Eye of the Storm

by V. C. Andrews

  asked, tilting her head in expectation.

  "Hardly." I said. She nodded, understanding

  only too well.

  I told her about Grandmother Hudson and how

  I had come to live here. She listened, clicking her

  tongue and pressing her lips together once in a while.

  Her face grew solemn when I described what had

  happened to Brody. Then she rose in silence to clear

  off the dishes. My story seemed to take all thought

  from her mind. She was so silent for so long. Finally, she wiped her hand on a dishtowel and turned back to

  me.

  "Ain't no point in asking yourself why all the

  time," she said.

  "The answers to those questions don't rest here

  with the living. We will find out later what the

  purpose was to all our burdens. That's what they mean

  by the promise in the Promised Land.

  "Mv daddy used to say that." she added smiling

  softly to herself. Then. as if she realized she had left

  her character role on some stage. she snapped her lips.

  clapped her hands and scowled at me.

  "You go on and let back to your room and get

  yourself ready for your therapy. He'll be here any

  minute. Go on, wheel on out of here on your own,"

  she charged.

  I turned from the table and started away. When

  I looked back, I saw her wipe something out of the

  corner of her right eye.

  Only someone who has cried a great deal

  knows why someone else wants to stop the tears. I

  thought.

  .

  The physical therapist was right on time. I

  heard the doorbell ring at exactly ten A.M. I waited nervously in my chair facing the door. After all, this was someone with whom I was going to spend a great deal of time and most of my physical energy. I had liked all my therapists at the hospital. They were kind, patient and very knowledgeable people. Most of them were in their mid-thirties and forties and very experienced. That had helped instill some confidence

  in me.

  I heard Mrs. Bogart's voice. She always spoke

  with authority. overpowering. I could barely hear the

  therapist as they came down the corridor. My heart

  raced. I gripped the sides of my wheelchair and sat as

  firmly as I could. Even so. I was not prepared for the

  man who appeared.

  He had bright carrot short hair, small freckles

  on his forehead, nearly luminous turquoise eyes, a

  perfectly straight nose with a sensual mouth and a

  strong jaw. He was easily six feet two and slim like a

  avail-last with wide shoulders and a narrow waist. He was dressed in white pants, sneakers and a

  light blue jacket under which he wore a tight T-shirt.

  The jacket was open so I could see some of his muscle

  development, especially his chest.

  What surprised me the most was I didn't think

  he was older than his mid-twenties, yet Aunt Victoria had described him as the best therapist in his company. I wasn't prepared to turn my broken body over to a man who didn't look much older than I. I hoped I wasn't going to be someone's guinea pig or

  the subject of someone's internship.

  The look on his face when he confronted me

  told me I was not exactly what he expected either. He

  stared for a moment, his lips softening into a soft,

  amused smile of surprise. Finally, he realized we were

  both staring dumbly at each other and he practically

  jumped toward me, his hand extended.

  "Hi," he said. "I'm Austin Clarke."

  I lifted my hand slowly and he pulled it into his

  impatiently, holding it longer than I expected. Mrs. Bogart stood back in the doorway

  watching a moment. "If you need anything, just

  shout," she said, "I won't be far."

  "Thank you," he said and turned back to me, his

  eyes narrowing and his lips now forming a slightly sly

  smile, almost impish. "You're disappointed I'm not

  same older guy, huh?"

  "Yes," I said, pulling my hand from his. "They tell me I'll always look like a teenager. I

  have that complexion or maybe ifs just this carrot top.

  I was thinking about dying it black, but then I'd have to dye my eyebrows and do something about these freckles. It's easier to tell everyone I take Dick Clark pills." He widened his smile in anticipation of my laughter. "They think we're related. Austin Clarke, Dick Clark?" I didn't react. "Dick Clark. 'Teenage

  Bandstand,' the guy who never seems to age?" "I know who he is," I said.

  He nodded and looked around the room. "Good. You've got it all here."

  He put dawn his small gym bag and approached

  the first machine.

  "This is a leg pump. You know why we want

  you to use it?"

  "Stop atrophy." I recited dryly.

  "Yeah, that's one thing. When the muscles of

  the calves and thighs are in contraction, blood low in

  oxygen, what we call venous blood, is pumped

  through the leg muscle pump from the legs to the

  heart.

  "The veins of the legs have valves which are

  similar to those of the heart. They allow blood to pass

  through towards the heart while they prevent the

  blood flowing backwards towards the foot. In this way

  they only allow blood flow in one direction: toward

  the heart.

  "During the pumping phase or muscle

  contraction, the pressure within the veins is increased,

  pumping the venous blood towards the heart. "During the filling phase or muscle relaxation,

  the pressure within the veins is reduced and the veins

  fill themselves with blood in preparation for the next

  pumping phase. This prevents thrombosis, blood

  clotting, and increases peripheral circulation which is

  necessary for tissue nutrition, oxygenation and

  removal of metabolic waste. And yes, muscle

  strength, prevention of atrophy.

  "Well?" he said standing back with his hands

  on his hips.

  "Well what?"

  "Aren't you impressed yet?"

  "Overwhelmed," I said and he laughed. "Okay. Let's just start and see where we go,

  okay?"

  He went over to the equipment and brought out

  a rolled thick mat that he undid and spread on the

  floor. Then he looked at me.

  "We'll go through a very basic evaluation. You

  know what I want you to do first?"

  "Warm up and then some stretching," I said. "Terrific. Maybe you should be the therapist.'" "Believe me," I said. "I wish I could," His smile widened and he stepped toward me.

  With tentative hands, waiting for my cooperation, he

  urged me to lift myself from the wheelchair. I knew

  he was waiting to see just what I could do with my

  right leg. I started and he came around behind me and

  put his hands on my hips.

  "Don't worry," he said. "I have you." His face was so close to my hair. I could feel

  his breath on my neck. I put all my weight on my

  right lea and started up. Then he took over and with

  ease gently lowered me to the mat. He had me lay flat

  and then he hovered over me a moment,

  "You okay?" he asked.

  "Yes." I closed my eyes and pressed my lips

  together and kept myself from screaming. I opened

  them and looked up. He was on his knees beside me. "We're going to rotate every joint
in your body

  and what you can't do yourself. I'll help you do," he

  said.

  "Why am I doing this?" I muttered to myself. He smiled down at me, those beautiful eyes full

  of laughter. "So I can have work, why else?" he said. Even if I wanted to. I couldn't stop a smile from

  settling on my face.

  "Oh, one other thing," he said rising and going

  to his Gym bag. He unzipped it and took out a small

  tape recorder. "I like to work with music. Is that

  okay?"

  "Yes," I said. He turned it on.

  I was expecting elevator music, soothing, soft

  melodic tones like they had at the hospital.

  Instead, there was a wham and a barn and the

  rock music began.

  He shrugged.

  "You can take the kid out of rock and roll, but

  you can't take rock and roll out of the kid."

  My smile turned into a laugh,

  "Okay?"

  "Yes," I said. "It's fine."

  A moment later I saw Mrs. Bogart look in on

  us. The music had drawn her back. Austin saw her.

  too. She glared a moment, smirked, shook her head

  and walked away.

  "Maybe she's not a rock music fan," he said. I laughed.

  "Hardly."

  He started me on rotating my neck muscles and

  he worked me down my body until we reached the

  places I couldn't move and then he leaned over me

  and gently, gracefully began to rotate them himself. He started to sing along with the music and I

  groaned.

  "Okay, okay," he said. "Now you know why

  I'm a therapist and not a rock star."

  "Did Aunt Victoria meet you?" I asked him,

  suddenly very curious about this whole arrangement. "Who's your Aunt Victoria? I just was given

  my assignment and showed up."

  "She prides herself on being right about every

  decision she makes. She was told you were the best in

  your company. The owner told her so himself." He leaned forward until he was only inches

  from my face and he winked.

  "My uncle owns it," he said. Then he laughed. I did too. I laughed so hard those familiar tears

  came again. only this time. I didn't seem to mind

  them.

  Not at all.

  9

  Pills to Kill Pain

  .

  Austin Clarke was actually twenty-eight years

  old, even though he could probably pass for a senior in high school or at least a freshman in college. His uncle really did own the physical therapy company. but Austin told me his father wasn't happy he was working for his uncle, his mother's brother.

  "My father wanted me to follow in his footsteps instead," Austin explained. "He owns an electric switch company in New Jersey. but I never found it very interesting or challenging to spend your life frying to manipulate costs so you could be more competitive in your bidding for jobs.

  "My uncle Byron was always into health and physical fitness. He was a runner up in one of those Mr. Olympia contests, body builders, you know? My father thought he was wasting his time, but while my uncle was at the health clubs, he got interested in physical therapy and went to school for it. Then, he started his own company. I guess he was a big influence on me because I began working out and studying health foods and everything. Eventually. I got into it. too.

  "Needless to say, my father's not going around bragging about my accomplishments."

  "Why not? You're helping people who need you," I said. "Why wouldn't he boast?"

  "It's a father-son thing, I guess. Manly pride stuff. Every father hopes his son wants to be like him and be as interested in his business, the things that interest him. Parents are always trying to make themselves over in their children, forgetting their children are individuals too," he said. "Sony," he quickly added. "I don't mean to on a soapbox my first day."

  "That's all right. I agree with you anyway."

  We were outside. After a little over an hour of warm-up, stretching and some strengthening exercises. Austin decided I should always include fresh air as part of my therapy. It was a warm summer day, even a little humid. but I didn't mind. He pushed me along the path toward the lake. When we got down to the shore and the small dock, he dipped his hand in the water and nodded.

  "Not as cold as I thought it would be," he said. "Anyone ever swim in this?"

  "Not for a long time. Why?"

  "Aqua therapy is very effective," he said.

  "You mean you expect me to go swimming?" I asked. astonished.

  "Sure, why not? It's still summer and the days are hot enough, aren't they?"

  I shook my head.

  "No way. I wasn't much of a swimmer before I got injured. I didn't have all that much opportunity. I'm a city girl and my school didn't have an outdoor or indoor pool. I didn't even go swimming until I started school here in my senior year."

  "Hey, we all came from the ocean, don't you remember? It comes natural to us. We'll see. I think this could do you a world of good, especially these dog days."

  "Dog days'?" I laughed.

  "Isn't that the way you Southern girls would put it?"

  "I'm no Southern girl and you don't have much of a Southern accent. Where are you from?" I asked him.

  He smiled and stood up.

  "Trenton. New Jersey. My mother's the Southerner. She was born and raised in Norfolk. I have a younger sister who loves to sound like a Southern belle, honey," he said overacting a Southern accent. "Her name is Heather Sue Clarke and she always goes by Heather Sue. If someone calls her just Heather, she'll correct them and say, it's Heather Sue. She's been doing that ever since she was three.

  "What about you?" he asked. "You have any brothers or sisters?'" He looked back at the house. "This is a pretty big house to be in all by yourself. Where are your parents? Both working? Why is your aunt in charge of all this?"

  I stared up at him and he just broke out into laughter.

  "Sorry, sorry," he said holding up his hand. "Didn't mean to overwhelm you with my nosiness and hit you with a shotgun of questions."

  "That's all right," I said. Then I sat back enjoying the air cooling over the water for a moment before I started.

  Here I go again. I thought.

  "I have a stepbrother and a half sister."

  He nodded like someone waiting for the punch line of a joke.

  "And I don't live with my mother. I live in this big house all by myself. With Mrs. Bogart, too. now. She was just hired. Not that she's much company," I added.

  "Really?" He turned to look at the lake.

  "I thought you would have had to know all about me before starting to work with me," I said.

  "Well. I do know how you got injured. Sorry about that. You know," he said looking at me again. "I've done some interesting therapy work with children using horseback riding. Maybe someday you'll get back in the saddle."

  "I doubt that."

  "Don't underestimate yourself. Rain." he said, his eyes small. intense. "Don't live in a world of fantasy either, but before you come to any ironclad conclusions about your future, about what you will and will not do, give your recuperation and

  rehabilitation a chance. End of lecture," he quickly added and pretended to zip his mouth shut.

  I gazed up at him. With the midday sun beaming down, its rays slipping between two puffy, lazy clouds over us, it looked like we were both in spotlights. My nose was filled with the fresh fragrances of wild flowers mixing with all the scents that rose from the water: the dampness of the wooden dock, the redolent smell of wet earth.

  Austin's face was radiant even without the glow of sunshine on it. In broad daylight, his turquoise eyes showed some specks of green. He looked healthy and strong, young and vibrant. everything I was and dreamed I'd be again. Whenever he looked at me, he had lau
ghter on his lips, a kind, happy laughter that followed interesting discoveries.

  How could anyone look at me and think of anything else but pity and sorrow? I wondered. What secret did he possess? What magic potion did he drink every day that gave him the power to see beauty and goodness, hope and promise in a world that I saw only as dark and foreboding now? Was it just his good fortune with health and fitness?

  "Are you married or engaged or anything?" I asked him, assuming this radiance in his eyes, this glow in his face had something to do with being in love. Someone out there filled his heart with neat joy.

  Days and days of memorizing Romeo avid Juliet for class in London had kept it in my bank account of sweet thoughts and some of the lines came quickly to my mind: 'Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs, Being purged, a fire sparking lovers' eyes...

  "I'm not anything at the moment. Not too long ago. I thought I was in love and someone was in love with me, but while my back was turned, because I was busy with patients, one of my buddies stepped into the available moment. should I say, and the love I thought was so strong, turned to mush."

  He stepped up on the small dock, raised his hands and cried. "She's gone. I am abased, and my relief must be to loathe her."

  Then he laughed. My mouth dropped open.

  "That's from Othello," I declared. He nodded.

  "Seemed to fit at the time, so I borrowed it. It's a passion of mine. I have all these tapes of plays, dramatic readings. and I listen to them while I make myself dinner or when I'm just relaxing, lying on my sofa, my eyes closed." He stepped down again and in a loud whisper said. "I'm a frustrated actor."

  I narrowed my eyes. suspiciously. "Did my aunt tell you about me?"

  "I never met your aunt. remember? My uncle gave me the assignment. I've read all your medical records. I told you I know how you were injured, but I wasn't given your autobiography. no. Why?"

  "I spent most of the year in London at a school for performing arts, training to become an actress." I said.

  "You're kidding! Well, we'll just have to get you up to speed so you can start auditioning for all the female wheelchair parts."

  I stared at him and then, seeing the impish gleam in his eye. I laughed. It was as if a weight was being lifted from my shoulders. Who would have thought that I would be laughing at myself in this condition? Who would have thought I could find the slightest thing funny about myself?

  He smiled.

  "That's it." he said. "'That's the secret. You've got to laugh at everything eventually. Only those who take themselves too seriously suffer, really suffer. You're going to get better in a thousand different ways. Rain. I just know it," he insisted. He put his hand over mine on the side of the wheelchair and looked into my eyes, forcing me to look deeply into his eyes so I could see his sincerity.