Whitefern

by V. C. Andrews

  “I know,” I said, a cold chill rushing through me as I recalled my own rocking-chair memories and my childhood faith in its power to take me into another world. “I’m sorry. Where is she?”

  “I got her out of that chair damn fast and practically dragged her back to her room. I imagine she’s fast asleep, which is exactly where I should be,” he said, and walked past me toward our bedroom.

  “I’m sorry, Arden,” I said again.

  He paused and looked back at me. “I told you years ago that we should throw that chair out, empty that room, and give away all those toys and things. Maybe now you’ll listen. I can get someone here tomorrow to take it all away.”

  “I can’t do that, Arden. I just can’t.”

  “Suit yourself. I’m tired, and I have to get up in a matter of hours,” he said.

  I went to Sylvia’s room and looked in on her. She was asleep, her blanket up to her waist, but her hair was down. She always liked it up when she slept. A few times when she was younger, she got strands of her own hair in her mouth and choked on them. I watched her sleep. There was something more about her, something different, I thought, and stepped closer to get a better look at her face.

  She was smiling.

  Maybe she was having a pleasant dream. I wouldn’t want to interrupt that. I fixed her blanket a little better and then returned to our bedroom. Arden was already curled up, clutching his pillow like a life preserver.

  The funny thing was, he was smiling, too.

  Shadows in the Darkness

  Arden was up, dressed, and gone before I got up. I had to wake Sylvia, too. For a moment, she acted as if she didn’t know where she was, but it wasn’t unusual for her to wake up with a look of confusion on her face. It was almost as if she never expected there would be another morning. I wondered what sort of dreams she might have had.

  Did she dream?

  Sometimes I felt a little confused when I first woke up, and I imagined everyone did at one time or another. For a moment or so after you awaken, no matter who you are, how intelligent or mature you are, you can feel like a stranger in your own room, in your own house. You have to let everything you know and have gotten used to as belonging to you return, sort of fade in like a movie scene. Sunlight awakens it all, pulls it all out of the shadows, and fills your eyes and your mind with your identity. If you are pleased with who you are, you are happy, grateful, even relieved, but if you are not, you wish you hadn’t woken up. You wish you had remained in your dreams being who you’d rather be, what you’d rather be.

  Did Sylvia ever hate who and what she was? There were many times when I did. Did she look with envy at me, or had she felt envy toward Vera, especially when Vera had returned from her failed marriage, looking prettier and more sophisticated? Could Sylvia even experience jealousy? She never complained about one of us having more than she had. Vera used to claim that when Sylvia was very young, she was jealous of Billie’s wagon, a device Billie used to get around because she had lost her legs to diabetes, but I never believed much in the things Vera would say. She was the epitome of jealousy in this house, her eyes of green envy converting anything beautiful that any of us had.

  Once Sylvia realized what was happening when I woke her, she usually broke into a beautiful smile. This morning, however, she looked happier than I had seen her in a long time. She was, in fact, radiant. She wasn’t groggy or sleepy and moved quickly to get out of bed. There was excitement in her eyes and an eagerness to start the day that I didn’t often see, especially when Vera had come back to live with us and tormented her every chance she had.

  When she stood, she stretched and looked at me as if I had just popped out of thin air.

  “Hello, Audrina.”

  “Good morning, Sylvia. I overslept, so it’s later than usual.”

  “Me, too. What do you want to do, Audrina?”

  “Do?” I asked, smiling with amusement. She never began a day asking me that.

  I remembered when I was a little girl, my mother would wake me and put me through her morning rituals. I had to stretch and then brush down my body before taking a shower so I could get rid of the dead skin cells. After I dressed and she brushed out my hair, she told me to sit before my mirror and smile at myself for thirty seconds so I could immediately think well of myself. She was adamant that I didn’t put on a goofy grin.

  “Because we’re so behind schedule, let’s go down first and have our breakfast, Sylvia. Then we’ll repair our rooms, shower, and get dressed to go out and shop. We’re buying your art supplies, remember?”

  “Oh, yes, I need them.”

  “I know. Mr. Price gave us a list, remember? That’s how we know what to buy.”

  “Is he coming back?”

  “Yes, Sylvia. He is coming tomorrow afternoon. I’m going to post the schedule on the wall here in your room. For now, we have to get everything ready. Let’s get a move on. It’s a sunny day and not as cold as yesterday,” I said. “There’s much to do first.”

  “Much to do,” she said. “Repair, repair.” She repeated it as though she was making fun of me.

  I looked at her with a half smile. “Yes, repair, Sylvia. We always repair.”

  She nodded. Although Arden certainly would be the first one to ridicule the idea, I sometimes looked at Sylvia when she wasn’t aware that I was there and thought she looked brighter than she did when she was with Arden and me. She would study a painting or an object, look at pictures as if she remembered relatives she had never met, and then tilt her head as though she was hearing their voices. If I made a sound, she’d go right back to her cleaning or polishing like someone afraid she had been caught doing something wrong. I shook off the impression and told myself Sylvia was just not clever enough to put on an act and probably never would be. Of course, I told myself, she wasn’t being sarcastic when she repeated “repair.” It was only my imagination.

  It was Aunt Ellsbeth who had first used that word to mean clean up our rooms, make our beds, and periodically change sheets and pillowcases as well as vacuum our rooms and wash our windows. The perfection in Whitefern had been broken merely by our living in it. According to her, especially after my mother had died, there was much about our home and our lives that needed mending. In the beginning, Papa had growled after every one of her critical remarks, but in time, he put up with it and made her the lady of the house. Every once in a while, I had to remind myself that I was the lady of the house now. The care and maintenance of Whitefern were my responsibility. Arden simply wasn’t as devoted to it as I was. That was understandable, I guess. It wasn’t his family heritage, and after all, his mother had died here tragically. Yet he knew I wouldn’t live anywhere else, and neither would Sylvia.

  Sylvia had more of an appetite than ever this morning. She ate almost twice as much as I did. I rarely saw her exhibit as much energy, too. She went about our chores vigorously, cleaning up after breakfast. I imagined she wanted to get her art supplies as quickly as possible so she could do a better job on everything she drew now. I should have been happier about her enthusiasm, but I couldn’t help feeling there was something wrong about it.

  I chastised myself for feeling this way. Why couldn’t I simply be happy for her? After all, this was what I had been hoping to see all these years and why I worked so hard to help and educate her. If I was hesitant and suspicious, what could I expect from Arden?

  We went into town and bought the supplies Mr. Price had listed. I rarely took Sylvia anywhere but to the supermarket, clothing stores, and the dentist. Today I thought I would take her to a restaurant for lunch. I called Arden before we had left and asked him if he wanted to meet us at Danny’s, a simple hamburger restaurant in Whitefern with booths and a long counter. It was like an old-fashioned diner.

  “Are you sure you want to do that? We’ve never taken her to a restaurant, Audrina.”

  “She’s very excited about th
e idea, Arden.”

  He was quiet so long that I thought he had hung up.

  “Arden?”

  “I can’t. I have to meet a client for lunch. Did you spend the morning reading the papers I brought home from Mr. Johnson?”

  “I haven’t had a chance yet.”

  “Well, get the chance,” he ordered. Then he hung up without saying good-bye.

  At the restaurant, we took a booth. Sylvia looked at everything and everyone as though she had just landed from another planet. The conversations and the laughter, the work of the short-order chef, and the music piped in had her turning every which way and gaping.

  “Don’t stare at people like that, Sylvia,” I instructed.

  “Why not?”

  “They’ll think you see something wrong with them, and it will make them self-conscious,” I said, which was exactly how I felt when people stared at me.

  “What’s ‘self-conscious’?”

  “Aware of something that you think might be wrong with you, like your hair is messy or you put too much makeup on or that you have food on your face like a baby. Understand?”

  She shook her head.

  “Just look at me and think about your food.” Sometimes it was easier to give up explaining something and leave it hanging in the air to be plucked again another time like an apple.

  I ordered for both of us, knowing what she liked—cheeseburgers with tomatoes and lettuce and lots of ketchup, which she could have drooling down her chin.

  “That man is staring at me,” she said, looking toward the far end of the counter.

  I turned. There were actually two men looking our way and talking. I recognized the older man. “That’s Mr. Hingen. He’s a plumber. He was at Whitefern two months ago to fix our hot-water heater.”

  “Repair,” she said.

  “What? Oh. Yes, repair. Very good.”

  “Should we tell them it’s not nice to stare?”

  “No, just ignore them, Sylvia. Open your napkin and put it on your lap the way we do at home, so you don’t drip anything and ruin your dress.”

  She did, but every once in a while, she stole another look at Mr. Hingen and the young man with him. I tried to get her attention on other things, talking about some of the pictures in the restaurant.

  The waitress brought our food, and we began to eat.

  Sylvia smiled after taking two bites. “Better than your hamburgers, Audrina,” she commented.

  “Well, thanks a lot.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said, proud that she had remembered to follow up a thank-you and, of course, missing my sarcasm. Vera was the first to tell me that talking to Sylvia was like talking to yourself. It was true, but I never let her or anyone else see that it bothered me. Most of the time, it didn’t.

  Before we were finished, Mr. Hingen stopped at our table to say hello, introducing the younger man as his son, Raymond. He was a good-looking, dark-haired man with light brown eyes, probably in his twenties. It was obvious that Raymond was quite taken with Sylvia and had asked his father to introduce him to us.

  “How’s everything at the house?” Mr. Hingen asked.

  “Fine, thank you.”

  “My son is working with me now, so if you have any problems, just give us a call. This is your younger sister?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re very pretty,” Raymond said to Sylvia. “Where have you been hiding?”

  “I don’t hide,” Sylvia said, indignant. “Do I, Audrina?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Do you go to college?”

  “No, she doesn’t attend college. She’s at home with me.”

  “There’s a lot to do here for a small town. You’d be surprised,” Raymond told Sylvia. “Do you like to dance?”

  She looked to me. “We dance, don’t we, Audrina?”

  I shook my head. “Not like he means, Sylvia. Thank you, Mr. Hingen, but—”

  “Raymond, please.” He turned back to Sylvia. “If you’re not seeing anyone, I’d like to call you one day.”

  “I see Audrina and Arden, and I’m going to see Mr. Price tomorrow,” Sylvia told him.

  I wondered how long it would take him to realize whom he was talking to.

  “Price?”

  “He’s a retired art teacher, ain’t he?” Mr. Hingen asked me.

  “Yes. He’s giving my sister lessons. Right now, that’s all she has time for. Thank you for stopping by,” I said curtly.

  Getting the idea, he poked his son. “Nice seeing you,” he said to us.

  “Yes,” Raymond said. “Looking forward to the next time,” he told Sylvia.

  She narrowed her eyes and looked at me the moment they left. “When is next time?” she asked.

  “Not ever,” I said. “Forget it, Sylvia. It’s just something someone says.”

  “Well, why do they say it if it’s not true?”

  “Just to make conversation. Most people hate silence. C’mon, let’s finish. You need to fix up your art studio with the new things we just bought.”

  She nodded, but she watched Raymond Hingen leave the restaurant, and I thought she was more than just curious. His smile and the twinkle in his eyes had stirred something in her, something she might have felt for the first time. I was confident she didn’t understand it. I remembered when I first had it, actually when I first met Arden. It both frightened and excited me simultaneously. I wanted to understand it, this tingle in my budding breasts, this thrill that traveled through my body, but I didn’t want anyone to know about it, especially Vera or my aunt Ellsbeth.

  I had brought Sylvia a long way from the disadvantaged little girl who had been treated so poorly by others in our family. Even Papa had to talk himself into accepting her as his daughter at the start. Was I wrong now to assume that she wouldn’t ever be interested in young men? Was the idea of a romance, a relationship, as far off as another solar system when it came to her? If she could have a passion for art, why couldn’t she have a passion for a man?

  Eventually, she might have these feelings; she probably did at this moment, I thought, but no man would treat her well. And even if there was a man who cherished her now, when she lost her beauty, as we all did eventually, he would have far less tolerance for her and would surely cast her aside. Maybe it was cruel of me, but I wouldn’t let Raymond Hingen or any young man date my sister, no matter how far she had come. It would only mean deeper suffering for her.

  I could see that after I paid the bill and we were on our way out, she was still looking for Raymond. I tried getting her mind off him by talking about her artwork, her lessons, and what beautiful paintings she might do someday.

  “We’ll hang them on our living-room wall next to the expensive ones we’ve had in our family for years, Sylvia. Wouldn’t you like that?”

  She was quiet, thinking, gazing out the window as we drove home.

  “Sylvia?”

  “The faucet by the washing machine leaks a little,” she said. “Maybe we need a plumber to fix it.”

  Was I astonished? Yes. But was I more fearful than surprised? Yes. “I’ll look at it,” I said. “Sometimes it’s easy to fix.”

  She wasn’t happy with my answer, but I did get her mind on other things when we arrived at the house and brought her new art supplies up to the cupola. She didn’t mention Raymond Hingen again. I thought she might say something about plumbers and leaks when we sat with Arden at dinner that night. We had prepared a roast chicken with stewed potatoes. He didn’t open another bottle of wine or make any nasty remarks. I was anticipating more about the papers Mr. Johnson had sent over with him, but he didn’t mention them. Maybe he had asked someone’s advice and had been told he’d get more with honey than with vinegar.

  At times this evening, he reminded me of the young man who had courted me when I was a
young girl. He was so sweet back then, always worried about me. He volunteered to take me on his bike to my piano lessons and was always waiting for me afterward. He was so protective. When I learned that his mother had lost her legs and that her husband had deserted her and Arden, I admired him even more for doing all that he could to make his mother happy. As insulated as I was, it was probably not unexpected that I would fall in love with the first boy who showed me so much attention and concern.

  Tonight, he sounded so much like the Arden Lowe I remembered, giving Sylvia more attention than ever. Suddenly, he wasn’t upset about spending money on an art teacher for her.

  “You do great art without knowing anything about it. Imagine what you will do when you get all these lessons,” he told her. His soft tone brought smiles to her face, even though I didn’t think she understood what he was telling her.

  Afterward, while she washed the dishes and put away the food, I complimented him on how nice he was to her at dinner.

  He nodded, thinking. “It’s important that we bring some happiness back to Whitefern,” he declared. “We have to change the landscape, as they say—as your father would say.”

  He poured himself an after-dinner cordial and asked me if I wanted one. I decided I did, and we sat reminiscing about some of the happier times when his mother had first moved in and taken such good care of my father.

  “Sometimes you had to remind yourself that she’d had her legs amputated,” I said.

  “Yes. She had spirit. I hope I’ve inherited it.”

  “You have.”

  He looked at me with the pain of warm memories lost to time in his eyes. Nostalgia is always painful. You realize you can’t bring back the smiles and laughter. In our house, reminiscences of past happiness often brought heartache. Sometimes it seemed better to forget them, no matter how wonderful they once were.

  “I’m sorry I always talk about it, but we need a child, Audrina. We need someone who will strengthen our bond and give us more purpose in life. And I don’t mean to blame anything on you.”

  That brought tears to my eyes. “I know,” I said. “I want it as much as you do, if not more, Arden.”