by Anne Rice
Aunt Marge drove Rose to a private school called the Country Lane Academy. The school was a wonderland of games to play and projects to do, and computers on which to write words, and bright-faced eager teachers. There were only fifty students in the whole school and Rose was reading Dr. Seuss in no time. On Tuesdays, the whole school spoke Spanish and only Spanish. And they went on trips to museums and zoos and Rose loved all this.
At home Aunt Marge and Aunt Julie helped Rose with her homework, and they baked cakes and cookies, and when the weather was cool, they cooked barbecue outdoors and drank lemonade mixed with iced tea with lots of sugar. Rose loved swimming in the gulf. For her sixth birthday, Aunt Marge and Aunt Julie gave a party and invited the whole school to come, even the older kids, and it was the best picnic ever.
By the time Rose was ten, she understood that Aunt Julie and Aunt Marge were paid to take care of her. Uncle Lestan was her legal guardian. But she never doubted that her aunts loved her, and she loved them. They were retired schoolteachers, Aunt Julie and Aunt Marge, and they talked all the time about how good Uncle Lestan was to all of them. And they were all happy together when Uncle Lestan came to visit.
It was always late in the evening when he arrived, and he brought presents for everyone—books, clothes, laptop computers, and wonderful gadgets. Sometimes he came in a big black car. Other times he just appeared, and Rose laughed to herself when she saw how mussed his hair was, because she knew he’d been flying, flying like that first time, when the little island had sunk into the sea and he had carried her up into the Heavens.
But Rose never told anyone about that, and as she got older she came to think that it just couldn’t have happened.
She’d gone from the Country Lane Academy to the Willmont School some fifty miles farther away, and there she was really getting into the most fascinating subjects. She loved literature and history best of all, and after that music, and art appreciation and French. But she did all right in science and math because she felt she had to. Everybody would be so disappointed if she did not do well. But what she really wanted was to read all the time, and her happiest times at school were in the library.
When Uncle Lestan called, she told him all about it, and they talked of books he loved and that she loved, and he reminded her: “Rose, when you grow up, remember, you can be anything you want. You can be a writer, a poet, a singer, a dancer, a teacher, anything.”
When Rose turned thirteen, she and her aunts went on a tour of Europe. Uncle Lestan wasn’t with them but he had paid for everything. This was the greatest time of Rose’s life. They spent three whole months traveling together, and went to all the great cities of the world in what Uncle Lestan called “the Grand Tour.” And they visited Russia too, spending five days in Saint Petersburg and five days in Moscow.
For Rose it was all about the most beautiful old buildings, palaces, castles, cathedrals, ancient towns, and the museums filled with the paintings she’d read about and saw now with her own eyes. Above all else, Rose loved Rome, Florence, and Venice. But everywhere she turned, Rose was enchanted by new discoveries.
Uncle Lestan surprised her when they were in Amsterdam. He had a secret key to the Rijksmuseum because he was a patron and he took Rose through it in the evening hours so they could be alone and linger as long as they wanted before the great Rembrandt paintings.
He arranged after-hours showings like that for them in many cities. But Amsterdam had a place in Rose’s heart, because there, Uncle Lestan had been with her.
When Rose was fifteen, she got into trouble. She took the family car without permission. She didn’t have a driver’s license yet, and it was her plan to get the car back before either Aunt Julie or Aunt Marge woke up. She’d only wanted to drive for a few hours with her new friends, Betty and Charlotte, and none of them thought anything bad would happen. But they got into a fender bender on the highway, and Rose ended up in juvenile court.
Aunt Julie and Aunt Marge sent word to Uncle Lestan, but he was traveling and no one could find him. Rose was glad. She was so shamed, so miserable, so afraid that he would be disappointed in her.
The judge who heard the case shocked everyone. He let off Betty and Charlotte because they had not stolen the car, but he sentenced Rose to Amazing Grace Home for Girls for the period of one year due to her criminal behavior. He gave a dire warning to Rose that if she did not behave well at Amazing Grace, he would extend her stay till she was eighteen and possibly even longer. He said Rose had been in danger of becoming an addict with her antisocial behavior and possibly even a street person.
Aunt Marge and Aunt Julie were frantic, begging the judge not to do this. Again and again, they argued, as did the lawyers, that they were not pressing charges against Rose for stealing the car, that this had been a prank and nothing more, that the child’s uncle must be contacted.
It did no good. Rose was handcuffed and taken as a prisoner to the Amazing Grace Home for Girls somewhere in southern Florida.
All the way there, she sat quiet, numb with fear, while the men and women in the car talked of a “good Christian environment” where Rose would learn the Bible, and learn how to be “a good girl” and come back to her aunts “an obedient Christian child.”
The “home” exceeded Rose’s worst fears.
She was met by the minister Dr. Hays and his wife, Mrs. Hays, both of whom were well dressed and smiling and gracious.
But as soon as the police were gone and they were alone with Rose, they told her that she must admit all the bad things she’d done or Amazing Grace wasn’t going to be able to help her. “You know the things you’ve done with boys,” Mrs. Hays said. “You know what drugs you’ve used, the kind of music you’ve been listening to.”
Rose was frantic. She’d never done anything bad with boys, and her favorite music was classical. Sure she did listen to rock music but—. Mrs. Hays shook her head. Denying who and what she had done was bad, said Mrs. Hays. She did not want to see Rose again until Rose had had a change of attitude.
Rose was given ugly shapeless clothes to wear, and escorted everywhere around the grim sterile buildings by two older students who stood guard over her even when she had to use the bathroom. They would not give her a minute of privacy. They watched her when she performed the most delicate of bodily functions.
The food was unbearable, and lessons were reading and copying Bible verses. Rose was slapped for making eye contact with other girls, or with teachers, or for trying to “talk,” or for asking questions, and made to scrub the dining room on her hands and knees for failing to show a “good attitude.”
When Rose demanded to call home, to talk to her aunts about where she was, she was taken to “a time-out room,” a small closet with one high window, and there she was beaten with a leather belt by an older woman who told her that she had better show a change of attitude now, and that if she didn’t she’d never be allowed a phone call to her “family.”
“Do you want to be a bad girl?” asked the woman sorrowfully. “Don’t you understand what your parents are trying to do for you here? Your parents don’t want you now. You rebelled, you disappointed them.”
Rose lay on the floor of that room for two days, crying. There was a bucket and a pallet there and nothing else. The floor smelled of chemical cleaners and urine. Twice people came in with food for her. An older girl crouched down and whispered, “Just go along with it. You can’t win against these people. And please, eat. If you don’t eat, they’ll keep giving you the same plate over and over until you do eat the food, even if it’s rotting.”
Rose was furious. Where were Aunt Julie and Aunt Marge? Where was Uncle Lestan? What if Uncle Lestan knew what had happened and he was angry and disgusted with her? She couldn’t believe it. She couldn’t believe he’d turn his back on her like that, not without talking to her. But she was consumed with shame for what she’d done. And she was ashamed of herself now in the shapeless clothes, her body unwashed, her hair unwashed, her skin itching and feverish.<
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She felt feverish all over and her system had locked up. In the bathroom, before the watchful eyes of her guardians, she could not move her bowels. Her body ached and her head ached. In fact, she was feeling the worst pain she’d ever known in her stomach and in her head.
Rose was surely running a temperature by the time she was taken to the first group session. Without a shower or bath, she felt filthy.
They put a paper sign on her that said I AM A SLUT and told her to admit that she had used drugs, that she’d listened to satanic music, that she’d slept with boys.
Over and over Rose said that she had not slept with anyone, that she had not done drugs.
Again and again, other girls stood before her screaming at her: “Admit, admit.”
“Say it: ‘I am a slut.’ ”
“Say it: ‘I am an addict.’ ”
Rose refused. She started screaming. She’d never done drugs in her life. No one at the Willmont School did drugs. She’d never been with a boy except to kiss at a dance.
She found herself down on the floor with other girls sitting on her legs and her arms. She couldn’t stop screaming until her mouth filled with vomit. She almost choked on it. With all her soul, she struggled, screaming louder and louder, spitting vomit everywhere.
When Rose awoke, she was alone in a room and she knew she was more than just a little sick. She was hot all over and the pain in her stomach was unbearable. Her head was on fire. Over and over when she heard another person passing she asked for water.
The answer came back, “Faker.”
How long did she lie there? It seemed like days, but soon she was half dreaming. Over and over she prayed to Uncle Lestan. “Come get me, please, come get me. I didn’t mean to do it, please, please forgive me.” She couldn’t imagine that he would want her to suffer like this. Surely Aunt Julie and Aunt Marge had told him what was happening. Aunt Marge had been hysterical by the time they took Rose away.
At some point, Rose realized something. She was dying. All she could think of now was water. And every time she drifted off, it was a dream that someone was giving her water; then she’d wake and there was no water; and there was no one there; no one passing; no one saying “faker,” and no one saying “admit.”
A strange calm came over Rose. So this is how her life would end, she thought. And maybe Uncle Lestan just didn’t know or didn’t understand how bad it was. What would it matter?
She slept and she dreamed but she kept shivering and waking with a jolt. Her lips were cracked. And there was so much pain in her stomach and chest and her head that she could feel nothing else.
Sliding in and out, dreaming of cold clear water in glasses from which she could drink, she heard sirens go off. They were loud screeching sirens far away but coming closer, and then alarms within this place itself went off, blasting with horrific volume. Rose could smell smoke. She could see the flicker of flames. She heard the girls screaming.
Right before her, the wall broke apart and so did the ceiling. The whole room blew apart with chunks of plaster and wood flying in all directions.
Wind swept through the room. The screams around her grew louder and louder.
A man came towards Rose. He looked like Uncle Lestan, but it wasn’t Uncle Lestan. It was a dark-haired man and a beautiful man with the same bright eyes that Uncle Lestan had, except this man’s eyes were green. He scooped Rose up from her pallet and wrapped her in something warm and close, and then they went upwards.
Rose saw flames all around as they rose. The entire compound was burning.
The man carried her up and up into the sky just as it had happened long years ago above the little island.
The air was marvelously cold and fresh. “Yes, the stars …,” she whispered.
When she saw the great sweep of diamond-bright stars, she was that little child again in Uncle Lestan’s arms.
A gentle voice spoke in her ear, “Sleep, Rose, you’re safe now. I’m taking you to your uncle Lestan.”
Rose woke in a hospital room. She was surrounded by people in white coats and masks. A kindly female voice said, “You’re going to be all right, darling. I’m giving you something to make you sleep.”
Behind the nurse stood that man, that dark-haired man with the green eyes, who’d brought Rose here. He had the same darkly tanned skin as Uncle Lestan had, and his fingers felt like silk as he stroked Rose’s cheek now.
“I’m your uncle’s friend, Rose,” he said. “My name is Louis.” He pronounced it the French way, Louie. “Believe me, Rose, your uncle will be here soon. He’s on his way. He’ll take care of you, and I’ll be here until he comes.”
Next time she opened her eyes, she felt completely different. All the pain and pressure were gone from her stomach and chest. They’d evacuated all the waste from her body, she realized that. And when she thought of how revolting that must have been, fingers prying into her unwashed flesh, removing all that filth, she felt ashamed again and sobbed against the pillow. She felt to blame and miserable. The tall dark-haired man stroked her hair and told her not to worry anymore. “Your aunt Julie is on the way. Your uncle is on the way. Go back to sleep, Rose.”
Though she was groggy and confused, she could see she was being given fluids and something white, some sort of IV nourishment. The doctor came. She said it would be about a week before Rose could leave, but the “danger” was past. It had been touch and go there for a while, all right. But Rose would be fine. The infection was under control; Rose was hydrated now. The man named Louis thanked the doctor and the nurse.
Rose blinked through her tears. The room was filled with flowers. “He’s sent you lilies,” said Louis. He had a soft deep voice. “He’s sent you roses, too, all colors of roses. Your flower, Rose.”
When Rose started to apologize for what she’d done, Louis wouldn’t hear of it. He told her the people who’d taken her were “evil.” The judge had gotten kickbacks from the Christian home to send perfectly decent teenagers there for incarceration. The school bilked the parents of the children and the state for exorbitant payments. He said that the judge would soon be in jail. As for the home, it was gone, burned down, shut up, and lawyers would see that it never opened again.
“It was wrong what they did to you,” he whispered.
In his soft unhurried voice, he said there would be many lawsuits against the home. And the remains of two bodies had been found buried on the grounds. He wanted Rose to know these people would be punished.
Rose was amazed. She wanted to explain about the car, that she had never meant to hurt anybody.
“I know,” he said. “It was a little thing. It was nothing. Your uncle is not angry with you. He would never be angry with you over such a thing. Sleep now.”
By the time Uncle Lestan came Rose was home with Aunt Marge in a Miami Beach apartment. She had lost weight and felt frail and jumped at the slightest noise. But she was much better. Uncle Lestan took her into his arms, and they went out to walk along the beach together.
“I want you to go to New York,” said Uncle Lestan. “New York is the capital of the world. And I want you to go to school there. Aunt Marge is going to take you. Aunt Julie will stay behind. Florida is her home and she can’t adjust to the big city. But Aunt Marge will take care of you, and you’re to have other companions now, good, decent security guards who’ll keep you both safe. I want you to have the finest education.” He went on, “Remember, Rose, whatever you’ve suffered, no matter how bad it’s been, you can use that, use that to be a stronger person.”
For hours they talked, not about the horrid Christian home but about other things, Rose’s love of books, her dreams of writing poetry and stories someday, and her enthusiasm about New York, and how she so wanted to go to a great university like Harvard or Stanford or who knows where?
Those were wonderful hours. They’d stopped at a café on South Beach, and Uncle Lestan sat there quietly, leaning on his elbows, beaming at her as she poured out all her thoughts and dreams a
nd questions.
The new apartment in New York was on the Upper East Side, about two blocks from the park in a venerable old building with spacious rooms and high ceilings. Aunt Marge and Rose were both overjoyed to be there.
Rose went to a marvelous day school which had a curriculum far superior to that of the Willmont School. With the help of several tutors, mostly college students, Rose soon caught up and was deep into her school work preparing to go to college.
Though Rose missed the beautiful beach in Florida and the lovely warm sweet rural nights, she was ecstatic to be in New York, loved her schoolmates, and was secretly happy that Aunt Marge was with her and not Aunt Julie, as Aunt Marge had always been the adventurous one, the mischievous one, and they had more fun together.
Their household soon included a permanent housekeeper and cook, and the security-guard drivers who took them everywhere.
There were times when Rose wanted to strike out on her own, meet kids on her own, take the subway, be independent.
But Uncle Lestan was adamant. Rose’s drivers went where Rose went. Embarrassed as Rose was by the big stretch Lincoln limousine that dropped her off at school, she came to depend on this. And these drivers were all past masters of double parking anywhere in Midtown while Rose shopped, and thought nothing of carrying twenty and thirty bundles and even braving the checkout lines for Rose, or running errands for her. They were young mostly, cheerful guys, and kind of like guardian angels.
Aunt Marge was frank about enjoying all this completely.
It was a new way of life, and it had its charms, but the real lure of course was New York itself. She and Aunt Marge had subscription tickets to the symphony, the New York City Ballet, the Metropolitan Opera. They attended the latest musicals on Broadway, and plenty of off-Broadway plays. They shopped at Bergdorf Goodman and Saks; they roamed the Metropolitan Museum for hours on Saturdays and often spent weekends visiting the galleries in the Village and SoHo. This was life!
