The Flowers in the Attic Series: The Dollangangers: Flowers in the Attic, Petals on the Wind, If There Be Thorns, Seeds of Yesterday, and a New Excerpt!

by Andrews, V. C.

  In the hospital Bart was put to bed immediately, and other doctors came to check over his leg. They tried to force Dad to leave to room, since it was professional ethics for doctors not to treat someone in their own family. Too emotionally involved, I guessed.

  “No!” stormed Dad, “he’s my son, and I’m staying to see what’s done for him!” Mom cried all the time, kneeling and holding on to Bart’s slack hand. I was sick inside too, thinking I hadn’t done nearly enough to help Bart.

  “Apple, Apple,” whimpered Bart whenever his eyes opened. “Gotta have Apple.”

  “Chris,” said Mom, “can’t he have an apple?”

  “No. He can’t eat in his condition.”

  What a terrible state he was in. Sweet beaded on his forehead and his small, thin body soaked the sheets. Mom began to really sob. “Take your mother out of this room,” ordered Dad. “I don’t want her to watch all of this.”

  As Mom cried in the waiting room down the hall, I stole back inside Bart’s private room and watched Dad shoot penicillin into Bart’s arm. I held my breath. “Is he allergic to penicillin?” asked another doctor. “I don’t know,” said Dad in a calm way. “He’s never had a serious infection before. At this point there isn’t much else we can do but take a chance. Get everything ready in case he reacts.” He turned to see me crouched in the corner, trying to stay out of the way. “Son, go to your mother. There’s nothing you can do to help here.”

  I couldn’t move. For some reason, perhaps guilt for neglecting my brother, I had to stay and see him through. Soon enough Bart was in worse trouble. Dad frowned, signaled a nurse, and two more doctors came. One of them inserted a tube in Bart’s nostril. Next something so dreadful happened I couldn’t believe my eyes. All over his body, Bart was breaking out in huge, swollen welts. Red as fire, and they itched, too, because his hand kept moving from one patch of fire to another. Then Dad was lifting Bart and putting him on a stretcher so orderlies could wheel him away.

  “Dad!” I cried, “where is that stretcher going? They’re not going to take off his leg, are they?”

  “No, son,” he said calmly. “Your brother is having a severe allergic reaction. We have to move fast and perform a tracheotomy before his throat tissues become inflamed and cut off his air passage.”

  “Chris,” called the stretcher, “it’s okay. Tom has cleared an air passage—no trache necessary.”

  A day passed and still Bart was no better. It seemed likely Bart would scratch himself raw and die from another kind of infection. With fascinated horror I stayed very late watching his stubby, swollen fingers work convulsively in useless efforts to relieve the torment of his itching body. His entire body was scarlet. I could tell his condition was serious from Dad’s face and from the attitudes of the other professionals all around his bed. Then Bart’s hands were bandaged so he couldn’t scratch. Next his eyes puffed up so much they looked like two huge, red goose eggs. His lips swelled and protruded three inches beyond normal.

  I couldn’t believe all this could happen just on count of an allergic reaction.

  “Oh!” cried out Mom, clinging tightly to Dad, her tired eyes glued on Bart. He’d been sick forever, or so it seemed. Two days passed and still Bart was no better. He’d spent his tenth birthday on a hospital bed, delirious and raving, his fourth trip to Disneyland canceled, our trip back to South Carolina put off for another year.

  “Look,” said Dad, pointing with a glow of hope on his tired face. “The hives are diminishing.”

  The second hurdle cleared. I thought now Bart would get well fast. Wasn’t so. His leg grew ever larger—and soon he proved allergic to every antibiotic they had. “What are we going to do now?” cried Mom with so much anxiety I feared for her health.

  “We’re doing everything we can,” was all Dad would say.

  “Oh, Lord, why hast thou forsaken me?” mumbled Bart in his delirium. Tears streamed down my face and fell on my shirt like rain.

  “The Lord has not forsaken you,” said Dad. He knelt by Bart’s bed and prayed, holding fast to his small hand while Mom slept on a cot put in the room for her to use. She didn’t know the pills Dad had given her were tranquilizers, not aspirin for her headache. She’d been too upset to even notice the color.

  Dad touched my head. “Go home and sleep, son. There’s only so much you can do, and you’ve done that.” Slowly I got up, stiff from sitting for so long, and headed for the door. When I gave Bart one more long last glance, I saw him tossing restlessly as my father fitted himself on the cot behind my mother.

  The next day Mom had to rush to the hospital from ballet class, leaving me to warm up to piano music. “Life goes on, Jory. Forget your brother’s problems for a while, if you can, and join us later on.” No sooner was she out of sight than something dawned on me. Apple! Of course! Bart didn’t want an apple . . . he wanted his dog. His puppy-pony!

  In ten minutes I was out of my leotards and in a telephone booth calling my father. “How’s Bart?” I asked.

  “Not very good. Jory, I don’t know how to tell your mother, but the specialist working on Bart wants to amputate his leg before the infection has a chance to weaken him more. I can’t let him do that—and yet, we don’t want to lose Bart.”

  “Don’t you let them amputate!” I almost screamed. “You tell Bart—and make him hear—that I’m going home to take care of Apple. Please let Bart keep both his legs.” God knows, Bart would feel even more inferior if he lost one.

  “Jory, your brother lies on his bed and refuses to cooperate. He isn’t trying to recover. It seems he wants to die. We can’t give him any kind of antibiotic and his temperature is steadily rising. But I’m with you. There must be something we can do to bring down that fever.”

  * * *

  For the first time in my life I hitched a ride home. A nice lady let me off at the bottom of the hill and I raced the rest of the way. Once Bart knew Apple was okay he’d get well. He was punishing himself, just the way he beat his fists against the rough bark of a tree when he broke something. I sobbed with the realization my kid brother was more important to me than I’d known before. Nutty little kid who didn’t like himself very much. Hiding in his pretend games, telling tall tales so everyone would be impressed. Dad had told me a long time ago, “. . . indulge him in his pretense, Jory.” But maybe we’d indulged him too much.

  I gasped when I saw Apple in the barn of the mansion. He was chained to a stake driven into the ground of the floor. A dish of moist dog food was placed just beyond his reach.

  His thick shaggy fur told the story of his hunger. He was ragged, panting, looking at me with huge pleading eyes. Who had done this? He’d clawed the ground in his futile efforts to dig free, and now, still only an overgrown puppy, he lay and panted in the barn, which had been closed and shuttered cruelly.

  “It’s all right, boy,” I soothed, as I set about getting him fresh water. He lapped it up so thirstily I had to take it away. I knew a little about doctoring. Dogs, like people, had to drink sparingly after a long thirst. Next I set him free and went to his shelf of supplies and took what looked best to me from a long row of cans. Apple was starving in the midst of plenty. I could feel his ribs when I ran my hands over his pitiful shabby coat that had been so beautiful.

  When he’d eaten and had his fill of water, I curry-combed his thick mat of hair. Then I sat on the dirt floor and held his huge head on my lap. “Bart’s coming home to you, Apple. He’ll have two good legs too, I promise. I don’t know who did this to you and why, but you can bet I’ll find out.” What worried me most was the awful suspicion that the very person who loved Apple most might be the very one who’d starved and punished his pet. Bart had such an odd way of reasoning. To his way of thinking, if Apple really suffered when he was gone, Apple would be ten times more grateful to see him.

  Could Bart be that heartlessly cruel?

  Outside, the July day was mildly hot. As I approached the great mansion I heard the low voices of two people. That old woman
in black and the creepy old butler, both of them seated on a cool patio lush with colorful potted palms, and ferns planted in huge stone urns.

  “John, I feel should go down again and check on Bart’s puppy. He was so happy to see me this morning, I couldn’t understand why he was so hungry. Really, do you have to keep him chained up like that? It seems so cruel on a beautiful day like this.”

  “Madame, it is not a beautiful day,” said the mean-looking butler, as he sipped a beer and sprawled in one of her chaise longues. “When you insist on wearing black, naturally you feel hotter than anyone else.”

  “I don’t want your opinion on how I dress. I want to know why you keep Apple chained.”

  “Because the dog might run off to look for his young master,” said John sarcastically. “I guess you didn’t think of that.”

  “You could lock the barn door. I’m going down to look at him again. He seemed so thin, so desperate.”

  “Madame, if you have to concern yourself, make it worthy of the bother. Be concerned for your grandson, who is about to lose his leg!”

  She’d half risen from her chair, but at this announcement she sank back on the pillows. “Oh. He’s worse? Did Emma and Marta talk again this morning?”

  I sighed, knowing Emma liked to gossip and she shouldn’t. Though I honestly didn’t think she’d say anything important. She never told me any secrets. And Mom never had time to listen.

  “Of course they did,” grouched the butler. “Did you ever hear of a woman who didn’t? Those two use stepladders every day to gab away. Though to hear Emma talk, the doctor and his wife are perfect.”

  “John, what did Marta find out about Bart? Tell me!”

  “Well, Madame, it seems that kid has managed to drive a rusty nail into his knee and now he has gas gangrene—the kind of gangrene that demands amputation of the limb or the patient dies.”

  I stared from my hidden place at the two who sat and talked, the one very upset, the other totally unconcerned, almost amused at the reaction of his mistress.

  “You’re lying!” screamed the woman, jumping to her feet. “John, you tell me lies just to torture me more. I know Bart will be fine. His father will know what to do to help him recover. I know he will. He has to . . .” And then she broke into tears. She took off the veil then and wiped at her tears, and I glimpsed her face, not noticing the scars so much this time, only her look of suffering. Did she really care so much for Bart? Why should she care? Could she really be Bart’s grandmother?—naw, she couldn’t be. His grandmother was in a mental institution in Virginia.

  I stepped forward then to let my presence be known. She appeared surprised to see me, remembered her bare face, and hastily put on her veil again.

  “Good morning,” I said addressing myself to the lady and ignoring the old man I couldn’t help but detest. “I heard what your butler said, ma’am, and he’s right only to a certain extent. My brother is very ill, but he does not have gas gangrene. And he will not lose his leg. My father is much too good a doctor to let that happen.”

  “Jory, are you sure Bart will be all right?” she asked with so much concern. “He’s very dear to me . . . I can’t tell you how much.” She choked and bowed her head, working her thin, ringed hands convulsively.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “If Bart wasn’t allergic to most of the drugs the doctors have given him, they would have destroyed the infection—but that won’t matter in the long run, for my dad will know what to do to help him. My father always knows just what to do.” I turned then toward the butler and tried to put on adult authority. “As for Apple, he does not need to be kept chained in a hot barn with all the windows shuttered over. And he doesn’t need to have his food and water placed just out of his reach. I don’t know what’s going on in this place, and why you want to make a nice dog like that suffer—but you’d better take good care of him if you don’t want me to report you to the humane society.” I whipped about and started toward home.

  “Jory!” called the lady in black. “Stay! Don’t leave yet. I want to know more about Bart.”

  Again I turned to look at her. “If you want to help my brother, there’s only one thing you can do—leave him alone! When he comes back, you tell him some nice reason why you can’t be bothered—but don’t you hurt his feelings.”

  She spoke again, pleading for me to stay and talk, but I strode on, thinking I’d done something to protect Bart. To protect him from what, I didn’t know.

  That very night Bart’s fever raged higher. His doctors ordered him to be wrapped in a thermal blanket that worked like a refrigerator. I watched my father, I watched my mother, I saw them look at each other, touch each other, giving each other strength. Strangely, both turned to pick up cubes of ice that they rubbed on Bart’s arms and legs, then his chest. Like one person with no need to speak. I choked up and bowed my head, feeling moved by their kind of love and understanding. I wanted then to speak up and tell them about the woman next door, but I’d promised Bart not to tell. He had the first friend in his life, the first pet that could tolerate him; yet the longer I withheld what I knew, the more my parents might be hurt in the long run. Why did I have to think that? How could that old lady hurt my parents?

  Somehow I knew she could. Someday I knew she would. I wished I were a man, with the ability to make right decisions.

  As I grew sleepier, I remembered the expression Dad used so often: “God works in mysterious ways his wonders to perform.”

  Next thing I knew Dad was shaking me awake. “Bart’s better!” he cried. “Bart’s going to keep his leg and recover!”

  * * *

  Slowly, day by day, that hideous swollen leg diminished in size. Gradually it turned a normal color, though Bart seemed listless and uncaring as he stared blankly ahead, not saying anything to anybody.

  We were at the breakfast table one morning when Dad rubbed his tired eyes and informed us of something incredible. “Cathy, you’re not going to believe this, but the lab technicians found something odd in the culture they took from Bart’s wound. We suspected rust; they found rust, which caused the tetanus, but they also found the very kind of staphylococcus often associated with fresh animal feces. It’s truly a miracle Bart still had both of his legs.”

  Looking pale and tired enough to be sick herself, Mom nodded before her head bowed weakly to his shoulder. “If Clover were still around, I’d easily understand how he might—”

  “You know how our Bart is. If anything filthy is within a mile he’ll be the one to step on it, crawl in it, or pick it up and check it over. You know, when he kept on raving last night about apples I gave him one I’d bought and he let it fall to the floor, showing no interest.” Mom closed her eyes while he went on stroking her back and talking. “When I told him we weren’t flying East I could tell he was pleased.” He looked my way. “I hope you’re not too disappointed, Jory. We’ll have to wait until next summer to visit your grandmother, or maybe this Christmas I can get away.”

  I was thinking mean thoughts. Bart always got what he wanted. He’d figured out a sure way to avoid visiting “ole” graves and “ole” grandmothers. He’d even given up Disneyland. And it wasn’t like Bart to give up anything.

  * * *

  That evening I was with Bart alone, and Mom and Dad were in the hospital corridor talking to friends. I told Bart about the conversation I’d overheard between the old lady and her butler. “There they were, Bart, both of them on her terrace. She was so worried about you.”

  “She loves me,” he whispered proudly, his voice very faint. “She loves me more than anybody,” and here he looked thoughtful, “except perhaps, Apple.”

  Bart, I thought, don’t think like that. But I couldn’t speak and steal his pride in having found love outside his family. With mixed emotions I watched his expressive face, my own emotions a tumble of uncertainty. What kind of kid brother did I have? Surely he had to know his parents would love him more than anyone else.

  “Grandmother is afraid of tha
t ole butler,” he said, “but I can handle him good. I’ve got hidden powers real powerful.”

  “Bart, why do you keep going over there?”

  He shrugged and stared at the wall. “Don’t know. Jus’ wanna go there.”

  “You know that Dad would give you a dog, any kind you want. All you have to do is ask, and he’ll give you a puppy just like Apple.”

  His fierce, angry eyes drilled a hole in me. “There ain’t no other dog like my puppy-pony. Apple is special.”

  I changed the subject. “How do you know that woman is scared of her butler? Did she tell you?”

  “She don’t have to tell me. I can jus’ tell. He looks at her mean. She looks at him scared.”

  Scared, the same way I was beginning to look at just about everything.

  Homecoming

  Nice the way Momma kept fussing over me. Wouldn’t last. She’d change as soon as I got well. Two long long weeks in this stinking hospital that wanted to take my leg and burn it in their furnace. Made me happy to look down and see my leg still there. Boy, just wait until I went back to school and I told them how I nearly had an “amputated” leg. They’d be impressed. Was made of good stuff that refused to rot and die. And I hadn’t cried. Was brave too.

  I remembered how Daddy hovered over me, looking sad and worried. Maybe he really did love me even if I wasn’t his own true son. “Daddy!” I cried when I saw him. “You got good news, I can tell.”

  “It’s nice to see you bright and happy-looking.” He sat on the side of my bed and pulled me into his arms before he gave me a big kiss. Embarrassing. “Bart, I have great news. Your temperature is normal. Your knee is healing nicely. But being a doctor’s son has a few advantages. I’m signing you out today. If I don’t I fear you’ll fade away to nothing. Once you’re home I know Emma’s delicious food will soon put some meat on those bones.”

  He looked at me in a kind way, like I really mattered just as much as Jory; it made me want to cry. “Where’s Momma?” I asked.