on the listener and how much sincerity you can squeeze into the small places around the lie.

  Maybe Daddy was a bad liar in person because he did mast of his lying over the phone. He didn't have to be face-to-face with his customers. He could quote statistics, talk in generalities, blame his mistakes on other people, other businesses or agencies than his own. It's much easier to sound convincing when you talk to an ear and not a pair of eyes.

  I knew Daddy was lying, but I didn't know why. It never occurred to me what the reason might be. Maybe I was spending a little too much time in my make-believe world,

  "We'd better head home," he said. "You've got schoolwork to do. I'm sure, and there is really nothing else we can do here tonight."

  "I want to go see her one more time." I said. "You might only disturb her more."

  "I might help her be comfortable in an uncomfortable place," I countered.

  I could hold my gaze on Daddy so firmly that he would be the first to look away. Mammy taught me how to do that. You actually think of something else, but keep your eyes fixed on the subject.

  "All right, but make it quick," he said. "I'm going to make a few phone calls."

  He left and I went back upstairs. Mommy had been given a sedative to help her sleep, but she was still moaning and turning her head. I took her hand in mine and spoke softly to her.

  "Mammy, it's me. Don't you feel a little better now?"
>
  "Baby... born too soon," she muttered.

  "What?"

  "Little Sacha." She opened her eyes and looked up at me. Then she smiled.

  "Cinnamon! How is she?" she asked. "What have they told you?" I shook my head.

  Now she believes she has given birth, I thought, but to a premature baby.

  "I know she'll be all right. I know it. She's in the prenatal intensive care unit, but premature babies can do fine. You tell me how she's doing, all right? Tell me," she insisted, squeezing my hand tightly.

  If I told her the truth. I thought she'd come apart right before my eyes, her hand crumbling in mine like a dry fall leaf.

  "She's doing fine. Mommy. She's getting bigger every moment."

  She smiled.

  "I knew it. I knew she would. How wonderful. How beautiful. She is beautiful, too, isn't she. Cinnamon? As beautiful as you were when you were born. I'm right? Aren't I?" she asked with a

  desperation that nearly took my breath away,

  "Yes. Mommy. she's beautiful,"

  "I knew she would be. You've got a little sister. How wonderful, Wonderful," she said relaxing, her eyes closing and staying closed. Her breathing became regular. At least she was relaxed and at ease for a while.

  Set. I told myself, you can lie better than anyone you know. Sometimes, that comes in very handy.

  Maybe you will be a successful actress, after all.

  Daddy and I rode back in silence, mine growing out of the soil of sadness and fear. Daddy looked like he was in deep thought, probably worrying about a stock he had recommended today. Lately. I felt that my father was a guest in his own house, and when he looked at me, he was surprised to discover he had a daughter. It's almost as if he thinks he's having a dream. His whole life-- my mother and I. all of it-- is just a passing illusion. He would blink hard and we would be gone, I thought, I almost wished it were true.

  "How's school?" he asked suddenly. It was as if the question had been stored for months in a cupboard in his brain and he had just stumbled upon it.

  "School?"

  "Yes, how are you doing in your classes these days?"

  "Fine, Daddy. I've been on the honor roll every quarter," I reminded him.

  "Oh, right, right. Well, that's good. Cinnamon. You want to get yourself into a fine college like my alma mater. NYU. It's important." He looked at me quickly. "I hope this unfortunate situation Ivon't have a detrimental effect on your school grades. I know it can," he said. "You've just got to be strong and take care of business, consider priorities."

  "Mommy's wellbeing is my priority," I said dryly. I wanted to add, as it should be yours, but I kept my lips pressed together as if I were afraid my tongue would run off on its own and say all the things I had been thinking for months and months. Thoughts, words, screams, all were stored in my mouth, waiting to pop out like bees whose hive had been disturbed and sting Daddy in places he couldn't reach. That way, he'd wake up to what had been happening all this last year or so since Grandmother Beverly had moved into our home and invaded our lives.

  He should have waken the moment we entered the house. Grandmother Beverly had been busy all day, ever since the ambulance had come to take Mommy to the hospital. The first thing I noticed was that Mommy's favorite two works of art, the pictures she had bought in New Orleans when she and Daddy and I had gone there for a short vacation. They were gone from the wall in the hallway. They were both watercolors of swamps with the Spanish moss draping from the trees. In one a toothpick-legged Cajun home was depicted in great detail, shrimp drying on a rock, animal skins hung over a porch railing, and a woman working on the porch weaving a rug. In the other picture, a young couple were in a canoe, poling into the mist. They looked romantic, but in a deeply sad way.

  Grandmother Beverly always complained that the pictures were too depressing to be art. She said they were more like someone's nightmares and certainly not the first thing with which to greet a visitor to our home.

  "Where are Mammy's pictures?" I demanded as soon as Grandmother Beverly stepped out of the family room.

  "How is she now?" she asked my father instead of responding to me. He shook his head.

  "They've given her a sedative, but the doctor wants to treat her for deep depression. If she doesn't snap out of it soon, he's recommending more serious therapy, the sort that takes place in a mental clinic." he replied.

  "Exactly what I expected would happen someday. You had to be blind not to see this coming. Taylor."

  My father didn't agree or disagree. He kept his head slightly bowed, looking like an ashamed young boy confronting his mother.

  "Where are Mommy's pictures?" I repeated. She finally turned to me.

  "I thought there was enough gloom and doom in this house today. I'm trying to cheer things up."

  "Mommy wants those pictures on the wall," I cried. I looked at Daddy. "Make her put them back."

  "We'll put up something more pleasant," Grandmother Beverly continued. "I'll buy brighter pictures. We've got to lighten up this hallway. It needs stronger lighting, the walls should be painted a lighter color and I think this entryway rug is worn to a thread. Good riddance to it."

  "It is not. What are you talking about? Daddy!" I moaned. "Tell her!"

  "I'm so tired." he said. "It's all been quite a shock and right after losing the baby." He shook his head.

  "Of course. You're exhausted. Taylor. Come have a nice cup of tea. I made your favorite biscuits," she added "and there's some of that jam you love, the kind that tastes homemade. I bought it for you yesterday."

  "Yes, that would be good," he said. He glanced at me. "Don't worry about this stuff now, Cinnamon. It's not what's important at the moment."

  Grandmother Beverly smiled at me. "Would you like something, dear?"

  Mommy hated her in the kitchen. Until she had suffered the miscarriage. Mommy had not permitted her to make a single dinner for us, even though she claimed she knew all of Daddy's favorite meals. I knew Mommy's resistance wasn't born out of any great desire to be a cook. She warned me from the start that Grandmother Beverly wasn't just moving into the house.

  "That woman can't live in a home without taking over," Mommy assured me. "It's not in her nature to be second in any sense. She'll take over and replace me everywhere except in bed, and

  sometimes," Mommy said her eyes small. "I even fear that."

  Of course, she was exaggerating.

  That's what I tell myself even though it gave me a different kind of nightmare.

  "I'm not hungry," I told Grandmother Beverly, glared furiously once more at Daddy and ran up the stairs to my room, slamming the door behind me.

  I was fuming so hot and heavy, I was sure smoke was pouring out of my ears.

  The ringing of my phone snapped me out of my seething rage. I took a deep breath and lifted the receiver.

  "Hello."

  "Cinnamon, what happened?" Clarence asked.

  "My mother had to be taken to the hospital," I replied. He was the only one who knew Mommy had suffered a miscarriage. "She's had a nervous

  breakdown because of what happened.'"

  "Oh. Um sorry," he said. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

  "Yes, call the Mafia and get a hit man over here pronto to save me from my grandmother," I replied.

  He laughed, but the sort of short laugh that indicated he knew it really wasn't funny.

  "You were all the buzz at school."

  "I'm glad the airheads had something to talk about."

  "I could see Miss Hamilton was upset for you. You coming to school tomorrow?"

  "I'm not staying here, that's for sure," I said.

  "What are you going to tell people?" he asked.

  "I'll come up with something."

  "Let me know so I can be part of it," he said. I knew what he meant.

  Ike and I enjoyed making up stories and telling them together, verifying what the other had said, shocking other students whenever we could.

  "Meet me at
my locker in the morning before homeroom," I told him. He promised he would and hung up.

  I fell back spread-eagled on my bed and looked up at the eggshell white ceiling. Sometimes. when I stared into the white void long enough. I'd see the faces of the young women who once lived in this house. It was as if their spirits had been trapped in the walls and I was the only one with whom they could communicate.

  My memories of Mommy and me up in the attic returned. They brought tears to my eyes. I wondered if even now, sedated in that hospital room, she was afraid or just sad. Deep inside herself despite her temporary madness, she must know she has had the miscarriage. Can you get so you could really lie to yourself as well as you could lie to others, actually believing your own fabrications? And is that madness or is it the simplest way to escape the turmoil and unhappiness that sometimes storms around you?

  I need inspiration. I thought. I would die before telling anyone the truth. There was only one place to go for it. While Daddy sat below m the kitchen, numbly watching Grandmother Beverly weave a web of control around him. I went up to the attic to conspire with my spirits and my own resourceful imagination.

  Mommy told me that when I was only four. I had an imaginary friend. I don't remember, but I've learned it is a very common thing for a child to do: create his or her own companion. Maybe it's just as hard to be alone when you're very young as it is to be alone when you're very old. I thought. Old people imagine friends, too.

  There's something about growing up, about being in society and mixing with real people that restricts your imaginative powers. If you say something that seems like fantasy, people laugh at you or make you feel self-conscious about it, so you smother your make-believe and drive the creative thoughts down into the grave, bury them in the cemetery of originality, and work harder at being like everyone else, safe, unremarkable, just some more wallpaper. It takes courage to revive your imagination and risk the ridicule. In an ironic sense, it takes a brave soul to contrive exaggerations, fantasies, elaborate and eloquent lies.

  I flipped the switch and the dark attic became illuminated, but not so brightly as to drive away the small shadows and brighten the dark corners. Neither Mommy nor I wanted it that well lit anyway. Some darkness is comforting, warm, inviting. Mommy used to say it felt protective.