Whitefern

by V. C. Andrews

How could I explain it so he would understand? Could I really get him to see how difficult it had been for me being told I was the second Audrina, never as perfect as the first? How could I get him to feel what I felt as I struggled to find my own identity while being haunted by an angelic older sister whose name I possessed but whose perfection I would never realize? It would certainly never be realized in my father’s eyes, the eyes that were most important to me.

  I smiled as I watched Sylvia kiss and coo at Adelle. She was fascinated by her tiny fingers and toes. I told myself that I had to put aside my thoughts about what had happened and especially not dwell on the revenge fulfilled with Mr. Price’s death. I hated to give her any credit, but Mrs. Matthews had been right. I should not dwell on the dark past. I should dwell on the future.

  The sound of the doorbell jerked me out of my musings. Whoever was in that parked car probably had decided it was time to call on us. I had no reason for it, but I began trembling. I didn’t move until the doorbell sounded again and Sylvia noticed.

  “Someone’s here,” she said.

  “Just take care of Adelle, Sylvia. I’ll go see.”

  She smiled gratefully. She didn’t want her care of the baby to be interrupted.

  Maybe it was another Jehovah’s Witness or the like, I thought, and went to the front entrance. I opened the front door. It was the elderly woman I had seen in the parked car. She looked like she couldn’t be much more than five feet tall. Her gray hair was thinning but curly and trimmed at the base of her neck. She wore a vintage-looking knee-length, embroidered, single-breasted denim dress with a pair of very worn leather shoes. On her right wrist was a multicolored beaded bracelet. Arden would say she looked as if she’d been put together in some thrift shop.

  “Yes?” I said.

  The woman’s cheeks seemed to bubble at their crests, and she was wearing too much lipstick and rouge. Aunt Ellsbeth would have slammed the door.

  “I’m Emmaline Price,” she said. “Arthur’s wife.”

  For a few seconds, I felt like Lot’s wife when she looked back at Sodom and was turned into a pillar of salt. I was shot through with a stone-cold feeling that choked back my words.

  Emmaline Price could see it in my face and began to speak quickly. “I know what you think of my husband, and I waited until the shadow of death left our home before coming to see you. I made him promises during his last days, and I beg you to let me come in and talk to you for a few minutes. I want nothing from you but possibly your understanding. His final days were full of such regret. I knew how heavy his heart was and how it would shatter under his sorrow. Please,” she begged.

  “I have no idea why you have come here. I don’t know what you want from me,” I finally said.

  “Just your patience for a few minutes, please. When you make promises to someone you’ve loved with all your heart most of your life, you can’t go on without keeping them. I’m sure you can understand that.”

  Yes, I could understand that, I thought. The promise I had made to Papa concerning Sylvia was a promise I did not keep, and this woman was at our front door precisely because I hadn’t. But my rage turned quickly to empathy. I saw myself at the front door of wherever Papa had gone, pleading with him to give me a chance to explain.

  Without replying, I stepped back to let her enter. She walked in quickly and waited for me.

  “This way,” I said, and took her to the Roman Revival salon, where I half-expected Aunt Mercy Marie’s ghost to appear and begin shouting at her.

  I indicated where she should sit, and I stood watching her for a moment, deciding whether I should sit or simply look down at her with disdain. She looked at me with such desperation in her teary gray-blue eyes that I softened and sat on the settee.

  “What is it you promised your husband, Mrs. Price? And how does that involve me?”

  She looked up at the ceiling, took a deep breath, and began. “Arthur was not unlike most creative people—­artists, writers, composers. They dream of being appreciated, succeeding in their field. They’re told they have talent, and they struggle to make something of it. But Arthur was also a family man. When we first met and fell in love, we were immune to all the hardships. We had very little money. I did some odd jobs so Arthur could paint. He sold a few things but never made any real money. I know,” she said, changing her tone a bit, “this is not very important or interesting to you, but I’m trying to explain enough so you will appreciate what I want to tell you.”

  I didn’t speak. I didn’t care if my silence made her uncomfortable. Her husband had brought a great deal of pain to this house and this family.

  “Anyway,” she said, squirming a bit, “Arthur decided to finish college and get his teaching certificate before we could think of having children and a home and all the things everyone who wants a family life wants.”

  “Mrs. Price,” I began. I wanted to say, I don’t care. Please leave.

  But she sensed that and quickly went on. “Of course, he continued painting and trying to get noticed, but after a while, he was devoting much more of his energy to his teaching. He really enjoyed teaching. He loved young people, and they loved him. Arthur was one of the most popular teachers. I’m sure you know that. He was devoted to his students in ways most teachers are not.”

  “I can imagine,” I said dryly. “In ways most teachers are not.”

  She ignored my sarcasm and went on. “He sold a few paintings, mostly to the parents of some of his students and a few to a dealer in Richmond, but he was never discouraged. Even after he retired, he worked hard at his art. When the children were younger, we traveled to see beautiful art everywhere. We went without a lot of things that other people thought were important so we could save our money for these trips. We’ve visited the Prado in Madrid, the Louvre, of course, the National Gallery in London, even the Hermitage in St. Petersburg.”

  “I still don’t see—”

  “What I’m trying to tell you is that Arthur was a lover of beauty anywhere he saw it. He could get inspired by a unique tree or the way an elderly man sat and stared while he thought about his life. He did a wonderful picture of that man, and a museum in Boston now has it. What I mean to say is that Arthur was a real artist, Mrs. Lowe, and not someone just amusing himself.”

  “What is your point, Mrs. Price?” I asked, moving to the edge of the settee, ready to stand in order to suggest that I wanted to end this conversation.

  She leaned forward. “The point is that my husband really appreciated your sister’s beauty, but from an artist’s point of view.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t agree with you about that. What he did, how he touched her, was quite inappropriate.” I stood and stared down at her. I didn’t want this prolonged a moment more.

  “He meant no harm. He was so upset over the misunderstanding,” she said, dabbing at her eyes. “For days and days after your husband came to our home and screamed at him, he sat in the corner of his studio and stared at a blank canvas. He ate very little and was up often at night just walking around the house. I’m sure the stress brought about his stroke.”

  I took a step toward her. “My husband and I were even more upset, Mrs. Price. Do you know how my sister is, her condition, how she has been all her life?”

  “I just know from what Arthur told me. I understand she’s not what she should be mentally, but he said she was a very good student and very talented. He was simply taken by her innocent beauty. It overwhelmed him. He was driven to paint her. I can’t tell you how many nights he described it all to me and cried and wished he could somehow get your forgiveness.”

  She clutched her hands together like someone about to offer a prayer. I stood there, impatient and tired. How could I care about forgiving him?

  Sylvia came into the room with Adelle in her arms.

  “Hello,” she said, when she saw Emmaline Price. “This is Adelle.”

 
“Your baby,” Mrs. Price said to me. She stood up to get a closer look. “What a beautiful child.”

  “Did you feed her?” I asked Sylvia, ignoring our intruder.

  “She ate a lot, Audrina.”

  “Good. Please put her in the bassinet now. She needs to sleep to grow, remember?”

  “Yes.” Sylvia paused, obviously wondering who this woman was and why I didn’t do the proper thing and introduce her. This was something I had taught Sylvia she must always do.

  “Go on, Sylvia. We’ll have our lunch soon, too.”

  “Okay. I’ll cut the tomatoes,” she said, and after another quizzical glance at Mrs. Price, she left.

  “She is a very beautiful young lady. I can see what drove Arthur to do what he did.”

  “Can you?” I fired back at her. My voice was so harsh she fell back into the chair. Now I stood, my temper flaring like Papa’s would. “Your husband just appreciated my sister’s beauty? That’s all it was? An artist being inspired? That’s all that went on here? Do you think I’m that stupid?” I caught my breath. “All right. You came to fulfill your promise to him. I appreciate your devotion to your husband, but this doesn’t change anything, Mrs. Price. Your husband took advantage of my sister. He used art as an excuse to sexually abuse her. I’m afraid we’re going to leave it at that. And you’re lucky that’s all we’ll do.”

  My rage lit something in her. I could see how her body, which had been in a posture of pleading, changed. Her eyes brightened with fury. She stood, too. “I’m sorry there is no forgiveness in your soul for someone who suffered and has died. He was remorseful and sincerely in pain, a pain that killed him. His doctors confirmed that the stress was overwhelming. It took away his life when it caused his stroke. He was diminished, a shadow of who he was. Death had no struggle to take him. I’m sure he welcomed it.”

  She continued, “And for you, from the little I know of your family and the tragedies you’ve endured, to stand there and be so high and mighty . . . I feel sorrier for you now. I’m glad I came here to see who you really are. Now I can forgive Arthur for sure. The rumors about this Whitefern family have good reason.” She started walking away.

  Papa’s rage exploded in me. “Stop!” I shouted.

  She turned.

  “You think I’m unsympathetic, selfish, cruel, and harsh? You blame my family? You defile my family’s memory?” I stepped toward her. “Well, I’ll tell you something that you don’t know, that no one should know, and if you dare utter a syllable of it out there, I promise that I will destroy your husband’s memory forever. And you along with it. That baby you just saw, that beautiful child in my sister’s arms, that baby is her baby, not mine. Your husband raped my sister. How’s that for artistic inspiration? Well? What do you say now? Who is the high and mighty and unforgiving one now?”

  She shook her head.

  “Go on, get out and leave us. We’ll do fine bringing up your husband’s child, a child who will never know anything about him until she can absorb such a horrible fact about herself. Maybe she’ll visit you if you’re still alive and make you face your husband’s sin yourself. Maybe she’ll visit your children and tell them they have a half sister.”

  She didn’t move. Then she surprised me by moving back to the chair and sitting.

  “Stunned?” I said. “I guess you didn’t know the man you married, the man who was the father of your children, so well after all. It doesn’t surprise me. He was quite good at deceiving me. Apparently, he was good at deceiving the whole community, too, especially the school community.” Why was she still here?

  She shook her head again. “He’s not the father of my children,” she said.

  “What?” Now what was she confessing to? She dressed like a hippie. They probably lived with other hippies and had no morals. “I don’t want to hear your confessions, Mrs. Price. Frankly, I couldn’t be less interested in you. Please leave, or I’ll call the police.”

  “All our children are adopted,” she said softly.

  “That’s very nice, but—”

  “No, you don’t understand what I’m saying, Mrs. Lowe. Arthur was unable to get me or any woman pregnant. He contracted testicular cancer when he was in his early twenties. The radiation and chemotherapy stopped the cancer but led to infertility. He tested and tested and finally gave up. That’s when we decided to adopt. My husband couldn’t possibly be the father of your sister’s child.” She stood again. “If you want, I’ll arrange for you to speak with Arthur’s doctor. I can also send you copies of his tests and reports.”

  She waited for me to respond, but I couldn’t. After a moment, she started out. She paused in the doorway, looked back at me, then said good-bye and left.

  The door closing sounded more like a coffin being shut. I fell back onto the settee.

  Sylvia returned to the living room and looked around. “Is the lady gone?”

  “Yes, she’s gone, Sylvia.”

  “I cut too many tomatoes.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “Adelle’s asleep,” she said.

  I nodded.

  She looked at me, smiling, waiting for me to tell her to do something else.

  A thought flashed into my mind. “Sylvia, Papa hasn’t spoken to you since Adelle was born, right?”

  She nodded.

  “But you’ve been in the rocking chair; it’s in your room. You haven’t heard him whispering since I’ve been sleeping there with you?”

  She shook her head. “No, Audrina. Papa has no more secrets.”

  I hugged myself when the chill rippled through my body. Then I put my hands over my ears.

  They were all screaming at once, every ghost in the house.

  Papa’s Revenge

  Later, when Arden called to tell me he was taking a client to dinner, I said “Hello,” listened, and said “Good-bye.” He didn’t try to say more or ask me why I sounded like I did.

  Sylvia was upstairs in the rocking chair with Adelle in her arms. We often went up there in the afternoons now. I had taught Sylvia one of the lullabies I remembered Momma singing to me. When Sylvia sang, she sounded like Momma, and sometimes I would find myself dozing off with Adelle. It made me happy. We often looked for ways to bring back something beautiful and tender from our past.

  All through lunch, a lunch I didn’t eat, I listened to Sylvia talk about Adelle. Since the baby’s birth, a new fountain of words flowed from her lips. It was as if the traumatic delivery had jolted her ahead in years or awakened some sleeping undeveloped skills. Someone listening to her for the first time might easily assume that there was nothing abnormal about her, nothing at all.

  It made it difficult for me to hate everything about her pregnancy and certainly made it impossible to regret Adelle’s birth. Look what had emerged from the darkest places in Whitefern. There sat Sylvia beside our beautiful child sleeping in her bassinet, both looking innocent and trustful. But I was once innocent and trustful, too. Something like that is sweet and pleasant to see, but in this world, it was like a door left open through which everything ugly, mean, and selfish could easily enter. It was why a loving parent must shut down her little boy or girl’s childhood as soon as possible and paste those memories into albums to be remembered, though never restored.

  Sylvia didn’t notice how little I ate. She was too excited. She cleared the table, washed the dishes, and put everything away while I sat staring at the clock.

  “Audrina,” she said, “we forgot to get a baby carriage.”

  “What?”

  She ran out and returned with a catalogue of infants’ clothing and equipment. She put it on the table opened to pictures of strollers and carriages.

  “Yes,” I said. “We’ll get one soon. She isn’t ready yet, Sylvia.”

  “Soon,” she said, nodding.

  I left her and went outside for a while. I nee
ded to be alone, and whenever I felt maudlin and even frightened, I would stroll around the grounds, in and around the woods, comforting myself with the singing of the birds and the sight of squirrels going through their bursts of gymnastics as though they were performing for me. When I was very young, I never went too far from the property. The house always held me, as if there was an invisible chain hooked to my waist.

  As I paused and looked up at Whitefern, I recalled overhearing my father arguing with my aunt Ellsbeth about allowing me to leave Whitefern and go to college.

  “You’ve managed to tie her hand and foot to Sylvia. It’s not fair, what you’re doing. I know you love her, so let her go to college. Set her free, Damian, before it’s too late!” my aunt had cried, her voice full of desperation.

  “Ellie,” my father had replied, “what would happen to Audrina if she left here? She’s too sensitive for the world out there. I’m sure she will never marry that boy, and he’ll find that out once he tries something. No man wants a woman who can’t respond, and I doubt she’ll ever learn how.”

  Those words rang in my head, bonging like church bells. Had my father been right? Or had my aunt Ellsbeth been right to push for me to be free of Whitefern?

  Was all that had happened decided the day I was born? Was Papa responsible for this now, molding me in a way that made it difficult to respond to a man, just as he had predicted? Could that justify what Arden had done, by any stretch of the imagination? Was I simply trying to find an answer that would make it possible for me to go on, blind and in denial?

  There were no answers out here, no answers away from Whitefern. Whatever the answers were, they loomed inside, hovering in the corners with the secrets, waiting for me to pluck them like blackberries. I belonged inside. Maybe I was too sensitive for the world out there, Arden’s and Papa’s world, in which deception and dishonesty were the currencies to buy your way to happiness. Regrets, morality, even simple compassion were obstacles, lead weights on your ankles that would only sink you in the sea of competition. Papa was right, and Arden was right. I didn’t belong in that cutthroat world. As I saw too often, you couldn’t leave it outside your home once you swam in it.