Dark Angel

by V. C. Andrews

  Now it was my turn to plead. "But you don't understand, Mrs. Rawlings! I have to see them again! I have to make sure they are happy and healthy, or else I can't find happiness myself. Each day of my life I vow to find Keith and Our Jane. I hate my father for what he did, it eats at me night and day. You have to allow me to see them, even if they don't see me."

  The reluctance expressed in her delayed reply could have turned aside someone less relentless than I was.

  "All right, if you must do this thing. But you have to promise to keep yourself hidden from my children. And if after you see them they don't appear to you to be healthy, happy, and secure, then my husband and I will do everything within our power to see that we remedy that situation."

  I knew at that moment that this was a strongwilled woman, determined to keep her family intact, and through hell she'd fight to keep them hers and not mine.

  All that Saturday I prowled small shops, looking for just the right gifts to give Fanny, Tom, and Grandpa. I even bought several things for Keith and Our Jane to add to the others I was saving for that day when we would be a family again.

  Sunday morning I awakened with high hopes and great excitement. At ten the limousine and driver put at my disposal drew to a slow, careful stop before an Episcopalian church that was almost medieval in design. I knew just where the two children I longed to see would be, in their Sunday School class. Rita Rawlings had given me detailed instructions on how to find their classroom, and what to do once I was there. "And if you love them, Heaven, keep your promise. Think of their needs and not your own, and stay out of sight."

  The church was cool and dim inside, the many halls long and twisting. Well-dressed people smiled at me.

  Somewhere in a back hall I grew confused, not knowing which way to turn . . . and then I heard children singing. And it seemed, above all the other voices, I could hear the sweet, high-pitched voice of Our Jane, as she tried earnestly to duplicate the soprano tones of Miss Marianne Deale, when she had sung hymns with us in Winnerrow's one and only Protestant church.

  Their sweet singing voices led me to them.

  I paused in the doorway that I cracked open to listen to the song of worship sung so joyfully by many children, with only a piano for accompaniment. Soon I stepped inside the large room, where at least fifteen children, aged approximately ten to twelve, were standing, holding hymn books, and singing loudly.

  The children of Winnerrow would have been shamed by this assembly in their pretty pastel summer clothes.

  The two I sought were standing side by side, Keith and Our Jane, both supporting the same hymn book, both singing with rapt expressions, more for the pure delight of expressing themselves than from holy fervor, I thought, as I stood and silently cried, even as I delighted in their obvious good health and

  prosperity. Oh, thank God I had lived long enough to see them again.

  Once skinny little legs and arms were now strong and tanned. Pale, small faces had developed into radiant, glowing faces, with rosy lips that knew now how to smile rather than pout and droop, and eyes that weren't haunted by hunger and cold. Oh, to see them as they were now sent light through all the shadows I had deliberately kept in my mind.

  The song ended. Quietly, I moved to the thick square post beside which I was to sit and shield myself from their view.

  The children sat and put their hymn books in the back pocket of the chairs in front of them--front chairs where no one sat. My tears were chased by a smile when I saw Our Jane fuss with her pretty white and pink dress. Each accordion pleat had to be arranged carefully so it wouldn't later on be crinkled and fall out of place. She took great pains to see that her short skirt covered her tanned knees, which she kept together in proper, ladylike fashion. Her bright hair was artfully styled so it fell to barely brush her shoulders before it flipped upward in charming casual curls. And when she turned her head to profile, I could see the feathery fringe of bangs across her forehead. Her hair knew the kind of professional care that mine and Fanny's had never known at the age of ten. Oh, how lovely she was! How flushed with good health and vitality, so much that she appeared to glow.

  Seated beside her, Keith stared solemnly ahead at the woman teacher who began to tell the story of the boy David, who had slain a giant with a stone hurled from a slingshot. Straight and true that stone had flown to find its mark, because the power of the Lord was with David, and not Goliath. It had always been one of my favorite Bible stories. But I forgot to listen as my eyes scanned over Keith, who wore a bright blue summer jacket with long white summer trousers. His dress shirt was white, and his small tie was blue. Several times I had to get up and move just so I could see them both better. He radiated the same kind of good health and vitality that Our Jane did.

  The years since I'd seen them last had added inches to their heights and given both their faces more maturity and character, and yet I would have known them anywhere, for time had not changed some things. Repeatedly Keith glanced at his younger sister, checking on her comfort, on her happiness, showing a remarkable amount of manly concern for her welfare, while Our Jane habitually held on to her babyish mannerisms that had won her so much attention in the past. It was not likely she would abandon them.

  Oh, Granny would be so happy to know her beauty hadn't been permanently sacrificed in the hills, for Annie Brandywine lived again in Our Jane! And beside her Keith had to resemble Grandpa more than he did any of Sarah's large, rawboned family. Once I had thought the shadowed hollows beneath both sets of their eyes would never go away, and such small, pale faces would never look as they did now, happy to be alive.

  Several children just in front of me turned to stare quizzically my way. I held my breath until their stares were satisfied, and once again they pivoted to listen to their teacher. If either my younger sister or brother turned to look back in my direction, I intended to hide quickly. I prayed that no one would come to question why I was there.

  The story of David ended. I listened to the question-and-answer period that followed and heard the sweet, small voice of Keith as he hesitatingly responded only after he had been directly prompted. However, Our Jane was constantly waving her small, shapely hand, eager to pipe her question or answer. "How could a tiny stone kill a huge giant?" she asked. I didn't listen to the teacher's answer.

  Soon the children were standing, and prissy little girls adjusted their clothes. Our Jane clutched her small white purse more securely.

  The excited chatter of the departing children might have hidden what Our Jane said next, but my ears were keened for her voice.

  "Hurry, Keith!" she urged, "We're going to Susan's party this afternoon, and we don't want to be late."

  I followed at a distance behind the two little ones that I dreamed of, and jealously I watched Our Jane fling herself into Rita Rawlings's waiting arms. Slightly behind his wife, Lester Rawlings stood, as fat and bald as ever. He laid a possessive hand on Keith's shoulder before he turned his head and looked directly at me. More than three years had passed since he had seen me, backed up to the wall in that mountain shack, my dress dirty and ragged, my feet bare. And yet it seemed he recognized me. I had changed a great deal from that waif, but still he knew me. It could have been the tears streaming down my face that betrayed me. He said something to his wife, who hustled the two children into a Cadillac, and then he smiled at me with genuine sympathy.

  "Thank you," he said simply.

  For the second time in my life I watched that lawyer and his wife drive off in a Cadillac, taking with them two parts of myself. I stood staring after them until the drizzle of rain evaporated into steam, and the sun came out hot and brilliant, and a rainbow arched in the sky, and only then did I stroll toward my own waiting car. Not yet, not yet, some small voice in me warned. Later on you can claim them.

  Still, I instructed my driver to follow the dark blue Cadillac ahead, for I wanted to see the house where the Rawlingses lived. After a ten-minute drive, the Cadillac ahead turned onto a quiet, tree-lined street,
then pulled into a long, curving drive. "Stop across the street," I ordered my driver, thinking that the heavy shade and many thick tree trunks would shield the limo if the Rawlingses just happened to check and see if they were followed. Apparently they didn't check.

  Theirs was a nice, colonial-style house, large, but not huge like Farthinggale Manor. The red bricks were old and partially covered with ivy, and the lawns were wide and well tended, with flowers and shrubs in full summer bloom. Oh, indeed, this was a palace in comparison to that listing shack perched high on a mountainside. There was no reason for my heart to hurt. They were better off here, they were, they were. They didn't need me. Not now. A long time ago they'd stopped speaking my name, stopped having bad dreams. Oh, the cries of hunger in the night that I used to hear coming from the floor pallet of the two small children that once I'd considered mine!

  "Hev-lee, Hev-lee, are ya goin somewhere?" they had asked, after their own mother abandoned them, their shadowed eyes pleading with me never to leave them.

  "Will you be driving back to the hotel now, miss?" asked my driver after half an hour had passed. I couldn't tear myself away.

  On impulse I opened the door and stepped out on the shady sidewalk. "Wait for me here. be back in a few minutes."

  I couldn't just drive off without seeing and knowing more, not after all the heartache I'd suffered since that horrible day when Pa sold his two youngest.

  Furtively I slipped into the side yard where a colorful, heavy-duty gym set seemed to wait for the children who used it. I stole quietly onto a broad, flagstone patio where chairs and a table with a pretty striped umbrella jostled each other for closest position to the kidney-shaped swimming pool. Keeping so close to the house I was beneath the level of the many back windows, and I was soon rewarded with the sound of children's voices coming through the open windows of one room.

  Soon I was crouched low behind huge masonry pots holding living shrubs, staring through the glass of French doors that opened into what had to be an enclosed sun porch.

  The beautiful room was full of sunlight, and chairs and a sofa sported soft, fat cushions covered with pretty flowered chintz. Houseplants in macrame holders hung from the ceiling in healthy array, and the floor was covered with rich, sea blue rugs. On the largest blue rug Keith and Our Jane were seated, playing with glass marbles that they had arranged inside the main center oval of the rug. Both children had changed from their church outfits into dressier clothes. From the meticulous way they moved, they were obviously trying to keep themselves clean and neat for the upcoming party.

  I couldn't stop staring.

  The tiered and ruffled skirt of Our Jane's white organza dress fell from a high, smocked bodice, and fastened to the right of where the tiers met the bodice were pale green satin ribbons that fell to the hem of her skirt. Tiny, pink silk rosettes formed a bouquet from which the ribbons streamed. She had taken great pains to arrange the skirt around her so it formed a flattering circle. Her red gold hair had been brushed back from her face and was held high on the crown of her head with another green satin ribbon tied into a bow, and the ribbon streamers were finished off with the same tiny, silk rosettes. I had never seen a child's dress that was more beautiful or becoming to its wearer than the one Our Jane now wore.

  Directly across from Our Jane, sitting crosslegged, his feet in shiny new white shoes, Keith's fresh suit was white linen, and his bow tie matched exactly the pale jade green of the ribbons decorating Our Jane's dress and hair. It was very apparent that a great deal of thought had been given to their clothes.

  When finally I could skip my eyes away from them long enough to see the appointments of the room, I saw a long table that held a small computer. Nearby was another table with a printer. A radio was playing. In a corner was an artist's easel, and a table and taboret. I knew who the easel was meant for--it was for Keith, who had inherited his grandfather's artistic talent! Any paint that Keith might drop or spill would fall on tile that could easily be wiped up. And everywhere there were dolls, as if Our Jane wasn't reaching maturity as swiftly as other girls ten years old.

  Then, to my dismay, low on the bottom door panel in front of me appeared two small paws and the friendly face of a small puppy. His tail wagged furiously as he saw me down on my hands and knees, my nose almost pressing on the glass. He whined, opened his mouth to yip several times--and the children, whom I had not expected to turn their heads my way, fixed their wide, surprised eyes directly on me!

  I didn't know what to do!

  The wiggling puppy began to yip louder, and afraid now that the Rawlingses would be alarmed, I quickly rose to my feet and stepped through the unlocked door.

  Neither Keith nor Our Jane spoke.

  They seemed frozen as they sat on the floor before their colorful ring of marbles.

  It was too late now to slip away unseen. I tried to smile reassuringly. "It's all right," I said softly, standing just inside the doorway. "I'm not going to do anything to disturb your lives. I just wanted to see you both again."

  Still they stared, their rosy lips parted, their eyes huge and growing darker, as shadows came into the clarity of Our Jane's turquoise eyes and deepened the amber in Keith's. The puppy frolicked about my feet, sniffed at my ankles, then stood on hind legs to paw at my skirt. My brother and sister seemed terrified. It pained me to see their expressions.

  Softly, softly, lest I frighten them more: "Keith, Our Jane, look at me. Surely you haven't forgotten who I am?"

  I smiled, still anticipating their cries of delight when they recognized me, as many a time in my dreams I'd heard them say, "Hev-lee! You've come! You've saved us!"

  But neither one said that. With some awkwardness Keith slowly rose to his feet. The pupils of his amber eyes enlarging with each beat of his pulse. He glanced with concern at Our Jane, tugged at his green bow tie, tightened his parted lips, looked again at me, then wiped a hand across his face. All his life he'd done that when he was confused or disturbed.

  Our Jane had no such reticence. She jumped to her feet in one lithe movement, scattering the marbles everywhere. "Go away!" she cried, throwing her arms about Keith and hugging close. "We don't want you!" Her mouth opened to scream.

  I couldn't believe the fear they both showed. Couldn't believe either one knew who I was. They thought I was a stranger, perhaps a door-to-door salesperson, and they had been warned not to let anyone in.

  Stunned, I started to speak and tell them my name. The thickness in my throat almost caused my voice to fail so that my name came out hoarse, strange, unintelligible.

  Our Jane's lovely face turned alarmingly white. Her pale, frightened face took on an expression of hysteria. For a dreadful moment I thought she was going to throw up, as she used to do so often in the past. Keith, glancing at her face, turned several shades lighter. He glared at me with small, angry lights flickering on and off in his eyes. Did he know me? Was he trying to remember?

  "Mommy!" Our Jane wailed in a high, thin voice, cringing against Keith. "Daddy . . . !"

  "Shhh!" I warned, putting my forefinger before my lips. "You don't have to be afraid. I'm not a stranger, and I won't hurt you. You used to know me very well when you lived in the mountains. Do you remember the mountains called the Willies?"

  I swear to God Our Jane paled even more. She seemed on the verge of passing out.

  My emotions were in turmoil. I reeled with indecision. This was not the way I had anticipated they would react. They were supposed to be delighted to see me! "A long time ago you both had a mountain family, and every weekday we trudged to school and home again through the woods. We went to church on Sundays. We had chickens, ducks, geese, and sometimes a cow. And always lots of dogs and cats. It's me, your sister you used to call Hev-Lee! I just want to see you and hear you say you're happy."

  Our Jane's wail was loud, full of even greater panic!

  Before he stepped forward, Keith protectively shoved his sister behind him. "We don't know you," he said in a gruff boy's voice that tr
embled.

  Now it was my face that went pale. I felt his words as slaps, one two three four.

  "Make her go away!" loudly cried Our Jane. It was the worst moment of my life.

  To have yearned for them for years and years, and dreamed of finding and saving them, and now they didn't want me. "I'm going," I quickly said, backing toward the open door. "I have made a terrible mistake, and I'm sorry. I have never seen either one of you before!"

  I ran then, ran as fast as my high heels would allow, heading for the limo that waited, and once I had thrown myself on the back seat, I burst into tears. Our Jane and Keith had not lost the day Pa sold them. They had been winners in that game of chance.

  Fifteen Family Support

  . I COULDN'T BEAR TO SPEND ANOTHER HOUR IN THAT CITY, SO I collected my things from the hotel, and the limo took me to the airport, where I boarded the next plane to Atlanta. I felt desperate to cling to the past I'd always been in such a hurry to escape--for I didn't want to begin my new life with Troy only to find I'd lost my family. To Tom I would go and there find the welcome I longed for and the loving brother who'd promised always to be my true-blue brother.

  The telephone rang three, four, five times before a deep and familiar voice answered, and for one agonizing moment I felt Pa could see me through the telephone lines. I stood petrified in the phone booth.

  "I'd like to speak to Tom Casteel," I finally managed to whisper hoarsely, and it was such a strange voice, it gave me confidence that the man I hated would not recognize his firstborn, just as he'd never acknowledged my presence in his life with any warmth. I could almost see his Indian face as he hesitated, and for a heartbreaking moment A thought he might ask, "Is that you, Heaven?"