Into the Garden

by V. C. Andrews

  She swam over to me and instructed me to get into deeper water and hold her hands. "Start kicking," she said. "Faster, harder. Kick! Make believe you're kicking your mother!"

  Jade led me around the pool, walking backwards as I kicked.

  "You cup your hands like this," Star showed me. Misty explained how to take a breath and turn your head and then take another breath.

  "It's the way I was taught in physical

  education," she explained.

  "Keep kicking," Jade cried. "Practice the breathing. Good."

  She brought me into deeper water and then suddenly, she let go of my hands. I panicked and went under. When my head came up, they were all yelling for me to kick and move my arms. I gagged. In seconds Star's hands were around my waist. She held me above water for a moment.

  "Let her go. She'll swim or drown," Jade said.

  "Is that the way you learned?" Star countered. "Practically," Jade said.

  "We'll take it slower with her," Star insisted, and went back to leading me around, letting me go, taking hold of my hands and leading me around. Remarkably, she turned

  50 INTO T.: E GARDEN

  out to be the one with the most patience. Jade and Misty left the pool and sprawled out on lounges, watching Star teach me how to swim.

  I did manage to swim a half dozen feet before we stopped to rest.

  "You're learning," Star assured me, and we left the pool to join Jade and Misty at the lounges. Picking up the telephone beside her lounge chair, Jade called the maid and asked her to bring out lemonade and fruit for us.

  "This is the best hotel I've ever been at," Star muttered as she lay back on a lounge.

  I was so out of breath, I just sprawled on my back and looked up at the blue sky. I closed my eyes and drifted with the music Jade had turned on while Star and I were still in the pool. Their banter and laughter was like a lullaby putting me into a relaxed state. I didn't even hear them offer me some lemonade. The excitement, the swimming, all of it had left me more exhausted than I had imagined.

  Almost a half hour later, Jade nudged me.

  "We're breaking it up," she said. "Star's got to get back to help her granny and Misty promised to go to the movies with her mother tonight?'

  I sat up quickly. My face felt so stiff I thought it might crack.

  "Ow," I said grimacing.

  "Didn't you put on any sunblock?" Jade asked.

  "No," I said.

  "Brother. Okay, I have something that will help a little, a skin cream especially for after sun. There are some benefits to having a mother who heads a cosmetic company."

  "Can you get me this great new lipstick?" Misty asked as we started back for the house. "The one that makes your lips look like neon lights at night?"

  "Absolutely. I have a few tubes. I can get whatever color you want."

  Misty squealed with delight.

  "Aren't we lucky to have each other," she cried.

  As I dried my hair in Jade's bathroom, she made comments about how I could improve my looks. I stared at myself in her vanity mirror and wondered if it was possible for me to even resemble any of them in terms of being attractive. Maybe I could, I thought. Maybe I could be a lot more like them than I had ever hoped.

  Before I knew it, it was time to leave and the limousine was waiting for us in front of the house. Misty had to be dropped off first because she was the closest. The driver then decided I would be next.

  "The same corner?" he asked.

  "No," I said, and gave him my address.

  "That a girl," Star told me. "Once she sees you're going to be your own person, she'll back off."

  "I don't know," I said, unable to hide my worry. It was one thing to act so brave in front of her and the others, but to face Geraldine when she was furious ...I wasn't sure. She had a way of turning her eyes into gray, cold marbles and swelling her shoulders until she looked like a bird of prey. She had never spared the rod when it came to discipline either. I

  remembered one time when she hit me with the fireplace poker and gave me a black and blue mark across my right thigh that remained for nearly a month. And that was only because I had watched something on television she had expressly told me not to watch!

  As the limousine drew closer, I felt my insides tighten and tangle like a rusty old chain. It was actually hard to take a deep breath. My ribs seemed fragile enough to crack.

  "Remember," Star said, "you've got rights. If you need help, you just call one of us. Okay?"

  I nodded as the car pulled to the curb.

  "So long. I had a great time," I told her. "Say hello to your granny for me."

  "Don't worry, everything will be okay," she said and I closed the door. I stood there and watched the limousine drive off. Then I took a deep breath and headed for my front door.

  When I opened the door, I was struck by the deep silence. There was no radio playing old music, no vacuum cleaner going, no water running. Perhaps Geraldine fell asleep in her chair, I thought as I stepped through the doorway.

  The moment I crossed the threshold, I was hit with the straw end of a broom right across the back of my head. It caught me by surprise and off-balance, so that I fell forward, barely getting my hands out in time to stop myself from landing smack on my face.

  Another swipe of the broom, however, caught me on the rear and I did sprawl forward.

  "How dare you disobey me like this? How dare you!" she screamed. She hit me again, raising and lowering the broom with swift, sharp blows across my legs, my back, and my shoulders before I could crawl forward fast enough and get to my feet, screaming and covering my head.

  "Stop!"

  "Get up to your room. Get up there. I saw you get out of the limousine. Don't even try to lie to me."

  She stood with the broom up on her shoulder like a baseball bat, her face flushed red, her eyes like two hot coals now.

  "Look at your face, too. What were you doing there? Why are you so sunburned?"

  "We went swimming," I said.

  "Swimming? You don't know how to swim. Were there boys there, too?"

  "No, no, it was just us and the girls taught me."

  "Liar, filthy liar. After all I've been through with you to have you do this now. My heart is cracking," she said, shaking her head. She relaxed her shoulders and brought the broom around to serve as more of a cane than a rod. "Why did you disobey me? Why?"

  "I want to have friends. They're my friends."

  "Water seeks the lowest level," she muttered. "They're your kind now, is that it? All I've done with you, tried to teach you is wiped out, right? It's in the genes. It's in you. You're her all over again. I might as well give you over to Satan himself."

  "My girlfriends are not bad. They're good. They're sensitive and concerned and we care about each other, more than our own families care about us. It's nothing like you think."

  She whipped her eyes at me and filled them with such cold accusation, I couldn't help but look away. That just confirmed whatever ugly thoughts bad blossomed like black weeds in her garden of fear and loathing.

  "Get upstairs," she said. "You'll go without supper tonight."

  "I don't care. I already ate," I muttered.

  My angry words seemed to renew her energy. She lifted the broom again and started to swing it at me, but instead of backing up, I remembered Star's words of encouragement and stepped forward. Geraldine looked like she wanted to whip the skin off me, but I didn't retreat or cower as usual.

  "Don't hit me again," I said firmly. "Stop it."

  She froze.

  I was holding my breath and even though my whole body was trembling, I held my ground. I glared at her, defiant, determined.

  Then she shock her head, the tight, thin lines in her face softening.

  "What's the use?" she asked herself as she lowered the broom. Her shoulders dropped like rocks in a pond. She sighed deeply, her body shuddering as if her heart had truly cracked. "You can't change what's been there since birth. It was foolish of
me to even try, to ever hope."

  "What's been there since birth? What are you talking about? Tell me!" I screamed.

  She turned away as if I wasn't even there and headed toward the kitchen.

  "I want to know more," I called after her. "I want to know the truth, all of it. I've got a right to know and you have to tell me."

  She paused and looked back at me. I never saw her look so small and tired.

  "You want to know the truth?" she asked, and laughed coldly. "The truth is you're truly your mother's daughter. That's the only truth that matters in this house."

  She continued down the hallway.

  "That's not enough. I want to know it all," I cried. She ignored me and went into the kitchen, closing the door behind her. I stood there a moment, my body shaking so much it made my teeth chatter. I embraced myself and took a deep breath. Then I went up to my room and closed my door behind me. A terrible silence rained down around me. I couldn't even hear her running water or clanging pots below. She was probably still fuming, standing there and staring at the kitchen door.

  We were both shut up in our own nightmares, and lived in the same house filled with only horrid memories, I thought. Surviving them seemed to be all that mattered now. That was the only thing that really held us together. It certainly wasn't love.

  Love probably never set foot on our doorstep, and if it had and come in, it would have looked around once and fled. Which was exactly what I felt like doing.

  4 A Hidden Past

  Geraldine didn't call me to dinner and I didn't leave my room until nearly nine o'clock. I knew she would either be listening to music, watching one of her television evangelist programs, or just dozing in her chair. I was surprised to discover she had gone up to bed. I welcomed the quiet and made myself a hot chocolate.

  While I sat there, I thought about the way the girls had reacted to my secret and my ignorance concerning my past. Perhaps I should take Jade's assignment more seriously, I thought. I listened hard for the sounds of Geraldine moving about her room, but heard nothing. Then I rose, quietly put my cup and saucer into the dishwasher and went into the pantry. I turned on the light and looked up.

  There was a storage area in a crawl space that was entered through a small square door in the ceiling of the pantry. On occasion I had heard Geraldine make references to it, but I couldn't recall ever seeing her open the little doorway and go up there for anything.

  Now, I gazed up at it and considered. In no other room in the house, save my parents' bedroom, could anything like old documents, pictures, whatever, be stored. I had never gone into Geraldine's closets, of course, but my suspicions centered on the crawl space. We had a stepladder in the garage. I went out there and, as quietly as I could, began to bring it into the house. It was awkward going through doorways, and I knocked it against the doorjamb in the kitchen.

  My heart stopped and started slowly as I listened hard for sounds that Geraldine might have heard something and gotten up to see. She often slept with an ear open for burglars because we had no alarm system. The house creaked as the ocean breezes whipped in from the sea, but I didn't hear any footsteps or any doors opening.

  Feeling safe, I continued to the pantry, set up the ladder, and climbed to the ceiling. The crawl space door seemed stuck in place. As I suspected, it hadn't been opened for a very long time, maybe even years. It was difficult pushing on it without making any noise, and at one point, I almost slipped off the ladder.

  Finally, the little door cracked open and gave way to my efforts. It had to be slid to the side. I practically inched it along, trying to keep the smallest sound muffled. When I looked up, I realized there was no light, so I had to go back down the ladder to a cabinet under the sink and get the flashlight. The batteries were dead. Everything in this house seemed to be conspiring against me, trying to prevent me from finding any trace of my own past. Fortunately, Geraldine's obsessive attention to household inventory paid off because there was a supply of fresh batteries in the drawers assigned to tools and hardware. I quickly got the flashlight working and returned to the ladder, practically tiptoeing my way up.

  The beam of light revealed a wall of cobwebs on every side of the opening. The dust was so thick that it looked like a second layer of wood. But there, to my right, were several cartons tied up with thick string. None of them were labeled. Once again, I descended the ladder, this time to get a utility knife to cut the strings around the cartons. I went back up and, completely disregarding the cobwebs and dust, pulled myself into the crawl space and, on my hands and knees, approached the cartons.

  I sat there for a moment, my whole body trembling, and listened once more to be sure I had not been discovered. It was very quiet. Even the creaking in the house seemed to have stopped as if the house itself was now holding its breath I brought the knife to the nearest carton and cut the strings. Then I opened the carton and directed the flashlight's beam into it.

  Neatly packaged, each item wrapped in cellophane, were old toys, toys for a little girl: small dolls, doll's clothing, teacups and dishes, toy furniture and a dollhouse that had been carefully taken apart. I lifted each thing out of the carton carefully and inspected it. Someone had painted tears on the cheeks of some of the doll's faces. I could tell they were painted because the tears were un- even. The face of one doll was smashed in as though someone had taken a hammer to it.

  Were these dolls once mine? None of them looked familiar. Were they Geraldine's? Why were they hidden away like this? It was as if someone's childhood was to be kept secret or buried forever.

  I went to the carton on my right and cut the strings, again slowly opening it and shining the light down again to see items wrapped in cellophane, only this time, the box was full of clothing. I took one article out of its packaging and held it up. It was a light yellow dress for a toddler. I went to the next garment and the next, taking each out and inspecting it to discover the same thing: clothing for a very small child. They all looked new, never worn. Whose clothes were these? Mine? Geraldine's? Why were they all stored up here instead of being given away or even thrown away, which was what Geraldine usually did with old discarded things?

  I turned and slid over to my left to open the next carton, cutting the strings faster and pulling up the lids. Here I found what I would call mementoes: snippets of pretty ribbons, jeweled combs, charm bracelets for a very tiny wrist, a pair of bronzed baby shoes, a cigar box full of old pictures, and a handpainted jewelry box that was also a music box. It didn't play anything when I opened it because it needed to be wound. I was happy about that. The music might have woken Geraldine. Everything was neatly wrapped in cellophane as well. Whose things were these?

  With even more trepidation now, I turned to the last carton. I undid the strings and opened it slowly. On top was a baby's crib blanket with a scented soap placed on it. I took it out carefully and laid it aside. Underneath was a small stack of envelopes tied with thick rubber bands and nothing else. The rubber bands practically fell apart before I slipped them off. There was no address on the front of any of the envelopes, no name. They were originally pink, but time had faded them so they were a light cream color. All of them had been opened.

  I took out the letter in the top envelope and unfolded it.

  Dear Cathy, it began, and I sucked in my breath. Who had written to me?

  I know you won't read my letters until you are much older than you are now My daughter Geraldine has promised me that when you are old enough to understand, she will be sure to give you my letters. Also, by the time you are given them, you will, she assures me, be told the truth about your birth.

  What a funny way for a mother to introduce herself to her own child, but that's what these letters are meant to do. All these years before you have these letters in your hands, you will have thought of me as your grandmother I can't begin to tell you what a strange feeling it has been and will continue to be for me to have you call me Grandmother and for me to pretend you are my granddaughter and not my daughte
r. I hope I can eventually get you to

  understand why it had to be this way.

  The most wonderful thing for a mother to do is give her daughter the benefit of her own experience and wisdom. It is really the only legacy that matters. I feel certain that money won't be a problem for you, so inheriting my jewelry or assuming the trust fund I have set aside to be given to you on your eighteenth birthday is just window dressing when it comes to the real things a mother can give a daughter.

  Trust fund? I thought. Geraldine never mentioned any trust fund to me. When was she going to do that? I had only a year to go to my eighteenth birthday. I returned to the letter.

  Let me begin by telling you the first honest thing since you have been given the truth about yourself I never had a good and happy marriage. I married for all the wrong reasons. My mother used to parade around me when I dressed for parties and chant, "Remember; sweetheart, it's just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as it is with a poor man." She had me believe that falling in love was something you had complete control oven and you could direct your deepest emotions in the direction you wanted, any time you wanted. She would laugh at the very idea that love happened miraculously, bells rang in your head or in your heart, that you could look across a room and see a perfect stranger and suddenly feel your very soul blossom with happiness. All that, she told me, was just poppycock. That was her favorite word for most things she denied or disbelieved: poppycock. It was her father's word. I hated it, hated to hear it, but I never said so to her face.

  You couldn't have found a more obedient child I was brought up in a household that was probably closer to a little monarchy than anything else. My father was the king and my mother was the queen and I was merely one of their subjects. When one or the other made a pronouncement, it thundered with godly weight on my little shoulders. My father believed that fear comes first and then, almost as an afterthought, there was love. He wanted me to be afraid of him, and he got what he wanted.

  All this is preparation for telling you why I did what you will have a hard time understanding ...why I gave you away. Oh, I suppose I didn't give you away as much as I shifted you to another place in our family. I knew I couldn't raise you as my daughter, yet I couldn't stand the thought of you living with complete strangers. I wanted to be able to see you when- ever I wanted to see you, as many times as I wanted. Pretending to be your grandmother gave me the opportunity to show love and affection for you, something I could never have done otherwise. I hope that I'm going to be able to do that for a long, long time and one day, after you have read my letters, I hope we can meet some- where, just the two of us, and I can hug you the way a mother should hug her daughter and you might learn to hug me as a daughter would hug her mother Maybe that's a fantasy. We don't realize how precious and how rare fantasies can become as we get older and are forced to admit to cold realities.