Secret Brother

by V. C. Andrews

  “Neurological problems? Motor skills? Are you going to be a doctor or something?” He was more surprised than impressed.

  “As I said, I read about things.”

  “But this physical-therapy stuff is all going into your grandfather’s house, not the hospital. He wants that?”

  “Yes. He brought the boy here.”

  “What? Why?”

  “He wants to . . . take care of him.”

  Aaron just stared at me and then looked at the house. “Well, don’t his parents care?” he asked after a moment.

  “I told you. No one knows who they are—or any relatives, as a matter of fact. He had no identification on him, and no one is looking for him, apparently. At least, that’s what the police have said.”

  “Why doesn’t the kid just tell them?”

  “He’s suffering from amnesia,” I said, now unable to disguise the disapproval and even the disbelief in my voice.

  “Amnesia . . . can’t remember his own parents?”

  “Or his real name.”

  “Bull.”

  “They call it psychological trauma. It causes you to forget things, block them out of your head.”

  “That’s what happened?”

  “If you want to believe it.”

  “So let me get this,” he said. “There’s a kid moving into your grandfather’s house who was poisoned either accidentally or deliberately, and until the police figure out who he belongs to, your grandfather’s keeping him and helping him with stuff.”

  “Including a private-duty nurse,” I said. “Who has moved in.”

  He shook his head.

  “And a psychiatrist as well as the other doctors, not to mention the professional therapist who will be here daily.”

  “Wow. Where’s Dick Tracy when you really need him?” he muttered, and I laughed. He gave me his best Aaron Podwell smile and then shrugged. “I guess, good for your grandfather for caring about the kid. I don’t think my father would do it. I don’t think my mother would even do it, although they do give money to all sorts of charities.”

  “Some people say charity begins at home.”

  “Huh?”

  “Thanks for the ride in your new car,” I said, opening the door. “It is beautiful.”

  “Beautiful car for a beautiful girl. Looking forward to Friday night.”

  “Me, too,” I said. I closed the door and started toward the front entrance.

  “Hey,” Aaron called, leaning out of his window. I turned. “If he doesn’t remember his own name, what do you call him, Arsenic?” He smiled.

  “My grandfather has decided to call him William,” I said.

  He lost his smile. I turned and walked to the house. When I reached the steps and the ramp and looked back, he was already gone.

  Grandpa Arnold stepped out the front door and stood there with his hands on his hips. “Myra said you hung up on her before she could learn who was bringing you home.”

  “Myra’s not my mother,” I said, walking past him. “Or my grandmother,” I muttered. I didn’t look back. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw everyone working with the deliverymen. The chair lift had already been installed. There was a wheelchair just off the bottom step. I glanced at it and then started up the stairway.

  “Just a minute, Clara Sue,” Grandpa called, walking after me.

  I stopped. “What?”

  “Since when don’t you tell me what you’re doing and with whom you’re doing it?”

  “You were too busy,” I said. “It was only Aaron Podwell, anyway. Jack the Ripper had other things to do today.”

  I hated talking to him like this, but it seemed to come out of a well inside me that I didn’t know existed, a well filled with ugly, deformed creatures of rage, their faces bloodred. They danced in glee around my heart, which felt like it was on fire. The heat propelled me forward.

  When I walked past Willie’s room, I saw Mrs. Camden helping the boy out of his other wheelchair and back into bed. He looked at me over her shoulder. He did seem fragile and helpless, his eyes pleading for some sympathy, but I looked away quickly and went to my room. I had put on a good front before my grandfather, but inside myself, I could feel a small earthquake. For a while, I just lay there staring up at the ceiling and trying to calm myself. I was glad when the phone rang. I knew Lila wanted a report about my ride home with Aaron, but for now, I welcomed the distraction. Besides, I was finding I liked talking about him.

  “Did he take you anywhere else first?” she asked as soon as she heard my voice.

  “No, but he did take a longer route so I could appreciate his car.”

  “Did he park for a while?”

  “We didn’t start groping each other, if that’s what you mean.”

  “But did you want to?” She giggled after asking. She was going to live her own fantasy through me, I thought. Suddenly, I felt very mean about it. I was eager to tease her.

  “Oh, yes,” I said breathlessly. “I was getting hot and wet just thinking about his hands slipping under my blouse, his fingers undoing my bra. I wanted his lips all over me. You know, his face between my thighs.”

  I heard her gasp. “You did?”

  “Almost,” I added, dropping back to my usual tone. “But then I started thinking about My Faith’s cookies.”

  “What?” Her disappointment brought a smile back to my face.

  “But everyone was too busy with the preparations for the new William’s therapy to suggest that I have any. My grandfather is setting up the room for all the equipment.”

  “Equipment?”

  “The therapy equipment. Now we have a nurse and a therapist and a psychiatrist and doctors parading through the halls.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  “Anyway, Aaron now knows all about it, so you don’t have to keep your lips zipped. Maybe if more people ask my grandfather about it, he’ll realize what he’s doing.”

  “I already told my parents,” she confessed.

  “Good. And what about Gerry? Did he try to park with you?”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Did you want him to?”

  “No!” she exclaimed. “Ugh, Gerry? Please.”

  “Then why did you let him take you home? Never mind. I know why. I’ll call you later,” I said.

  “You’d better. You did really well on that math. I’ll need your help.”

  After I hung up, I freshened up in the bathroom and then went downstairs. I really had a craving for one of My Faith’s cookies. As it turned out, she had made them, but more for the new William than for me.

  I paused to watch the men setting up the equipment in my grandfather’s den. He had left for the office to finish some things. Mrs. Camden surprised me. I was thinking so hard that I didn’t hear her approach.

  “Would you like to know about all this?” she asked, nodding at the equipment.

  “Not really.”

  “He was asking some more about you,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “William,” she said.

  “Really.” I tried to sound as if I didn’t care, but a part of me was very interested.

  “It’s a good sign. He’s reaching out. It’s like someone folded up inside, the way you might make a fist, and gradually, the fingers relax and the hand begins to open again. You could be a big part of that happening.”

  “Whoop-de-do.”

  “Aren’t you in the least bit interested in him, in where he comes from and what happened to him?”

  “If it leads to him going home, yes,” I said. “He’s living in my brother’s room and using my brother’s name.”

  She considered. “Well, it might lead to that,” she said. I looked at her hopefully. “Depending on whether it would be a good idea for him to be sent back to that home, of course. It also c
ould lead to an investigation that would result in his going to live with relatives or someplace else.”

  “Someplace else? Like a foster home? An orphanage?”

  “Possibly.”

  “My grandfather wouldn’t permit it, I bet.”

  She looked at the equipment. “Well, it’s nice, rewarding, to help him find his way. Just give it a chance, and you’ll see what I mean.” She smiled at me and walked on to the kitchen.

  “Not everyone dreams of being a nurse,” I called after her. I was sure she was pretending she didn’t hear me. “Forget this,” I muttered, and went back up the stairs to begin my homework. As I passed Willie’s room, I thought I heard a small voice call my name.

  “Clara Sue.”

  I stopped and listened, but I didn’t hear it again, or maybe I had imagined it. Maybe I wanted to hear it, because it did sound like Willie calling me the way he used to when I tried to ignore him because I wanted to talk to friends or get homework done. Whenever I had done that, I had suffered aching guilt. There was no doubt that he missed our parents even more than I did and that after Grandma Arnold passed away, he sank even deeper into himself, moving about like someone who had been stung so many times by angry bees that he was terrified of stepping outside. He was still a child at heart. He needed more love than I could give him, and to be truthful, I doled it out the way travelers in a desert rationed water.

  Hearing nothing more, I continued to my room and closed the door. I attacked my homework with a vengeance. Every ordinary thing I did now seemed fueled with just as much anger as ambition or responsibility. I was still striking back at the world. I wondered if I would ever stop.

  As if he could hear my thoughts hundreds of miles away, Uncle Bobby phoned me. “Hey,” he said. “How’s my Clair de Lune?”

  “Surviving,” I said.

  “That’s a start. You’re back in school, right?”

  “Right. I’m going to a party on Friday, too,” I said, as if something like that was an amazing accomplishment. Perhaps it was.

  “Good. Get back into the shake and roll of things. We had a good opening with the show, and I can tell you for sure that I’ll be in New York next year.”

  “I’m so happy for you, Uncle Bobby.”

  “Thanks. So how’s the general?”

  “Busy. You’ll have to check visiting hours before you come next time.”

  “What?”

  “He’s moving therapy equipment into the den. He’s hired a private-duty nurse and a therapist to be here daily. And there’s the psychiatrist. I’m not sure how often she comes yet. I live in another world.”

  “What’s the nurse like?”

  “She’s . . . she’s okay. She wants me to help her with the poisoned boy, who, you know, is now William.”

  “Just because he uses his room?”

  “No, Uncle Bobby. Grandpa wants him to be called that until he remembers his real name, if ever. He’s William Arnold the Second right now.”

  “He didn’t mention that,” Uncle Bobby said. “I guess he has to be called something, but . . .”

  “But not my brother’s name!” I practically screamed.

  “Take it easy, honey. Go with the flow for now. I’m sure things will change once the boy improves.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Are you coming for Thanksgiving?”

  “Can’t. It’s a big weekend for us here. Maybe Christmas,” he said. “I sent the playbill to you today. You should get it soon.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Keep your chin up. Have a good time at your party. I want to hear some nitty-gritty details when I call next time.”

  “I’ll work on them,” I said.

  He laughed. “Love you, Clair de Lune.”

  “I love you, Uncle Bobby. More than ever,” I said, and he was silent until he managed a good-bye.

  After I hung up, I lay there thinking. It was all going so fast, this recuperation from grief. The presence of the poisoned boy only sped that up. Willie was in danger of fading away. How could I stop it?

  I looked at my desk, and then I rose slowly and sat. Was this silly, even sick?

  I took out my perfumed stationery and uncovered my special fountain pen. And then I began.

  Dear Willie,

  I wonder if you can look down and see us, and if you can, if you are as unhappy about what Grandpa is doing as I am. I think you are. I know how precious all your things were to you. You should know that I’ve hidden what I knew to be the most precious, and this new boy, the poisoned boy, won’t get his hands on them. I promise.

  I wish I had been able to say more to you at the cemetery, but I couldn’t stand seeing you closed up in that coffin and being lowered into a grave. My Faith tells me that your soul had already left your body and it would never be imprisoned. She claims you were most likely standing there beside me. Sometimes I laugh at the things she tells me, but I didn’t laugh at that. I wanted it to be true.

  Grandpa and Myra and My Faith, maybe even Uncle Bobby, want me to care about this strange boy Grandpa has decided to rescue. I’m afraid that if you can see us and hear us, you now know Grandpa has given him your name, too. I feel so bad about it. I swear, I’ll never call him Willie. I will try not to call him William, either. I’ll call him “you” or something if I have to speak to him for any reason.

  I’m back in school. I’m back with friends. I’m going to attend a party, not because I’ve forgotten all about you but because I can’t help what has happened. The truth is, I want to think about other things so I don’t cry so much, and I certainly don’t want to think about the boy in your room.

  Don’t be sad about it. I decided tonight that on Saturday, I’m going to the cemetery to visit your grave. I will never forget you or stop thinking about you. I’m sure I’ll think about you every day forever or at least until I can’t think anymore.

  If you can still think and feel, please think of me. Please still care about me.

  Love,

  Your sister, Clara Sue

  I reread my letter and then folded it and put it in the envelope. I dropped it into the drawer with the others. I was sure I would write many more.

  I returned to my homework until it was time to go to dinner. I was surprised to see that Willie’s door was nearly closed completely, but I didn’t pause to see why. I hurried downstairs, then stopped just before I entered the dining room, because I could hear laughter coming from Grandpa Arnold’s office. I hadn’t heard him laugh since Willie’s accident. I recognized Mrs. Camden’s laugh. They both turned to me when I stepped into the doorway. He wasn’t behind his desk. They were both sitting on the pearl leather settee, and it looked like they were having a cocktail. The stunned expression on my face wiped the smiles from theirs. I wondered what had made them laugh.

  “How was your day at school?” Grandpa asked. “We didn’t get to speak very much when you got home.”

  “It was okay,” I said. “Isn’t dinner ready?” I asked, looking more at Mrs. Camden.

  “We were about to go to the dining room.”

  We, I thought. So she’s a regular at the table from now on?

  “I want you to know that I’m going to a party Friday night,” I said. “It’s at Audrey O’Brian’s house.”

  “That’s very nice,” Mrs. Camden said.

  “You don’t even know who she is,” I snapped back.

  “I just meant it’s nice that you’re getting out, seeing your friends,” she said.

  “Am I taking you?” Grandpa asked

  “No. I’m going with Aaron Podwell. He’ll pick me up and bring me home.”

  “By eleven.”

  “Eleven?”

  “That’s a bit early, William,” Mrs. Camden said softly. “She’s old enough to be Cinderella.”

  He looked at her and nodded. “It’s har
d to think of these kids growing up so quickly.”

  “These kids?” I said.

  He lost the softness in his face. “Twelve, then,” he said. “And don’t be late.”

  “Or Aaron’s new car will turn into a pumpkin,” I said.

  Mrs. Camden widened her smile.

  “Worse than that,” Grandpa said. “His father will hear about it.”

  Mrs. Camden held on to her smile.

  I turned and walked on to the dining room.

  What I hated about her was how hard it was becoming to hate her at all.

  9

  They were too chatty at dinner, but I finally had my old appetite back, especially when it came to My Faith’s cooking. We had often had dinner guests, especially when my grandma Lucy was alive, but since she had died, I rarely saw my grandfather as interested in anyone as he was in Mrs. Camden. By now, they were both addressing each other by their first names, Dorian and William. It was Mrs. Camden more than my grandfather who tried to include me in their discussions, but they were talking about singers and actors I never knew. When I said so, they both seemed surprised.

  “If we didn’t teach history in our schools, kids today wouldn’t even know who George Washington was,” Grandpa quipped. I couldn’t get over how quickly he was returning to himself.

  “Not true,” I said. “We’d know every time we had a dollar.”

  Mrs. Camden laughed so hard that I couldn’t keep a smile off my own face. Grandpa laughed, too.

  “She’s very clever,” she told him.

  “Her mother was sharp like that, too, and her grandmother wasn’t anyone to trade witty remarks with and come away without wounds to your pride.”

  He paused as if he could see her sitting across the table. Then he shook his head and returned to their conversation. After one of My Faith’s famous lemon tarts, Mrs. Camden turned to me and asked, “What do you girls wear to house parties these days? We used to get so dressed up that you’d think we were going to the Waldorf or something.”

  “Nothing very fancy,” I said.

  “She probably needs something new,” Grandpa said. “Never saw a female who didn’t use an occasion to get something new.”