Midnight Whispers

by V. C. Andrews

  "I'm all right, Uncle Philip," I said, still confused by the look on his face and his actions.

  "No, no, I know you well. I know how fragile and sensitive you are and what you are suffering," he said and leaned forward. His eyes turned softer, meeting and locking with mine. "You need extra-tender loving care and I mean to give it to you as best as I can." He smiled softly, his eyes two pools of tenderness, and then he kissed my forehead. "Poor, poor Christie," he said, stroking my hair.

  I relaxed. "It's all right, Uncle Philip. Go get some sleep yourself. I'm fine," I said. He continued to smile and stroke my hair lovingly.

  "Dear, dear Christie. Lovely Christie, Dawn's Christie. I remember the day she brought you back to the hotel. I told her not to worry that your real father had deserted you. I would always be a father to you, too. And I will. I will," he promised.

  "All right, Uncle Philip. Thank you," I said. I sat up quickly and leaned away from him. "I'm all right now. I'm going to get up and shower and dress and get Jefferson up. Usually, he's in here by now," I added. Uncle Philip nodded. Then he sat back and took a deep breath with his eyes closed. He pressed on his knees and stood up. With his shoulders slumped, he started to leave. He stopped at the door.

  "I'll shower and dress, too," he said. "So we can all have breakfast together . . . like a family."

  As soon as he left, I got out of bed and went into the bathroom. I stood under the hot shower for as long as I could. It was as if I were scrubbing the sorrow off my body as well as washing away the fatigue. I dressed as quickly as I could and went in to see if Jefferson was awake. Mrs. Boston had already gotten there and helped him get dressed. He was in the bathroom brushing his hair. He stopped to look at roe as soon as he heard me enter.

  "Oh, good morning, Mrs. Boston," I said.

  "Good morning, honey. I came looking in on Brother," she told me, "but he was already awake and thinking about getting up and getting dressed. He really is a big boy now," she added more for his benefit than mine.

  "Yes, he is. You didn't have to do this and get breakfast for everyone, too, Mrs. Boston," I said. She wasn't family, but she couldn't have taken my parents' deaths any harder even if she was.

  "That's okay, honey. Your aunt Betty, she was up bright and early this morning laying out the orders for what she wanted served. I got it set up and waiting, so I figured I'd slip up here and look in on Jefferson," she explained.

  "What is it she wanted served?" I asked, curious.

  "It seems she takes her eggs poached and Master Richard takes his soft-boiled, not longer than one minute precisely, as does Miss Melanie. Mr. Cutler, he just has coffee and toast. She's very particular about her toast. She likes it just lightly cooked, and the children, they want strawberry jam. Luckily, we had some in the pantry," she added. "Otherwise, I would have had to get up even earlier to get some."

  "Mommy was never so particular," I commented. Mrs. Boston nodded.

  "I'd better get down there. She told me they'd all be sitting down at eight this morning sharp," she said and started out.

  Jefferson stepped out of the bathroom and looked at me. Neither of us wanted to go downstairs and face the first morning without our parents, but there was nothing else we could do. I reached out for his hand and he gave it to me slowly, his head down. Then we went downstairs.

  Everyone was seated at the table, Uncle Philip sitting where Daddy used to sit and Aunt Bet sat where Mommy would have. Jefferson was annoyed immediately by that, but also by the fact that Richard was sitting in what was usually his place and Melanie was sitting in mine.

  "Good morning, children," Aunt Bet said with a syrupy smile. "How nice and clean you both look."

  Jefferson glared back at her and then turned toward Richard.

  "I sit there," Jefferson said.

  "Oh, where we all sit isn't that important," Aunt Bet quickly replied, keeping her smile. "As long as we sit properly and eat our meals politely. We should always remember," she instructed before we had even taken any seats, "that there are other people eating at the table and they might be upset if we don't follow the proper etiquette."

  I looked at Uncle Philip. Although he had a small, tight smile on his face, his eyes looked glazed. He looked like a man who was still in a daze. He said nothing; he just waited, his hands tented and under his chin, his elbows on the table. Richard sat back, a self-satisfied smile on his face. Melanie looked bored and annoyed.

  "We can't begin until you take your seats, children," Aunt Bet said.

  "Maybe Christie should sit here, beside me," Uncle Philip said, indicating where Richard was sitting. "After all, she is the oldest child."

  "I'll sit with my brother," I replied quickly. I moved Jefferson and myself to the table, placing myself beside Melanie. I nodded to the seat across from me and Jefferson took it reluctantly.

  "Now, then, we're all together," Aunt Bet declared. "Mrs. Boston, you can begin," she commanded.

  "Yes, ma'am," Mrs. Boston said from the kitchen and brought out the pitcher of juice. Usually she placed it at the center of the table and we just served ourselves. Mrs. Boston helped Mommy with the preparation of food and looked after the house, but we never made her into a waitress, too. Neither Aunt Bet nor Uncle Philip lifted the pitcher to pour the juice, however. They sat back and waited for Mrs. Boston to do so. She winked at me and began pouring juice into everyone's glass.

  "Now then," Aunt Bet began, her hands clasped on the table before her, "it will be in everyone's interest to set ground rules right away, don't you think?" Her smile became colder, sharper. "Philip will be busy with the reconstruction of the hotel," she began, "which means I will have to bear most of the responsibility for looking after you children this summer. I want everyone to get along, of course. Our lives have been dramatically disrupted and changed. Everyone . . . everyone," she repeated, fixing her eyes on me, "has to make some compromises, but I don't see why," she added, bursting into a brighter smile, "we all can't become one happy family."

  She turned to Uncle Philip, who, I thought, was watching intensely for my reactions.

  "Philip always wanted us to have a larger family. Now, he's got one. But," she said, sighing, "all this responsibility has fallen on his shoulders like an avalanche. Richard and Melanie understand how important it is to be cooperative." At the mention of their names, the twins widened their eyes simultaneously and turned toward us. "We've got to want to help each other," she concluded.

  Mrs. Boston began bringing out the eggs and serving. Richard put his spoon into his soft-boiled egg and smirked.

  "It's too hard," he complained immediately.

  "I didn't cook it more than a minute," Mrs. Boston said.

  "Let me see that," Aunt Bet demanded and Richard handed his dish to her. She poked the ell with her spoon and shook her head. "Maybe the fire was too hot or something, but this is a bit too hard for Richard?'

  Mrs. Boston became upset.

  "I think I've made enough eggs in my time to know if the fire's too hot or not," she said.

  "It must have been this time," Aunt Bet insisted. "Or maybe you just misread the clock."

  "I thought we were all going to make some compromises," I said quickly. "A few seconds more or less boiling an egg doesn't seem like much of one to me."

  Aunt Bet's eyes turned to glass for a moment but just when I thought they would shatter and spray me with the slivers, she smiled.

  "Christie's perfectly right, Richard. This isn't so bad and after a while, I'm sure Mrs. Boston will get better at preparing eggs the way you like them," she said, handing the dish back to her son, who grimaced.

  "I'll eat as much as I can," he offered.

  "That's very nice of you, Richard," she said. I nearly laughed at the way Mrs. Boston raised her eyebrows and shifted her eyes in my direction. She finished serving the eggs. Jefferson just poked at his. He'd only sipped once at his juice.

  "Jefferson," Aunt Bet said. "You're going to eat, aren't you? We don't want to waste any
food."

  Reluctantly, Jefferson put a forkful in his mouth.

  "Christie, dear. Wasn't Jefferson ever taught to place his napkin on his lap?" Aunt Bet asked.

  "Yes," I said. "But I don't think he's worrying about that right now."

  "Neatness and cleanliness are the twin sisters of a healthy, happy life," Aunt Bet recited. "We always have to worry about those things.

  "I know," she said, continuing, "that your parents had so much on their minds because of the hotel. That's why this house . . ." She shook her head.

  "What about this house?" I asked quickly.

  "It was probably too much for them to look after it and the hotel at the same time. But that's not going to be a problem for me," she said, leaning over and smiling.

  "I don't understand. What's wrong with our house?"

  "It could be a great deal cleaner and neater, dear," she replied nodding.

  "This house is always very clean. Mrs. Boston works very hard and Mommy never complained," I cried.

  "Precisely my point, dear. Your mother didn't have time to complain or be concerned. She had so much responsibility at the hotel. But don't you let this worry you. I've decided I'll get this house into proper condition, which was another reason why I want to get our sleeping arrangements settled quickly.

  "Now after breakfast, Richard and Jefferson will work out the arrangements for their room," she declared firmly.

  "It's my room!" Jefferson retorted. "And I don't want him in it!"

  First Aunt Bet's face paled and then her cheeks flushed crimson and her eyes tightened at the corners. She flicked a look at Uncle Philip, who had been sipping his coffee and staring ahead like a man under hypnosis. He didn't disagree with anything she said, nor did he seem at all interested in any of it.

  "It's not nice to raise our voices at the table, Jefferson," Aunt Bet said slowly. "If you have something to say, say it softly. Now then," she continued, "I know it's your room, but for a while, until we find other solutions, you're going to have to share it with your cousin.

  "You're both young boys," she continued, smiling. "You should be happy to have a companion like Richard. Why, it's as if you suddenly had an older brother. Won't that be nice?"

  "No," Jefferson replied, threw down his fork, and folded his arms tightly across his chest.

  "That's not nice behavior at the table," Aunt Bet said firmly. "After today, if you don't behave properly, you won't be able to sit and eat with the family."

  "I don't care," Jefferson said defiantly.

  "He's just like that in school, too," Melanie whined. "Always talking back to his teachers."

  "I bet you threw away your bad report card, didn't you?" Richard added.

  "Stop it!" I screamed and stood up. "All of you, stop picking on him. Don't you have any feelings for him?" I said, going around the table to his side.

  "Christie," Aunt Bet said, "there is no need to get so upset and ruin our first breakfast together."

  "Yes there is," I said. "There's a need to scream and shout when people are so mean, especially people who are your relatives and are supposed to love and care for you more. Come on, Jefferson." I took his hand and we started away.

  "Where are you going?" Aunt Bet cried. "You haven't finished your breakfast. And you should always ask to be excused from the table."

  "Christie!" Uncle Philip called as if he just realized something was happening.

  I didn't reply, nor did I turn around. I led Jefferson out of the dining room and out of the house. I didn't know where I was going. I just walked. Tears streamed down my face, but I didn't sob. Jefferson was practically running to keep up with me as I charged down the stairs and sidewalk. No one came after us.

  Ahead of us was the charred remains of the hotel. The sight of the blackened shell, the broken windows, the dangling sides of the building, wires exposed, furniture tossed and destroyed caused my heart to sink even further.

  I took Jefferson to the rear of the hotel and we sat in the gazebo, where we watched the bulldozers and the men tear down the destroyed remains of walls. Neither of us spoke. Jefferson laid his head against me and the two of us tried to keep warm under the heavily overcast and gray sky that made the ocean breeze even more chilling. Could we ever be sadder than we were at this moment? I wondered.

  6

  UNCLEAN

  WITH OUR PARENTS' DEATHS AND THE SUBSEQUENT UPHEAVAL of our lives, nightmares began to shadow our days and cast a film of gray over everything, even the bluest sea and sky. I could see and feel the pain in my little brother Jefferson's eyes. He often gazed about the world angrily. I understood his wrath. Someone should have warned him that the young and the beautiful and the desperately needed can die and be gone forever.

  Aside from me, who would now hear or care about his complaints and sympathize? No one could ever give him the same smiles and love Mommy and Daddy had. Slowly, like a flower without any sunlight, he began to close up. First, he slept longer and later, and when he was awake, he would often lie listlessly, uninterested in his toys and games. He seldom spoke unless he was asked a question.

  Two days after our horrid first breakfast with Uncle Philip's family, Aunt Bet was true to her word. She had one of the beds from what used to be Fern's room moved into Jefferson's. Richard wanted to be closer to the window, so Jefferson's bed was shoved all the way to the right and the dressers were rearranged. When Jefferson refused to cooperate and move his things, Aunt Bet assisted Richard in reorganizing the room.

  Richard made labels out of adhesive tape and printed his name boldly on the white strips. Then he pasted them over the drawers that were to be his. Because they had lost so much in the fire, Aunt Bet took the twins shopping and returned with bags and boxes of new clothes, underwear and socks. Richard then made an inventory of his things and neatly folded them in his drawers. When he complained he didn't have enough room, Aunt Bet consolidated Jefferson's clothes even more to provide Richard with an additional set of drawers and more closet space. She then ordered Mrs. Boston to go over and over the carpet, insisting it was so dirty, she wouldn't want Richard to take his socks off and put his naked foot down.

  "I do that room every day, Miss Betty," Mrs. Boston protested. "That rug don't have a chance to get that dirty."

  "Your idea of what clean is and my idea are obviously miles apart," Aunt Bet declared. "Please, just do it again," she said. She then proceeded to go about the house inspecting shelves, checking the corners of rooms, running her fingers over appliances and under tables, finding dust and dirt everywhere. Melanie followed her around with a pen and pad and took notes. At the end of the inspection, Aunt Bet gave the sheets filled with complaints to Mrs. Boston and asked her to attend to these things immediately.

  Not having spent much time in their living quarters at the hotel, I never realized how obsessed with cleanliness Aunt Bet was. The sight of a cobweb would throw her into a tirade and when Melanie brought her hand out from under a sofa and demonstrated dust on her palm, Aunt Bet nearly swooned.

  "We're shut up in here so much of our time," she explained to Mrs. Boston, "and we're breathing this filth. Dust and grime is going in and out of our lungs, even when we sleep!"

  "Ain't never had any complaints about my work before, Miss Betty," Mrs. Boston said indignantly, "and I worked for the toughest woman this side of the Mississippi, Grandmother Cutler."

  "She was just as busy and distracted as my poor dead sister-in-law was," Aunt Bet replied. "I'm the first mistress of Cutler's Cove who's not wrapped up in the business so much she can't see the dust in the air in her own home."

  Aunt Bet took personal control of the cleaning and reorganizing of my parents' room. She had some men take out all the furniture and then had the rugs steam-cleaned as if my parents had been full of contamination. Jefferson and I stood off to the side and- watched her supervise the work. All of Mommy and Daddy's things were piled outside the door. The walls of the closets were papered over, the drawers in the dressers relined, the mir
rors and furniture cleaned and polished.

  "I'm going to have all this neatly packed and placed in the attic," she told me, indicating Mommy and Daddy's clothes and shoes, "except for anything I can use or anything you need now. Go through it neatly and take what you want," she ordered.

  It broke my heart to do it, but there were many of Mommy's things I didn't want to see shut away in the dark, damp corners of the attic. I quickly pulled out the dress she had worn to my Sweet Sixteen party. There were sweaters and skirts and blouses that were dear to me because I could still vividly see Mommy wearing them. When I held them in my hands and brought them to my face, I could smell the scent of her cologne, and for a moment, it was as if she were still there, still beside me, smiling and stroking my hair lovingly.

  Aunt Bet seized all Mommy's jewelry quickly, and when I protested about that, she said she would only be holding these things until I was old enough to appreciate them.

  "I'll keep exact account of what was hers and what's mine," she promised and flicked me one of her short, slim smiles.

  She had the linens and bedding changed and, literally overnight, redid the curtains and blinds. Then she attacked their bathroom, deciding she wanted to change the wallpaper.

  "In fact," she declared at dinner one night after all this had started, "we should reconsider all the walls in this house. I was never crazy about the decor."

  "You have no right to make all these changes," I retorted. "This house still belongs to my parents and us."

  "Of course it does, dear," she said, her thin lips curled up at the corners, "but while you're underage, your uncle Philip and myself are your guardians and have the awesome responsibility of making important decisions, decisions that will affect your lives."

  "Changing wallpaper and repainting the house is not going to affect our lives!" I responded.

  "Of course it is," she replied with a small, thin laugh. "Your surroundings, where you live, have a major impact on your psychological well-being."