Petals on the Wind

by V. C. Andrews

  My heart jumped when I spied the thick creamy envelope, knowing it contained the graduation announcement of Chris's achievement--his medical degree--at long last! It was almost as if I myself had completed college, then medical school all within seven years.

  Very carefully I used a letter opener so I could put this souvenir in my scrapbook of dreams, some of which were coming true. Inside was not only the formal announcement, but also a note on which Chris had written modestly:

  I am embarrassed to tell you this, but I am the top grad in a class of two hundred. Don't you dare find an excuse to keep away. You have to be there to bask in the glow of my excitement, as I bask in the radiance of your admiration I cannot possibly accept my M.D. if you aren't there to see. And you can tell Julian this when he tries to prevent your coming

  The bothersome thing about this was Julian and I had signed a contract some time ago to tape a TV production of Giselle. It was set for June, but now in May they wanted us both. We were sure the television exposure would make us the stars we'd strived so long to be.

  It seemed a perfect time to approach Julian with the news. We had returned to our cottage after touring old castles. As soon as our evening meal was over we sat out on the terrace sipping glasses of a red wine he was nuts about, but that gave me a headache. Only then did I dare to timidly approach going back to the States in time for Chris's May graduation. "Really, we do have the time to fly there, and be back in plenty of time to go into rehearsals for Giselle."

  "Oh, come off it, Cathy!" he said impatiently. "It's a difficult role for you, and you'll be tired, and you'll need to rest up."

  I objected. Two weeks was plenty of time . . . and a TV taping didn't take too long. "Please, darling, let's go. I'd be sick not to see my brother become a doctor, just as you'd be if your brother was reaching the goal he'd strived for year after year."

  "Hell, no!" he flared, narrowing his dark eyes and shooting sparks my way. "I get so damned sick and tired of hearing Chris this, and Chris that, and if it isn't his name you drum in my ears, then it's Paul this and that! You are not going!"

  I pleaded with him to be reasonable. "He's my only brother, his graduation day is as important to me as it is to him You can't understand how much this means not only to him, but to me as well! You think he and I lived lives of luxury compared to yours, but you can rest assured, it was no picnic!"

  "Your past is something you don't talk about to me," he snapped. "It's exactly as if you were born the day you found your precious Dr. Paul! Cathy, you are my wife now, and your place is with me. Your Paul has Carrie, and they'll be there, so your brother won't lack applause when he gets that damned M.D.!"

  "You can't tell me what I can do and what I can't do! I'm your wife, not your slave!"

  "I don't want to talk about this anymore," he said, standing and seizing hold of my arm. "C'mon, let's hit the sack. I'm tired." Without speaking I allowed him to tug me into the bedroom where I began to undress. But he came over to help, and in this way I was informed it was to be a night of love, or rather sex. I shoved his hands away. Scowling, he put them back on my shoulders and leaned to nibble on my neck; he fondled my breasts before he reached to unhook my bra. I slapped his hands away, screamed no! But he persisted in taking off my bra. Easy as a mask to take off, he threw away his anger and put on his dreamy-eyed romantic look.

  There had been a time when Julian had appeared to me the epitome of everything

  sophisticated, worldly, elegant, but compared to the way he was now, since his father's death, he'd been only a country-bumpkin. There were times I actually detested him. This was such a time. "I am going, Julian. You may come with me, or you may meet me in New York after I fly back from the graduation ceremony. Or you can stay on here and sulk. Whatever--I am going. I want you to come with me and share in the family celebration, for you never share in anything--you hold me back, so I don't share either--but this time you can't stop me! It's too important!"

  Quietly he listened and he smiled in a way that sent chills down my spine. Oh, how wicked he could look. "Hear this, beloved wife, when you married me, I became your ruler, and by my side you will stay until I kick you out. And I'm not yet ready to do that. You are not leaving me alone in Spain when I don't speak Spanish. Maybe you can learn from records, but I can't."

  "Don't threaten me, Julian," I said coolly, though I backed off and felt a terrible pounding of panic. "Without me you don't have anyone who cares, except your mother, and since you don't care for her, who have you got left?"

  Lightly he reached out to slap both my cheeks. I closed my eyes, resigned to accept anything he did, as long as I could go to Chris. I allowed him to undress me and do what he would, even though he clutched my buttocks so hard they hurt. I could, when I chose, withdraw until I was outside of myself, looking on, and what he did to me that was appalling didn't really matter--for I wasn't truthfully there--unless the pain was great--as sometimes it was.

  "Don't try and sneak away," he warned, his words muffled because he was kissing everywhere, teasing me as a cat who plays with a mouse when it's not hungry. "Swear on your word of honor that you will stay and miss your dearly beloved brother's graduation--stay with the husband who needs you, who adores you, who can't live without you."

  He was mocking me, though his need for me was that of a child needing his mother. That was what I had become--his mother, in everything but sex. I had to choose his suits, his socks and shirts, his costumes, his practice outfits, though he consistently refused to let me handle the household accounts.

  "I will not swear to anything so unfair. Chris has come to see you perform and you have gloried in showing off to him. Now let him have his turn. He's worked hard for it." I pulled free from him then, and strolled to pick up a black lace nightgown he liked me to wear. I hated black nightgowns and underwear; they reminded me of whores and call girls--and my own mother who'd had a fancy for black lingerie. "Get up off your knees, Julian. You look ludicrous. You can't do anything to me if I choose to go. A -bruise would show, and besides, you've grown s accustomed to my weight and balance you can't even lift another dancer properly."

  He came at me angrily. "You're mad because we haven't made it to the top, aren't you? You're blaming me because our booking was canceled. And now Madame Z. has given us a leave so I can sober up and come back refreshed, made wholesome by playing games with my wife. Cathy, I don't know how to entertain myself except by dancing; I'm not interested in books or museums like you are, and there are ways of hurting and humiliating you that won't leave any bruises--except on your ego--and you should know that by now."

  Foolishly I smiled, when I should have known better than to challenge him when he was feeling less than confident. "What's the matter, Jule? Didn't your sex break satisfy your lust for perversion? Why don't you go out and find a schoolgirl, for I'm not going to cooperate."

  I'd never before thrown in his face that I knew about his debaucheries with very young girls. It had hurt at first when I found out, but now I knew he used those girls like he used paper napkins, to casually toss away when soiled, and back he'd come to me, to say he loved me, needed me, and I was the only one.

  Slowly he advanced, using his pantherlike stalk that told me he would be ruthless, but I held my head high, knowing I could escape by shutting off my mind, and he couldn't afford to hit me. He paused one foot away. I heard the clock on the nightstand ticking.

  "Cathy, you will do as I say if you know what's good for you."

  He was cruel that night, evil and spiteful; he forced upon me what should only be given in love. He dared me to bite. And this time I wouldn't have just one black eye, but two, and maybe worse. "And I'll tell everybody you are sick. Your period has you so badly cramped you can't dance--and you won't skip out on me, or make any phone calls, for I'll bind you to the bed and hide your passport." He grinned and slapped my face lightly. "Now, honey-chile, whatcha gonna do this time?"

  Smiling and himself again, Julian sauntered naked to the bre
akfast table, flung himself down, sprawled out his long, beautifully shaped legs and asked casually, "What's for breakfast?" He held out his arms so I could come and kiss his lips, which I did. I smiled, brushed the lock of dangling hair from his forehead, poured his coffee, and then said, "Good morning, darling. Same old breakfast for you. Fried eggs and fried ham I'm having a cheese omelet."

  "I'm sorry, Cathy," he murmured. "Why do you try to bring out the worst in me? I only use those girls to spare you."

  "If they don't mind, then I don't mind but don't ever force me to do what I did last night. I'm very good at hating, Julian. Just as good as you are at forcing. And at harboring revenge I'm an expert!"

  I slid onto his plate two fried eggs and two slices of ham. No toast and no butter. Both of us ate in silence. He sat across the checkered red and white tablecloth, closely shaven, clean and smelling of soap and shaving lotion. In his own dark and light exotic way he was the most beautiful man I'd ever seen.

  "Cathy . . , you haven't said you love me today."

  "I love you, Julian "

  An hour after breakfast I was madly searching every room to find my passport, while Julian slept on the bed, where I'd dragged him from the kitchen after he fell asleep from all the sedatives I'd dumped in his coffee.

  He wasn't nearly as good at hiding as I was at finding. Under the bed, and under the blue rug, I found my passport. Quickly I threw clothes into my suitcases. When I was packed, dressed and ready to go, I leaned above him and kissed him good-bye. He was breathing deep and regularly, and smiling slightly; perhaps the drugs were giving him pleasant dreams Though I'd drugged him, I hesitated, wondering if I'd done the right thing. Shrugging off my indecision, I headed toward the garage. Yes, I did what I had to do. If he were awake now, he'd be burred to my side all through the day, with my passport in his pocket. I'd left a note telling him where I was going.

  .

  Paul and Carrie met me at the airport in North Carolina. I hadn't seen Paul in three years. Down the ramp I went, my eyes locked with his. His face tilted up to mine, the sun in his eyes so he had to squint. "I'm glad you could come," he said, "though I'm sorry Julian couldn't make it."

  "He's sorry too," I said, looking up into his face. He was the type of man who improved with age. The mustache I'd persuaded him to grow was still there, and when he smiled dimples showed in both his cheeks.

  "Are you searching to find gray hair?" he teased when I stared too long and perhaps with too much admiration. "If you see any let me know and I'll have my barber touch them up. I'm not ready for gray hair yet. I like your new hair style; it makes you even more beautiful. But you're much too thin. What you need is lots of Henny's home cooking. She's here, you know, in a motel's small kitchen, whipping up homemade rolls your brother so loves. It's her gift to him for becoming another doctor-son."

  "Did Chris get my telegram? He does know I'm coming?"

  "Oh, indeed yes! He was fretting through every moment, afraid Julian would refuse to let you leave him, and knowing Julian wouldn't come. Honestly, Cathy, if you hadn't shown up, I don't think Chris would accept his degree."

  To sit beside Paul, with Henny on his far side and Carrie next to me, and watch my Christopher stride down the aisle and up the steps to accept his diploma, and then stand behind the podium and make the valedictory speech, put tears in my eyes and a swelling happiness in my heart. He did it so beautifully I cried. Paul, Henny and Carrie also had tears to shed. Even my success on stage couldn't compare to the pride I felt now. And Julian, he should be here too, making himself a part of my family and not stubbornly resisting all the time.

  I thought of our mother too, who should be here to witness this. I knew she was in London, for I was still following her movements about the world. Waiting, always waiting to see her again. What would I do when I did? Would I chicken out and let her get away again? I knew one thing, she'd learn that her eldest son was now a doctor--for I'd be sure she knew--just as I kept her informed about what Julian and I were doing.

  Of course I knew by now why my mother kept always on the move--she was afraid, so afraid I'd catch up with her! She'd been in Spain when Julian and I arrived. The news had been published in several papers, and not long after that I picked up a Spanish paper to see the lovely face of Mrs. Bartholomew Winslow, flying to London as fast as she could.

  Tearing my thoughts from her, I glanced around at the thousands of relatives crowded into the huge auditorium. When I looked back at the stage I saw Chris up there, ready to step behind the podium. I don't know how he managed to find me, but somehow he did. Our gazes met and locked, and across all the heads of those who sat between us, we met in silent communication and shared an overwhelming jubilation! We'd done it! Both of us! Reached our goals; become what we'd set out to be when we were children. It wouldn't have mattered at all about those years and months we'd lost--if Cory hadn't died, if our mother hadn't betrayed us, if Carrie had gained the height that should have been hers, and would have been if Momma had found another solution. Maybe I wasn't a prima ballerina yet--but I would be one day, and Chris would be the finest doctor alive.

  Watching Chris, I believed we shared the same thoughts. I saw him swinging a bat when he was ten to smash a ball over the fence, and then he'd run like mad to touch all bases in the quickest possible time, when he could have walked and made his home run. But that wasn't his way, to make it look too easy. I saw him racing on his bike yards ahead of me, then slowing down deliberately so I could catch up and we'd both reach home at the same time. I saw him in the locked room, in his bed three feet from mine, smiling encouragingly. I saw him again in the attic shadows, almost hidden in the immense space, looking so lost and bewildered as he turned away from the mother he loved . . . to me. Vicariously we'd shared so many romances while lying on a dirty old mattress in the attic while the rain pelted down and separated us from all humanity. Was that what did it? Was that why he couldn't see any girl but me? How sad for him, for me.

  The university planned a huge luncheon celebration, and at our table Carrie babbled away, but Chris and I could only stare at each other, each of us trying to find the right words to say.

  "Dr. Paul has moved into a new office building, Cathy," gushed Carrie breathlessly. "I'd hate him being so far away, but I am going to be his secretary! I am going to have a brand new electric typewriter colored red! Dr. Paul thought a custom-painted typewriter of purple might look a little garish, but I didn't think it would, so I settled for second best. And nobody ever is gonna have a better secretary than I'll be! I'll answer his phone, make his appointments, keep his filing system, do his bookkeeping, and every day he and I will eat lunch together!" She beamed on Paul a bright smile. It seemed he'd given her the security to regain the exuberant self-confidence that she'd lost. But I was to find out later, sadly, this was Carrie's false facade, one for Paul, Chris and me to see, and when she was alone, it was far different.

  Then Chris frowned and asked why Julian hadn't come. "He wanted to come, Chris, really he did," I lied. "But he has obligations that keep him so busy he couldn't spare the time. He asked me to give you his congratulations. We do have very tight schedules. Actually, I can only stay two days. We're going to do a TV production of Giselle next month.

  Later we celebrated again in a fine hotel restaurant. This was our chance to give Chris the gifts each of us had for him. It had been our childish habit to always shake a present before it was opened, but the big box Paul gave Chris was too heavy to shake. "Books!" said Chris rightly. Six huge, fat medical reference volumes to represent an entire set that must have cost Paul a fortune. "I couldn't carry more than six," he explained. "The remainder of the set will be waiting for you at home." I stared at him, realizing his home was the only real home we had.

  Deliberately Chris saved my gift for last, anticipating this would be the best and in that way, just as we used to, we could stretch out the enjoyment. It was too large and much too heavy to shake and besides I cautioned him it was fragile, but he
laughed, for we used to always try and trick the other, "No, it's more books--nothing else could be as heavy." He gave me a funny, wistful smile that made him seem a boy again.

  "I give you one guess, my Christopher Doll, and one hint. Inside that box is the one thing you said you wanted more than anything else--and our father said he would give it to you the day you got your black doctor's bag." Why had I used that kind of soft voice, to make Paul turn his eyes and narrow them, and see the blood that rose to stain my brother's cheeks? Were we never to forget, and change? Were we forever going to feel too much? Chris fiddled with the ribbons, careful not to tear the fancy paper. When he stripped off the paper, tears of remembrance welled in his eyes. His hands trembled as he carefully lifted from the cushioned box a French mahogany case with a gleaming brass lock, key and carrying handle. He gave me a tortured look even as his lips quivered, seeming incredulous that after all these years I'd remembered.

  "Oh, damn it, Cathy," he said all choked up with emotion, "I never really hoped to own one of these. You shouldn't have spent so much . . . it must have cost a fortune . . and you shouldn't have!"

  "But I wanted to, and it's not an original, Chris, only a replica of a John Cuff Side Pillar Microscope. But the man in the shop said it was an exact duplicate of the original and a collector's item nevertheless. And it works too." He shook his head as he handled the solid brass and ivory accessory instruments, and the optical lens, the tweezers, and the leather-bound book titled Antique Microscopes, 1675-1840.

  I said faintly, "In case you decide to play around in your spare time, you can do your own research on germs and viruses."

  "Some toy you give," he said, gritty-voiced, and now the two tears in the corners of his eyes began to slide down his cheeks. "You remembered the day Daddy said he would give me this when I became a doctor.'