Willow

by V. C. Andrews

  Actually, even as a child. I understood a great deal more than anyone thought, especially about myself.

  But not quite as much as I needed to

  understand. Not vet. That was coming.

  It waited for me on a shelf in Daddy's office like a secret whispered in a dead man's ear.

  .

  When I arrived at the airport in Columbia. I was very surprised to see my cousin Margaret Selby Delray waiting for me at the arrival gate. It had been at least three years since we had seen and spoken to each other, the last time being at Uncle Darwood's funeral, The family had given out the story that he had died of heart failure. His alcoholism was an embarrassment that Aunt Agnes simply would not acknowledge. Like so many friends and relatives of my parents. the Delroys traveled on a bus without windows from one fantasy to another, shifting their eyes quickly away from anyone who would dare actually to look at them when they wove one of their illusions.

  Margaret was only six months younger than I was, and comparisons were inevitable. I guess. She was two inches taller, but, contrary to my adoptive mother's predictions, I was the one who lost all her baby fat. The roundness evaporated from my face as if some magical sculptor molded my visage a little every night, bringing my high cheekbones out, thinning my lips, shaping my jaw and the lines of my neck and shoulders, firming and curving my breasts and narrowing my waist, until one day I looked at myself in my ivory oval vanity mirror and felt my heart go skipping with the real possibility that I was going to be attractive after all.

  Amou was the only one I dared tell. I did it in the form of a question, of course.

  "Do you think I'm getting pretty. Amou?" I asked her one afternoon in the kitchen. I liked helping her prepare dinner.

  She stopped what she was doing and looked at me with that soft smile on her lips that I had grown to think of as my true sunlight.

  "It's like you've been wearing a child's mask and slowly, slowly, it's disappearing and you be coming out. But don't be staring at yourself all day." she warned. "Worst thing a woman can do is fall in love with herself before a good man do. You know what happens then?" she added, leaving the answer floating around us like the whispers of ghosts. I knew she was talking about my A.M., of course.

  And about young women like Margaret Selby Delray, despite the roundness in her face that betrayed her self-indulgence and kept her from being attractive. Her softness came from being spoiled and waited upon hand and foot. Her hips were a little too wide, and she had these puffy little fingers, swollen under the glitter of her expensive rings. Her lips always looked swollen and uneven, and her eyes, although an attractive hazel, seemed in retreat because of her plump cheeks.

  But there was no limit to what she and her mother would spend on her coiffure, her wardrobe, and her cosmetics. From her early teen years until now, everything she did and everything her mother had done to and for her was designed for one purpose: to find her a suitable husband, even to the extent of sending her to charm school. Their planning and conniving had apparently worked, for she was now engaged to marry Ashley Standard Roberts, the son of the publisher of the Charleston Times. I had not met him. but I had seen their picture in the social pages of the newspaper.

  They looked more like brother and sister to me, both at least ten to fifteen pounds overweight, he with that born-with-a-silver-spoon-in-his-mouth look that suggested the most difficult thing he had to do every day was get himself out of his king-size bed and go to the bathroom. There was surely someone around to help him choose his clothes, clean up after him, and chauffeur him through the world as if he were here simply to visit and taste hors d'oeuvres.

  "Willow!" Margaret Selby called and waved to me emphatically even though she was directly in my sight. Maybe she was afraid I wouldn't recognize her in her Fendi quilted black skirt suit and velvet hat in winter white. It had taupe satin trim and a swooping brim and would make her stand out in any crowd, As I drew closer. I saw she had gained a few more pounds. In fact, the outfit fit her shoulders too tightly and looked as if it would take Superman to pull her arms out of the suit jacket.

  Couldn't she see how foolish she looked? I wondered. Margaret worshiped expensive clothing but really had no sense of style. I thought.

  We hugged.

  "I didn't expect to find you here," I said. I didn't mean it in any mean way. I simply never anticipated she would be concerned.

  "You know how my mother is. She hates facing any unpleasantness alone and simply insisted I go along-- not that I can do much of anything but sit and twist my hands. And I do have so much to do for my upcoming wedding," she concluded with a pout designed to draw out my sympathy.

  "How's my father?" I asked dryly.

  "Oh. Nothing's new that I know about since I left the hospital to meet you."

  "What do you know?"

  She slumped. "Let's see." she said as we started out. "He was at home, not actually in the house, but returning from one of those famous constitutionals of his. Mother calls them that. although I don't have any idea why a walk resembles a government document." she inserted, "Do you have any luggage to get?" she asked before I could explain.

  "No, no," I said. This is all I brought, I left in a terrible hurry, obviously.'

  "Oh, right. Of course. You have things at home to wear. I'm sure."

  "I'm not worried about what I'll wear. Margaret. What else do you know about my father's condition?"

  "What else? Oh. So he was walking toward the house when he apparently collapsed. Fortunately, Miles... is that his name, your father's housekeeper?"

  "Yes. yes."

  How many years would it take for her to remember his name? People like my cousin selected their memories with snobbery, conveniently forgetting anyone or anything they considered beneath them.

  "So funny having a man for a housekeeper. Mania says he does your father's laundry, cleans and cooks for him now. too."

  "Miles has been with my father for nearly twenty. years," I said. "He's not really just his housekeeper. He's been his driver and cared for the property all that time, looking after the grounds, doing maintenance. I think by now it would no longer be a novelty."

  "Right," she said. "But wasn't he a former patient of his?" she whispered.

  "Margaret. please. What else happened to my father?"

  "Oh, Miles looked out a window and saw him lying on the ground and rushed out to him. He called for paramedics, who claimed they revived your father, and then they got him to the hospital. Miles called my mother, and we just put everything down and came rushing here. We had to cancel at least a half dozen appointments-- caterers, flower people, you know."

  She laughed, a very loud cackle for someone who was supposed to be so ladylike. I thought.

  "Whenever I complain about all the work I have to do planning my own wedding. Ashley says we should just elope. Can you imagine if we did? How many people would be disappointed? Hundreds. He's not serious, of course. He just likes to tease me.

  "Mother says that shows he really cares about me. Men like to tease the women they love. It's a form of genuine affection." she declared with a single nod to serve as punctuation to mark the absolute. irrefutable truth.

  I stopped and turned to face her. "What were my father's diagnosis and prognosis. Margaret?"

  "All I know is he had a heart attack. What does prognosis mean?" she asked, and grimaced quickly, anticipating criticism. "I know you're going to get into all that medical stuff and become like some sort of mental doctor. Willow, but not everyone studies the dictionary."

  "You don't have to study the dictionary to know the meaning of prognosis," I said with forced patience. It just means what they think his chances for recovery will be."

  "Oh. Well. I don't know any of that" she said. "I haven't been here that long. Willow. We absolutely flew from your house to the hospital, and it's been very difficult just sitting around the waiting room. They hardly have any magazines to read, and as far as I know, Mother has had only one conversation with
any sort of doctor. She didn't tell me anything except to go get you, and here I am. I have a car just outside, but the driver is not a very nice man. He kept saying he can't wait at the curb. They won't let him. Everyone thinks a bomb is going to go off at the airports these days. It really makes it difficult for those of us who are used to comforts and convenience. You would think they would make some sort of accommodation."

  "Let's go," I said, already exhausted with my effort to squeeze even a tidbit of real information out of her,

  "How is college life? Have you met anyone?"

  I didn't answer. I kept walking, but that didn't discourage my cousin Margaret. People like her can easily have a conversation with themselves. I thought.

  "I bet it's hard for you to meet someone. I don't know why you want to be a psychological doctor. People, men especially, can't feel too comfortable in the company of a psychiatrist. They're always suspicious of them, expecting them to analyze and judge them upon every word and gesture they make. You'll never have any real friends, Willow, much less a real love relationship. People simply won't trust you."

  "Is that your mother's dogma?" I quipped as we stepped out of the airport.

  "My mother's dog what?"

  "Forget it. Margaret," I said, bursting out onto the sidewalk. I could feel the urgency coming to a head inside me. "Where's the car?'

  "Oh. I think it was that one,," she said, nodding at a black Lincoln Town Car. She waved

  emphatically, but the driver just stared at us. "I guess that isn't him. I can't tell one of those cars from another. Where is he? I told you he was not a pleasant driver.'

  I charged forward toward the taxi stand.

  "Where are you going?"

  To the hospital." I called back.

  "But... our car. You can't just take an ordinary taxi. Willow."

  I stepped into the next taxi. Margaret stood there on the sidewalk staring in at me.

  "Are you coming or not?" I demanded, holding the door open. She looked up and down,

  "Maybe he misunderstood." she said, "and thought I didn't need him to take us back."

  "Get in!"

  She grimaced and got into the cab as if she were about to sit in the electric chair. I reached past her and pulled the door shut.

  "Spring City General, and as quickly as you can," I urged the driver,

  "Right." he said, and we shot away from the curb.

  "Well, my goodness," Margaret said. "Now I know what it must feel like to be kidnapped."

  Who in his right mind would want to kidnap you? I thought, and mentally urged the traffic to move along faster.

  "Mother says it's good to occupy your mind with other things when you're in a situation like this," Margaret rattled on as our taxi wove in and out of traffic.

  I could hear her droning in the background. but I really didn't hear a word she was saying. Her voice took on the monotony of bees gathering nectar in our garden. I pushed it away. I'm more like my father than I believed I was, I thought, and smiled to myself. I know how to focus and turn off people.

  "It's not funny," I finally heard Margaret say. She practically shouted in my ear.

  "What?"

  "The shape of the wedding cake is very significant. Just think of the picture of it with Ashley and me."

  I shook my head. "Who said it was funny?"

  "You were smiling like you thought it was," she accused with a pout, drawing up her puckered little prune mouth like a drawstring purse.

  "I was thinking of something else, Margaret. I didn't hear anything about your cake."

  "What? Why were you thinking of something else?"

  "I was doing just what you advised me to do, Margaret. I was occupying my mind," I said as we pulled up to the front of the hospital.

  I paid the driver quickly and practically jogged into the lobby. Margaret moaning and groaning about having to keep up with my pace.

  "Where?" I said, spinning on her and nearly knocking her over with my carry-on bag. For a moment, she looked absolutely confused. "Where do they have my father?"

  "Oh. Something called CCU. I think." "Well, lead the way. Margaret."

  She sauntered to the elevator, smiled at a young intern emerging, and then got in and pushed the button for the second floor.

  "I've always been afraid of your father," she confessed. He always looks so disapproving."

  "It might be because he disapproves," I muttered, and stepped out to follow the signs indicating the direction of the CCU.

  I pulled up short at the doorway of the waiting room. Aunt Agnes was sitting on the sofa and looking up at a nurse. She was nodding gently and dabbing her eyes with the end of her silk handkerchief. I had rarely seen her cry, but on the few occasions I had, she seemed capable of controlling the flow of her tears, permitting- them to emerge only one at a time, alternately from eve to eye, and only after each had fully appeared. She pressed the corner of the handkerchief with her right forefinger and touched each tear cautiously, absorbing it and then moving over in anticipation of the next.

  She had my father's eves and mouth, but her chin was nearly nonexistent, sweeping up sharply under her lower lip and into the flow of her jawbone, and very tight, pale skin, a shade lighter than the sepia tones in old photographs. Her forehead looked infected with age spots she tried to keep as hidden as possible under long bangs of gray hair the color of a wet mop.

  Unlike my adoptive mother. Aunt Agnes refused to wear a wig. She thought it was vain and undignified to battle too hard against aging. Aside from a little lipstick and some rouge, her store of cosmetics was anemic compared to the arsenal of skin creams, eye shadow, brushes, pencils, and makeup kits my adoptive mother had kept ready for her wars against wicked time.

  Aunt Agnes had been a thin woman for as long as I could remember. Amou used to refer to her as Sonora da Passaro, "Bird Lady," because of her fragile bone structure and the way her nose had turned downward with age and become beaklike. I also thought she fluttered when she entered a room, always doing a little shiver as if she were throwing off some chill she had anticipated in coming to our home to speak with my father.

  When she saw me, she reached up and put her hand on the nurse's wrist, and the nurse turned.

  "Oh, it's my niece, his daughter," I heard her say. "Finally."

  The look on the nurse's face was as good as a sword through my heart. I barely felt myself walk up to them. Aunt Agnes shook her head.

  "We lost him," she said. "Just twenty minutes ago."

  I stared down at her and smiled with incredulity as if she had said the most ridiculous thing. Lost him? How can ire lose Daddy? Because of my silence and my expression, the nurse felt obligated to add to it.

  "There was just too much heart damage. I'm sorry," she said.

  Margaret, who finally caught up with me, just went right into a tirade about greeting me at the airport and our trip back to the hospital.

  "You've got to speak to whoever got you that car service, Mother. The driver wasn't around, and we had to take an ordinary taxicab. Willow wanted to get right over here. I told him to wait at the curb, but he was an unpleasant man. and..."

  "Shut up!" I screamed at her.

  She looked as if I had slapped her. She brought her hand to her cheek and stepped back.

  "Willow's father has passed away, Margaret Selby," my aunt explained.

  "Oh," she said, her eyes widening with the realization. "Oh. dear."

  I turned to the nurse. "I want to see my father," I said sharply. I don't know how I managed that many words. My throat had already begun to close and felt as dry as soil in a drought.

  "Of course." she said, reaching out to touch my arm. "I'll take you to him."

  I set my bag down to follow her.

  "I'll start seeing to arrangements, dear." Aunt Agnes called after me.

  "Oh, Mother," Margaret moaned, "a funeral."

  I felt as if I were sleepwalking. Everything around me seemed vague, foggy. I kept swallowing down the urge to
scream. So often people feel that they can scream away their troubles like some giant blowing unpleasant and ugly things out of his way. My heartbeat was so tiny. I imagined my heart itself was withering, closing up like a clam somewhere deep in my chest. In fact. I thought I was shrinking, growing smaller and smaller until I was just a little girl again, a little girl being brought to see her daddy.

  I stood in the doorway as if I were waiting for him to sit up on the gurney and beckon to me. The nurse stood at my side, wondering why I was so hesitant. I'm sure.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "It's never easy losing a parent, no matter how old they are My mother was eighty-six when she died last year, but I still felt as if the world had dropped out from under me."

  I looked at her and nodded. "I'd like to be alone with him for a while," I said.

  "Of course. Just call for me if you need anything." she said.

  If I need anything? I need a second chance. I need to have gotten here before he died. Could you please arrange for that? I thought.

  I looked at Daddy lying there so peacefully. His reddish-brown beard was as trim and neat as ever. He hadn't been gone that long, so his skin wasn't the pale of the dead yet. They had closed his eyes. I wished they hadn't. I needed to look into those eyes one more time, even though they would be empty. At least I could remember what had been there.

  It took a few more moments for me to draw close enough to take his hand. Funny. I thought as I held his hand in mine, my father had never once raised his hand to me, not even to pat me on the rear end. His anger, his chastising, lived in his voice, in those eyes, in his whole demeanor, and for as long as I could remember, that was sufficient.

  My adoptive mother didn't hesitate to take a swipe at me now and again, even if it was always more like waving away a fly. She was very protective of her hands. Too many women her age showed their age in their hands, and she was determined that wouldn't happen to her. With Amou in our home. my A.M. never washed a dish or wiped a piece of furniture. The only thing she cleaned was her own body, and as gently as she would clean a piece of fine china.