Garden of Shadows (Dollanganger)

by V. C. Andrews

  I don’t know how long it took me to reach the stairway. It took all my control to calm myself so that I could continue on, but finally I recognized the top of the stairway and made my way down.

  As soon as I opened the door and stepped back into the hallway, I felt so happy I wanted to cry. I rushed back down the corridor to the south wing and my bedroom. When I confronted myself in the mirror, I looked like a wild madwoman. My hair was disheveled, my robe streaked. There were streaks along my face as well, and my hands were black from the dust and dirt. I knew that never could I ever go back up and into that attic again. I would go through it many times in nightmares, but just the thought of opening the door and starting up the stairs threw me into a panic.

  After I cleaned up, I returned to bed. For a long time I just lay there, grateful for the warmth and comfort of my room. Then I remembered my original purpose. Not long afterward, I was sure I heard footsteps in the hallway again. I rushed up and went to the door. It looked to me like Malcolm had just entered his own bedroom. I listened for the click of his door, but heard nothing.

  I hadn’t trapped and confronted him as I had hoped to do. I had trapped and confronted myself up in that old, terrifying attic filled with the twisted past of the Foxworths. It would forever taunt me now, I thought.

  This house has a way of protecting its own. It cloaked Malcolm in silence as he stole through the hall. I was sure of it. The walls knew the truth, only they wouldn’t speak to me.

  I hesitated a moment and then closed the door and went back to my bed. I didn’t fall asleep until morning and then I was abruptly awoken by Malcolm’s loud, arrogant footsteps as he made his way down to breakfast.

  When I joined him, I tried to read his face to see if there were any clues as to whether or not he had visited Alicia during the night. All this time he had kept to his word and not asked me a thing about her, pretending well that she was no longer here.

  He sat at his end of the table looking at the morning paper, ignoring my arrival, as usual. After the maid poured my coffee, I spoke to him.

  “Did you hear anything unusual last night?” I asked him.

  He put his paper down, a quizzical look on his face.

  “Unusual? What do you mean by unusual?” he asked as though it were a foreign word.

  “Like the sound of someone walking through the north wing?” I said. He stared at me a moment and then with his inscrutable eyes he leaned forward so he could speak sotto voce.

  “The door is locked, isn’t it? She can’t get out and about, can she?”

  “Of course not. But that doesn’t mean someone can’t get in, does it?” I replied, my voice as low as his, but sharper in tone.

  “Now what are you implying?” he asked, sitting back abruptly.

  “Have you violated our agreement?” I demanded.

  “I assure you, I do not need to spend my time sneaking about this house. I would hope you, too, had more to do than go skulking about watching for some … some violation, as you put it.”

  “I don’t have to skulk about. There is only one place in this house that concerns me right now,” I said, feeling my face tighten. He looked away from my sharp gaze and shook his head.

  “Has she told you something? Fabricated something? A woman like that, stuck back in that room with no one would obviously daydream,” he said, smiling with ridicule. His lips curled so sharply, he looked like a cat.

  “How do you know if she daydreams?” I asked quickly.

  “Please, Olivia, your childish efforts at being a detective are far more ludicrous than you can ever imagine. You will not find my fingerprints in the room.” He picked up his paper and snapped it, making sure to show me his derisive smile before hiding behind the pages.

  “I hope so,” I said. If he was worried, he didn’t show it. He went back to his reading, finished his breakfast as quickly as usual, and went off to work, leaving me to continue as caretaker of the madness his own madness had created.

  13

  Christmas Gift

  AS THE GREEN LEAVES OF SUMMER DRIED AND SHRIVELED and fell, and the trees stretched their lonely arms to the sky, becoming more and more barren, my own false pregnancy began to grow. All summer I had wandered the house, trying to collect pillows of different sizes and shapes to form my mock pregnancy. I found a pillow in the parlor and thought, “Yes, this is three-month size.” I discovered a few more up in the north wing. But Foxworth Hall was such a dour and unadorned mansion that by month seven, when the baby was really beginning to show, I had to go to the Swan Room to find a pillow fluffy enough to be my baby at this time. Yes, I had agreed to keep up the charade that it was I that was due to give birth in December. How ironic it was that the baby was due on Christmas Day.

  As soon as my “condition” became apparent, I knew it was time to explain the upcoming birth to the children. Mal and Joel, as I had insisted, had already been attending boarding school in Charleston since September. Christopher had remained home with me. I missed my boys so much when they were gone and Christopher missed his mother so much that he and I became best friends, almost like a real mother and son. I doted over him morning, noon, and night. He was the only joy in my life during these strange, hard months. We used to play witch games, but Christopher always insisted I be a good witch. And indeed as the baby grew, I felt more and more that this child would be a gift from God, as I knew Christopher to be a gift from God. I decided the most appropriate time to tell the boys would be to announce it at Thanksgiving dinner, so Malcolm would be present to share the joyful tidings. We would have much to be thankful for on this Thanksgiving Day.

  As we now had only two servants, I had been busy all morning helping prepare an extra-special feast. By midday, when it was time to sit down to eat, I was exhausted, feeling the “weight of my pregnancy” fully. As Malcolm carved the perfectly browned turkey, I held up my crystal goblet and rang my teaspoon against it. “Boys, boys, I have a very special announcement to make on this happy day. You may have noticed my figure has been changing of late. Well, here’s the secret. Another child is to be born into our household, a very special child, who is due to come right near Christmastime. Truly God is giving us all a very special Christmas present this year.”

  Malcolm threw down the carving knife, his face reddened, and he looked at me with fury. “Olivia, this was my news to announce! How dare you try to play such a part in this!”

  I narrowed my eyes at him and made my voice as cold as the November wind that blew away the dry leaves outside. “As we discussed, Malcolm, you will recall that I am to be in charge of all matters concerning the birth of our new child.”

  “Mother, is it going to be a girl or a boy?” Joel interrupted.

  “Oh, don’t be stupid,” Mal chided, “nobody knows until it’s born.” Mal was becoming more and more like Malcolm. He loved being the smarter, wiser one, and often lorded his power over Joel. Christopher just burst into tears. “Please don’t let anyone else come here, Olivia. I don’t want a little baby taking up all of your time. I don’t want to lose another mommy,” he sobbed.

  I comforted him, and said, “No one will ever replace you, Christopher, neither a little boy nor a little girl.”

  “It’s going to be a girl,” Malcolm thundered. He glared at me and resumed carving the turkey with a sort of vicious concentration aimed at me.

  Malcolm’s rage cast a pall of silence over our Thanksgiving meal. The boys seemed cowed, Christopher kept looking at me, silently pleading with his eyes for reassurance. Malcolm kept correcting both our boys in the way they held their knives and forks. Oh, couldn’t he ever leave them alone! He accused Joel of cutting his meat like a sissy, and when Mal shot back, “But I thought you wanted a girl,” Malcolm simply let out a snort of disgust, and went on eating his mashed potatoes.

  I helped the maid clear the dishes. I could see her stealing glances at me, wondering why my news had not made for a more festive celebration. But I hardened my eyes; my sadness was not for maids
to see. As soon as the boys were back in their room preparing for bed, and Malcolm, as usual, had some “business in town” to attend to, I prepared a picnic basket filled with Thanks giving food to take up to Alicia. Usually, I brought her dinner before we ate. It was now eight o’clock. I knew she’d be famished.

  As I ascended the stairs for what seemed like the millionth time, I rested the basket atop my pillowed ledge.

  The first time Alicia had seen me with my built-up stomach she had laughed. Of course, she had to wear my maternity clothing and I thought if anyone was comical-looking, it was she.

  She had made some clumsy attempts to pin up the hems, but most of the skirts dragged over the floor. The bodices hung down over her smaller bosom, and her arms looked lost in the sleeves. As with her previous pregnancy, she did not become bloated-looking. I thought she looked like a child in a grown woman’s clothing. Her hair had grown back, but we had kept it trimmed so it reached only the base of her skull.

  I opened the door and put a bright, cheerful smile on my face. “Thanksgiving feast, Alicia.” Alicia ravenously attacked the basket, not even greeting me as she tore it out of my hands. She picked up the drumstick, bit into it, and sighed. Then, delicately, she scooped up the stuffing with her fingers and licked off every last crumb.

  “Don’t you find your appetite growing enormous now?” she asked. She sounded excited, like a schoolgirl comparing notes.

  “Pardon?” I really didn’t understand her question. She kept smiling in between bites. I had never seen her devour food in such a lustful manner.

  “Your appetite,” she repeated. “Isn’t it absolutely huge? Sometimes I think I could eat all day and I’m tempted to go to the windows and shout for you to bring up more food. I would eat anything, any combination, any amounts, even things that weren’t cooked. Last night I dreamt about steak and ice cream and cookies. Don’t you have those urges?” she questioned, tilting her head and pressing her right forefinger into her cheek. She had been acting more normal lately and I wondered if her madness was returning.

  “Hardly. Why should I?” I asked, not knowing whether to smile or to be angry.

  She didn’t answer. She laughed and went back to her food. Was she teasing me? Was it her way of taking some mad revenge on me?

  “I eat no more or no less than I always do,” I snapped, and left her. She was still laughing when I closed and locked the door behind me.

  However, from that day on, every time I went to her to bring her things, she managed to make some sort of comment concerning my pregnancy as well as her own. She ignored anything I said to the contrary and acted as if I were the one who was going mad. Finally, I felt a need to spell everything out for her again.

  “You realize why I am doing this, don’t you?” I said one day after I had been in the room awhile. She was sitting by the window, endlessly knitting pink booties, receiving blankets, and buntings. She already had a pile large enough to outfit six infants, but on and on and on she knitted. The most peculiar thing was that she, too, seemed to be certain this child would be a girl, as if along with his seed, Malcolm had impregnated her with his obsession. The cold winter sun peered into the windows, making the room bright without making it truly warm. Of course, the layers of pillows strapped to my stomach always kept me warm. I patted my false stomach so she would understand exactly what I meant by “doing this.” She looked up at me, her eyes dancing with glee.

  “You are doing this,” she said, “because Malcolm Neal Foxworth demands a large family, but mostly because he demands a daughter.”

  “But you are the one having the child, Alicia. All the real symptoms are yours, not mine.”

  The smile left her face. “Don’t you wish you were pregnant with a child?” she asked with a sharp and biting tone.

  “That is no longer the point now, is it?” I said, intending to intimidate her. If there was any one reason why I couldn’t tolerate her weird questions, it was because they put me on the defensive, not her. I was the pure one; she was the one who had sinned. I was the one who would be rescuing her child from sin, and making it wholesome and pure.

  Her expression didn’t change. If anything, she became more aggressive.

  “Yes, it is, Olivia. It is the point. You will have this child; you should feel it. Put your hand on your stomach and feel it moving within you. Feel it drawing on your strength. Eat for it, sleep for it, and pray for it as you would any child in your womb,” she said with more determination and energy than she had said anything the entire time she was in this room. Her eyes were small, her mouth firm.

  I backed away. I felt as if it were getting harder for me to breathe. “Why don’t you open a window in here?”

  She got up and walked to me. “It’s life. Feel it.” She took my hand into hers and put my palm on her stomach. For a moment we stood there looking into each other’s eyes. She held mine to hers so intently, I did not look away, and then … I felt the movement in her stomach and it did feel as though I were feeling it in my own. I started to pull my hand back, but she held it to her. “No, feel it, want it, know it. It is yours,” she said. “Yours.”

  “You’re mad,” I finally said, and successfully pulled away from her. “I’m doing this only to … to wash away your sin and Malcolm’s and to convince people that the child is mine. And it will be mine….” I backed up to the door, reached for the handle behind my back, and slipped out quickly, hurrying down the hall and away, pursued by that mad look in her eyes.

  That night when I entered my bedroom and locked my door behind me I did not unfasten the pillows from my stomach. I lay there on my bed with my hands on my stomach thinking about the way Alicia had held my hand to her stomach. There was an electricity that still tingled in the tips of my fingers and the surface of my palm. As if the memory lingered in my hand, I felt the movement I had felt in Alicia, only I felt it in my false stomach. Was there a spirit I was touching within me? Had God indeed chosen this role for me and filled me with his spirit? Suddenly, it frightened me that I would feel such a thing and I jumped out of the bed and quickly removed the padding from myself.

  After I fell asleep that night, however, I awoke to the strange sensation of movement in me again. It was a dream, I told myself, just a dream. But it took me a long time to fall asleep again. I even imagined I heard a baby’s cry.

  Mal and Joel stayed for the rest of the Thanksgiving weekend, and Monday morning I packed them off to school. During the next month, I waited with increasing eagerness for the birth of my child, while Christopher became more and more worried about it. He even became moody and cranky, so unlike his bright, sunny self. “You are the bad witch now, Olivia. And I’m going to eat your baby up.”

  The day we brought home the Christmas tree, Alicia’s labor pains began. The boys had not yet returned for vacation, and Christopher and I were decorating the tree.

  Just as I was hanging a Christmas ball on one of the high branches, I heard a distant scream. I dropped everything and ran to the north wing, leaving Christopher in the care of the maid.

  “Alicia!” I called as I stormed into the room. “I could hear your screams in the rotunda. What do you think you are doing!”

  “Olivia,” she moaned, “please help me, the baby’s coming.”

  Suddenly, Malcolm appeared behind me. “Olivia, now I shall take control. Go to your room immediately, you are about to give birth,” he ordered me. His voice was so stern and certain, I obeyed him immediately, for the first time in months.

  For twelve hours I lay in my room, screaming birth pain for the benefit of the two servants that remained and Christopher, while Alicia, muffled by Malcolm and the midwife he had called, silently labored in the north wing. At dawn the next day Malcolm appeared at my door carrying a squalling pink bunting. He walked over to my bed, and lay the baby beside me. “It’s a girl,” he announced with such pride and arrogance in his voice.

  I unwrapped the bunting and peered at the most beautiful newborn I had ever seen. There w
as no redness to the baby’s complexion. Why, it was as if she were indeed immaculately conceived and born without the anguish of the human birth process. This baby would be so easy to love, so beautiful and sweet, my heart went out to her. Oh, I would accept her as my own, and make her my own. And she would love me.

  “It’s the most beautiful baby in the world, isn’t it? Dimpled hands and feet, golden wavy hair, the bluest of blue eyes … why, my mother must have looked like this when she was a baby,” he cooed with a gentleness I had never before heard in his voice. “Corinne, my sweet beautiful daughter, Corinne!”

  “Corinne!” I was shocked! “Surely, you wouldn’t … how can you name that innocent baby after the mother whom you claim to hate?”

  “You don’t understand.” He shook his head and waved his hand in front of his face as though he were clearing away cobwebs. “It will be my way to keep constantly aware of the deceitful, beguiling ways of beautiful women, or I may allow myself to believe and trust in her too much. As much as I love her already, every time my lips say ‘Corinne,’ I will be reminded of my betraying mother who promised to stay and love me until I was a man. I will never be so hurt again,” he concluded, nodding with the same kind of certainty he had when he made his pronouncements about the business world.

  His strange thinking sent a chill down my spine. How could he impose such character on this sweet angelic little baby? What was wrong with him? Would he never change? That moment I hated Malcolm with all my being, and I promised myself that I would try in every way I could to protect this child from his perversion. I would hold and cherish this child as one of my own. She may have inherited the Foxworth ancestry without my lineage to offset their madness, but I would raise her with my character and prevent her from becoming like Alicia or like the first Corinne.