Echoes in the Walls

by V. C. Andrews

  A mixture of rage and sorrow kept me from falling asleep for hours. By the time I did, the sun had risen to glitter off the now frozen blanket of snow Mother Nature had cast over everything around Wyndemere. I moaned and saw it was well after nine in the morning. No one had awakened me, and it was, after all, Christmas morning.

  My mother peeked in.

  “Hey, sleepyhead,” she said. “Your sister will have a nervous breakdown if you’re not up and ready to open presents soon. Even Dr. Davenport has had his breakfast and is waiting for you.”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to say, You mean my father, but I didn’t.

  “Oh. Sorry,” I said. I realized, of course, that Samantha had not told about my late-night visit. Was that because she was guilty after all?

  “Mr. Stark and Cathy will be at our Christmas dinner,” my mother added, coming into my room and immediately scooping up whatever I had left unhung or out of a drawer.

  I imagined a mother, especially one like mine, never could stop looking after her children.

  She paused when she saw my opened carton and all the pictures and albums on the floor beside it. “What’s this?”

  “I started looking through it all last night and stopped,” I said. “I need to get some pictures into albums.”

  That was true, but my answer was still a lie. Samantha was rubbing off on me. And now, when they found the picture in his room, she would recall my going through the carton of old photographs. I felt like I was falling deeper and deeper into the trap my jealous half sister had created.

  I got out of bed.

  “Ryder’s downstairs. Dr. Davenport gave him his first gift. It’s a book about birds. He used to be interested in them, and the doctor thought for the spring, when he’s out and about again, he’d have something to do. He bought him a new pair of binoculars, but he hasn’t given him that yet.”

  “Spring’s a ways off.”

  “Everything is a ways off these days,” my mother said, pausing to look at me curiously now. “Why couldn’t you sleep?”

  “I don’t know,” I said quickly. “I never knew Ryder had an interest in birds,” I added to quickly change the subject.

  “No? Well, he did,” she said. “Take a nice shower and wake up. I’ll make you some French toast.”

  “Okay.”

  When I started for my bathroom, she left. Was she right? I wondered. Was Ryder always interested in birds? There was probably a great deal about him that I didn’t know. After my mother and I had been moved into the help’s quarters, I did grow up significantly apart from him, and when we were both older, he had his friends and I had mine. What had happened between us hadn’t happened until his senior year, and we didn’t really get to spend all that much time together, intimately together, before the tragedy on Lake Wyndemere.

  Anyway, right now, to him, I was like someone new he was meeting, and it was getting to be quite a bit like that for me, too. I hurried to shower and then dressed in a pair of boot-cut jeans and a denim button-down shirt. When I went downstairs, I just peeked into the living room on my way to have my breakfast. Ryder was sitting on one of the settees, thumbing slowly through his new book. Samantha, who looked like she was pouting, saw me looking in and practically leaped out of her chair.

  “Everybody’s waiting for you,” she said.

  My father looked up from the newspaper he was reading and saw me. He looked more surprised than upset about my oversleeping.

  “Don’t wait for me,” I said.

  “Good.”

  “We’ll wait,” my father said firmly. “Christmas goes too quickly as it is.”

  Samantha groaned.

  “Don’t worry, Samantha. None of your gifts will disappear,” he said.

  “Can I open the one from Mommy?” she asked him. I doubted he would oppose that.

  Nevertheless, I hurried to the kitchen. My mother had put out my dish on the kitchenette table. She had the French toast batter ready.

  “Get your juice and coffee,” she said.

  “I’m sorry I overslept on this of all mornings, Mummy. I should have been helping you.”

  “It’s all right. I’m better when I’m busy,” she replied. Then she surprised me by adding, “George says the lake is frozen thicker than he’s seen it for years. Good ice-skating.”

  “Ice-skating?”

  “You’re very good at it, Fern, and you’ve always enjoyed doing it. Don’t act so surprised. Mr. Stark said he’d clear a big area for you and Samantha. You should get some fresh air. The both of you are staying in the house too much.”

  “I won’t go back on that lake,” I said, and sat slowly. I hadn’t been in the lake all summer or taken a boat ride all fall, even though I had jogged near it.

  “Don’t be foolish. What happened had nothing to do with the lake. A great many people would love to have the opportunity you have with what’s practically your backyard.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Maybe Ryder’s doctor will think that’s good for him, too,” she said, almost muttered. “Fresh air is important to anyone recuperating from anything.”

  “Really? But wouldn’t that revive bad memories? Does his doctor think he’s ready? I know he’s walked down to the shore with him a number of times. Has something finally happened? Is he remembering that day?” It was impossible to contain my curiosity.

  “I don’t know, Fern. I haven’t heard anything like that. I’m just suggesting everyone take advantage of it. It’s just a possibility. Everything is just a possibility now. If you do it and Samantha does it, he might ask to do it. That’s moving in the right direction, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose, but I’d be afraid for him the whole time. What if he was out there and it suddenly came rushing back and Dr. Seymour wasn’t here? Wouldn’t that be terrible?”

  “He won’t be there unless someone in charge is with him, of course,” she said. Then she paused and looked at me. “Maybe you should ask some friends to join you. Don’t just mope around all this holiday, Fern.”

  “But Dr. Davenport was firm about Samantha not inviting her friends here to gawk at Ryder. Wouldn’t he be afraid mine would do the same?”

  She served me my French toast. “Your friends will be more mature.”

  “Sounds like you’ve been talking to Dr. Davenport about me,” I said. She paused. I looked up quickly. “I mean my father.”

  She smiled. “He did mention that he’d like to see you out and about, doing more with yourself. He’s not wrong. There’s no reason for you to isolate yourself like this. It worries me, too.”

  “I just thought . . . holidays were for families,” I said. I was reaching for excuses, and my mother knew it, too.

  “Families and friends, Fern.” She narrowed her eyelids. She could aim her words like sharp arrows when she thought it was necessary. “Don’t drive your friends away as a form of self-punishment.”

  I looked back sharply. “Self-punishment? You have been talking about me?”

  “Yes, of course, we talk about you,” she said, correctly reading the expression on my face. “Don’t be so surprised. You’re just as much a topic of conversation between the doctor and myself as Ryder is these days.”

  Before I could respond by asking, Did you ever discuss me when we lived in the help’s quarters? Was I of any concern to him then? Samantha came to the kitchen doorway and held up a new iPad. Our father had given in and let her open one of her mother’s gifts, as I suspected he would.

  “You already have one not even two years old,” I said. “I imagine your mother didn’t know. I imagine she doesn’t even remember what grade you’re in.”

  Her gleeful smile evaporated. “This is the thinner one, anyway.”

  “You could have just put the one you have on a diet,” I said.

  My mother laughed.

  Samantha’s eyes widened. “I’m giving my old one to Ryder,” she said. “My father thinks that’s a very nice thing to do.”

 
“It is,” my mother said. “Good for you, Samantha.”

  “He forgot how to use everything, especially on his computer, but I’m going to show him,” she said. “He likes me helping him,” she added, looking at me.

  “Very good, Samantha,” my mother said.

  Samantha gave me her best So there smile.

  “He didn’t forget how to use his computer, Samantha. He just doesn’t use email,” I said softly.

  “I can still show him stuff, stuff I bet even you don’t know,” she said, and returned to the living room.

  “How long will it be before she outspites her mother?” I said.

  My mother gave me her big eyes. “Patience is a virtue,” she said.

  “Or a few customers for a doctor, especially a psychotherapist,” I replied. I started to clear off my dishes.

  She laughed. “What will I do with you? Go on to the living room,” she said. “I’ll be right there. It’s our first Christmas in the main house in a long, long time, Fern. Maybe Ryder will remember those happier days, too. You’ll want to be a part of that.”

  I nodded. Of course I would. My mother always had a way of getting me to do whatever she wanted.

  When we were all together, I began to unwrap gifts. I was surprised at how many my father had bought or had someone buy for me, probably my mother. There were new blouses and slippers and a special watch that he said kept track of how much exercise you did daily, how much you walked or jogged. Hint, hint, I thought. Get out of the house. Be active.

  This wasn’t the first time my father had bought me a Christmas present, but when I was much younger, when we were living in the main house because my mother was Ryder’s and Samantha’s nanny, I didn’t really remember or appreciate that the gifts were coming from him. Afterward, when my mother and I opened our gifts in the help’s quarters, there was always something for me from Dr. Davenport, usually something for school like a new book bag or, relatively recently, a new laptop computer. Those days, my mother had me write a special thank-you note as well as thank him when I did see him. It wasn’t until the past year that Ryder and I had begun to exchange gifts. Before that, his stepmother frowned on it. She was surely not going to give me anything, even if Dr. Davenport was.

  The first time I bought Ryder something, I spent hours and hours shopping for just the right thing, something that to me seemed special. After all, he had almost anything a boy his age could want.

  Last Christmas, I had bought him a personalized pen set and had it inscribed For a special Ryder. He thought that was so clever and made sure that all his friends in school saw it. I wondered where the pen was now. I hadn’t seen it in his room. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn Samantha had taken it and thrown it out.

  She was certainly more interested in my gifts than her own, worried, I was sure, that I was getting something extra special. I had to think our father had anticipated that. He’d bought her more than he had bought me. She didn’t hesitate to rush over to him and hug him her thank-you. I glanced at my mother. She nodded, reading my thoughts. My father hadn’t hugged me, nor I him, since the day he had come to my bedroom in the help’s quarters and told me what had happened. I rose slowly and approached him, glancing at Ryder, who watched with interest. What would he think of all this? Was this finally the way to let him know we were half brother and half sister?

  “Thank you,” I said. “I love my presents.”

  I leaned over and hugged my father. I could see his arms lifting, but hesitantly. He didn’t embrace me; he touched me, and I thought he actually blushed when I kissed his cheek. Samantha looked angry and quickly turned away. I could practically see the smoke flowing out of her ears. My mother smiled. I went to her and hugged her and thanked her for the gifts she had bought me as well.

  When I glanced at Ryder, I saw how confused he looked. He dropped his eyes quickly to his book on birds and then unwrapped the box and lifted out his new binoculars.

  “Can I use them?” Samantha cried, and practically tore them from his hands.

  “Those are Ryder’s,” our father said sternly. “Give them back, Samantha. After he uses them, he’ll give them to you to use when he wants. Go on.”

  She smirked and handed them back to Ryder. He glanced at me and saw me shake my head in disgust.

  A week before Christmas, I had asked my mother if I should buy Ryder something. I knew I couldn’t just do it now.

  “What did you have in mind?” she had asked cautiously.

  I’d shrugged and said, “A nice shirt?”

  She had thought that would be fine. Even so, when Parker took me to the mall, I did look for something different, something cute. I found a hooded sweatshirt that was perfect for Christmas. On the front, it read, Dear Santa, Define “good.” All I had told my mother was that it was a sweatshirt.

  Now I plucked it out from under the tree and brought it to him. My father’s, mother’s, and Samantha’s eyes felt like rays of cold ice on my back. I knew how closely they were watching. What sort of gift had I chosen? What memories might it resurrect, memories only he and I would appreciate, perhaps? My hands actually trembled when I presented it to him. He looked at it and then up at me with surprise.

  “Merry Christmas, Ryder,” I said.

  He took the box and glanced at our father as if he was seeking permission to accept it. My father nodded, and Ryder began to unwrap it. I stood back, practically holding my breath. Had I been too cute? Was it too revealing of my feelings? Would my father and mother be upset? Maybe I shouldn’t have bought him anything. Maybe it was too soon.

  He opened the box and slowly unfolded the sweatshirt, first holding it up with the back of it to us all. Then he smiled. It was a smile like none other since he had returned from the clinic. He turned it around to show our father and my mother and Samantha.

  “That’s stupid,” Samantha said. “Anyone knows what ‘good’ means.”

  Ryder looked at her and then at me, and with a brightness strong enough to melt an arctic glacier, he laughed. My mother didn’t laugh, but her eyes widened with delight. My father smiled, and Samantha looked shocked and confused.

  “Thank you,” Ryder said.

  “Very funny, Fern,” my father said.

  “Why is that funny?” Samantha asked, visibly annoyed.

  “If you’re not good, Santa will leave a chunk of coal in your stocking,” my mother said.

  Samantha smirked. “That’s even sillier,” she said. “Besides, there is no Santa.”

  “But there is coal,” I said. Not that you’ll ever get any, I thought, and if you did, it would probably be gold-plated.

  Afterward, I went into the kitchen with my mother to help her prepare our Christmas dinner. Samantha gathered her gifts and went upstairs to her room. My father decided to take Ryder for a short cross-country-skiing trip around the property. It was something they often had done together whenever he was able to spend time at home in the winter.

  “We’re going to have quite the appetite when we return,” he promised.

  Ryder looked a little unsure about it but followed him upstairs to get dressed for the exercise. When he looked back from the stairway, I thought he smiled at me differently. He waited for me to respond, so I smiled back. The exchange should have made me happy. It was, after all, something a little beyond warm and friendly. But instead, it filled me with unexpected trepidation. I quickly checked to see if my mother was watching.

  She wasn’t.

  He held his gaze on me one moment more and then continued upstairs.

  The moment lingered like a bright light slowly diminishing. I so welcomed it.

  But it was as if we had just shared a secret that in the end might destroy us both.

  And that’s just what it almost did.

  5

  FOR THE REMAINDER of Christmas Day, whenever we were together, I watched Ryder more carefully and thought I caught him looking at me more intently. I was alert to anyone watching us exchange looks, especially my mother. Dr.
Davenport didn’t seem as concerned. Samantha, thankfully, was always absorbed in herself and her presents and never noticed, and whenever Ryder did look at me in what I thought was a different way, he seemed cautious, never doing so when either his father or my mother was present. As soon as either appeared, he looked away. I did nothing to encourage him to be sneaky about it. I didn’t smile differently or whisper something that would be secret between us, even though I wanted to, wanted to very much.

  Perhaps, I told myself, it was all my imagination anyway, my wishful thinking. I was reading more into his look than was there. I was thinking too much about this. He wasn’t that attentive at our Christmas dinner, barely looking at me, actually, even when I spoke. Exercising with our father had brought a healthy crimson tint to his cheeks and brightened his eyes. He looked much more like himself before the tragedy on the lake. He was even more handsome than our father. Ryder always liked to have his dark brown hair a little longer than Dr. Davenport wanted. I didn’t know whether it was something Dr. Seymour, the therapist, insisted on, but Ryder’s hair was cut and shaped the way it always was, even when he was in the hospital and the clinic. My guess was that changing the way he was used to looking might endanger his recovery.

  No one could change his soft blue eyes and slightly cleft chin. Even when I was very young, I realized that he smiled just the way Dr. Davenport did. It was a smile that always began in his eyes and then rippled out over his high cheekbones. Those smiles were rare now, but Ryder was more relaxed at our Christmas dinner.

  He was fascinated with Mr. Stark, who related one story after another about his days as a teenager. Even though he still looked like he was listening to stories about someone else, I saw how happy my father was and grateful to Mr. Stark, who had Ryder mesmerized and probably laughing at stories he had actually heard many times. Cathy Stark and my father entertained my mother with some of the sillier things that had occurred during their work at the hospital. Samantha was the only one pouting. No one was paying much attention to her.

  Mr. Stark brought up ice-skating on the lake when my father revealed that he and Ryder had cross-country-skied across a thick frozen area not far from the dock. I was quite surprised and watched Ryder’s expression while our father described it. Apparently, going back to the lake hadn’t stirred up any terrible memories. Was that good, or did it mean he would never remember . . . anything?