Dollenganger 02 Petals On the Wind (2 page)

Like a fat mother hen, Henrietta Beech hustled us up the long brick walk to the front veranda and there I hesitated, staring at the house, the double black doors. lb the right a small sign read FOR PATIENTS ONLY. This was obviously a doctor who had offices in his own home. Our two suitcases were left back in the shade near the concrete sidewalk while I scanned the veranda to spy a man sleeping in a white wicker chair. Our good Samaritan approached him with a wide smile before she gently touched him on the arm, and when he still slept on she gestured for us to advance and speak for ourselves. Next she pointed to the house, and made signals to indicate she had to get inside and prepare a meal for us to eat.

I wished she'd stayed to introduce us, to explain why we were on his porch on Sunday. Even as Chris and I stole on cautious pussywillow feet toward him, even as I filled with fear I was sniffing the air filled with the scent of roses and feeling that I'd been here before and knew this place. This fresh air perfumed with roses was not, the kind of air I'd grown to expect as the kind deemed worthy for such as me. "It's Sunday, damn Sunday," I whispered to Chris, "and that doctor may not appreciate our being here."

"He's a doctor," said Chris, "and he's used to having his spare time robbed . . . but
you
can wake him up."

Slowly I approached. He was a large man wearing a pale gray suit with a white carnation in his buttonhole. His long legs were stretched out and lifted to the top of the balustrade. He looked rather elegant, even sprawled out as he was with his hands dangling over the arms of the chair. He appeared so comfortable it seemed a terrible pity to awaken him and put him back on duty.

"Are you Dr. Paul Sheffield?" asked Chris who had read the sign with the doctor's name. Carrie lay in his arms with her neck arched backwards, her eyes closed and her long golden hair waving in the soft, warm breezes. Reluctantly the doctor came awake. He stared at us long moments, as if disbelieving his eyes. I knew we looked strange in our many layers of clothing. He shook his head as if trying to focus his eyes, and such beautiful hazel eyes they were, bejeweled with flecks of blue, green and gold on soft brown. Those remarkable eyes drank me in, then swallowed me down. He appeared dazzled, slightly drunk, and much too sleepy to put on his customary professional mask that would keep him from darting his eyes from my face to my breasts, then to my legs before he scanned slowly upward. And again he was hypnotized by my face, my hair. It was hair that was far too long, I knew that, and it was clumsily cut on top, and too pale and fragile on the ends.

"Yes, of course. I'm Dr. Sheffield," he finally said, now turning his attention to Chris and Carrie. Surprisingly graceful and quick, he lifted his legs from the railing, rose to his feet to tower above us, ran long fingers through the mop of his dark hair, and then stepped closer to peer down into Carrie's small, white face. He parted her closed lids with forefinger and thumb and looked for a moment at whatever was revealed in that blue eye. "How long has this child been unconscious?"

"A few minutes," said Chris. He was almost a doctor himself, he'd studied so much while we were locked away upstairs. "Carrie threw up on the bus three times, then began to tremble and feel clammy. There was a lady on the bus named Henrietta Beech, and she brought us here to you."

The doctor nodded, then explained that Mrs. Beech was his housekeeper-cook. He then led us to the door for patients only, and into a section of the house with two small examination rooms and an office, all while apologizing for not having his usual nurse available. "Take off all Carrie's clothes but her underpants," he ordered me. While I set about doing this, Chris dashed back to the sidewalk to fetch our suitcases.

Full of a thousand anxieties, Chris and I backed up against a wall and watched as the doctor checked Carrie's blood pressure, her pulse, her temperature and listened to her heart, front and back. By this time Carrie had come around so he could request her to cough. All I could do was wonder why everything bad had happened to us. Why was fate so persistently against us? Were we as evil the grandmother had said? Did Carrie have to die too?

"Carrie," said Dr. Sheffield pleasantly after I had dressed her again, "we're going to leave you in this room for a while so you can rest.. ' He covered her with a thin blanket. "Now don't be afraid. We'll be right down the hall in my office. I know that table isn't too soft, but do try and sleep while I talk to your brother and sister."

She gazed at him with wide, dull eyes, not really caring if the table was hard or soft.
A few minutes later Dr. Sheffield was seated behind his big impressive desk with his elbows on the blotter pad, and that's when he began to speak earnestly and with some concern. "The two of you look embarrassed and ill-at-ease. Don't be afraid you're depriving me of Sunday fun and games, for I don't do much of that. I'm a widower, and Sunday for me is no different than any other day. . . ."
Ah, yes. He could say that, but he looked tired, as if he worked too many long hours. I perched uneasily on the soft brown leather sofa, close by Chris. The sunlight filtering through the windows fell directly on our faces while the doctor was in the shadows. My clothes felt damp and miserable, and suddenly I remembered why. Quickly I stood to unzip and remove my filthy outer skirt. I felt quite pleased to see the doctor start in surprise. Since he'd left the room when I undressed Carrie, he didn't realize that I had two dresses on underneath. When I sat again next to Chris, I wore only one dress of blue, princess styled, and it was flattering and unsoiled.
"Do you always wear more than one outfit on Sundays?" he asked.
"Only on the Sundays I run away," I said. "And we have only two suitcases and need to save room for the valuables we can hock later on when we have to." Chris nudged me sharply, mutely signaling I was revealing too much. But I knew about doctors, from
him
mostly. That doctor behind the desk could be trusted--it was in his eyes. We could tell him anything, everything.
"Sooo," he drawled, "you three are running away. And just what are you running from? Parents who offended you by denying you some privileges?"
Oh, if he only knew! "It's a long story, Doctor," said Chris, "and right now all we want to hear about is Carrie."
"Yes," he agreed, "you're right. So we'll talk about Carrie." All professional now, he continued, "I don't know who you are, or where you're from, or why you feel you have to run. But that little girl is very, very ill. If this weren't Sunday, I'd admit her to a hospital today for further tests I can't make here. I suggest you contact your parents immediately."
Just the words to make me panic!
"We're orphans," said Chris. "But don't worry about not being paid. We can pay our own way."
"It's good you have money," said the doctor. "You're going to need it." He swept long, observant looks over both of us, sizing us up. "Two weeks in a hospital should be sufficient to discover the factor in your sister's illness I can't quite put my finger on." And while we gasped, stunned that Carrie was
that
sick, he made an approximate guess as to the amount of money it would cost. Again we were stunned. Dear God! Our stolen cache of money wouldn't even pay for
one
week, much less two.
My eyes clashed with the appalled look in Chris's blue eyes. What would we do now? We couldn't pay that much.
The doctor easily read our situation. "Are you still orphans?" he asked softly.
"Yes, we're
still
orphans," stated Chris defiantly, then glanced hard at me to let me know I was to keep my trap shut. "Once you're an orphan you stay that way. Now, tell us what you suspect is wrong with our sister, and what you can do to make her well again."
"Hold up there young man. First you have to answer a few questions." His was a soft voice, but firm enough to let us know
he
was in command here. "First, what is your last name?"
"I am Christopher Dollanganger, and this is my sister, Catherine Leigh Dollanganger, and Carrie is eight years old, whether or not you believe it!"
"Why shouldn't I believe it?" the doctor asked mildly, when just a few minutes ago in the cubelike examination room, he'd shown shock to hear her age.
"We realize Carrie is very small for her age," said Chris defensively.
"Indeed she is small." He flicked his eyes to me when he said this, then to my brother, and leaned forward on his crossed arms in a friendly, confidential manner that made me tense in preparation. "Now look. Let's stop being suspicious of one another. I'm a doctor, and anything you confide to me will remain in my confidence.
"If you really want to help your sister, you can't sit there and make up lies. You have to give me the truth, or else you're wasting my time and risking Carrie's life."
We both sat silent, holding hands, our shoulders pressed one against one other. I felt Chris shudder, so I shuddered too. We were so scared, so damned scared to speak the full truth--for who would believe? We'd trusted those who were supposedly honorable before so how could we trust again? And yet, that man behind the desk. . . he looked so familiar, like I'd seen him before. "All right," he said, "if it's that difficult, let me ask more questions. Tell me what all three of you ate last."
Chris sighed, relieved. "Our last meal was breakfast very early this morning. We all ate the same thing, hot dogs with everything, french fries dipped in catsup, and then chocolate milkshakes. Carrie ate only a little of her meal. She's very picky about food under the best of circumstances. I'd say she's never really had a healthy appetite."
Frowning, the doctor noted this down. "And all three of you ate exactly the very same things for
breakfast?
And only Carrie was nauseated?"
"Right. Only Carrie."
"Is Carrie often nauseated?"
"Occasionally, not often."
"How occasionally?"
"Well . . ." said Chris slowly, "Carrie threw up twice last week, and about five times last month. It's worried me a lot; her attacks seem to be growing more violent as they come more often."
Oh, the evasive way Chris was telling about Carrie made me really furious! He would protect our mother even now, after all she'd done. Maybe it was my expression that betrayed Chris and made the doctor lean my way, as if he knew he'd hear a more complete story from me. "Look, you came to me for help, and I'm willing to do what I can, but you aren't giving me a fair chance if you don't give me all the facts. If Carrie hurts inside, I can't look inside to see where it is--she has to tell me, or you have to tell me. I need information to work with--full information. Already I know Carrie is malnourished,
underexercised and underdeveloped for her age. I see that all three of you have enlarged pupils. I see you are all pale, thin and weak looking. Nor can I understand why you hesitate about money when you wear watches that look quite expensive, and someone has chosen your clothes with taste and considerable cost-- though why they fit so poorly is beyond my
speculations. You sit there with gold and diamond watches, wearing rich clothes and shoddy sneakers, and tell me half-truths. So now I'm going to tell you a few
full truths!"
His voice grew stronger, more forceful. "I suspect your small sister is dangerously anemic. And because she is anemic she is susceptible to myriad infections. Her blood pressure is
dangerously low. And there is some elusive factor I can't put my finger on. So, tomorrow Carrie will be admitted to a hospital, whether or not you call your parents, and you can hock those wristwatches to pay for her life. Now . . . if we admit her to the hospital this evening, the tests can begin, early tomorrow morning."
"Do what you feel necessary," said Chris dully.
"Wait a minute!" I cried, jumping to my feet and moving swiftly to the doctor's desk. "My brother isn't telling you everything!" I threw Chris a hard glance over my shoulder, while he shot his fierce look to forbid me to reveal the whole truth. I thought bitterly,
don't worry, I'll protect our precious mother as much as I can!
I think Chris understood, for tears came to his eyes. Oh, how much that woman had done to hurt him, hurt all of us, and he could still cry for her sake. His tears put tears in my heart too, not for her, but for him, who'd loved her so well, and for me who loved
him
so well, and tears for all we'd shared and suffered. . . .
He nodded, as if saying okay, go ahead, and then I began to tell what must have seemed to the doctor an incredible tale. At first I could tell he thought I was lying, or at least exaerating. Why was that when every day the newspapers told terrible tales of what loving, caring parents did to their children?
". . . And so, after Daddy was in that fatal accident, Momma came and told us she was deeply in debt, and she had no way to earn a living for the five of us. She began writing letters to her parents in Virginia. At first they didn't reply, but then one day a letter came. She told us her parents lived in a fine, rich house in Virginia and were fabulously wealthy, but because she had married her half-uncle she'd been disinherited. Now we were going to lose everything we owned. We had to leave our bicycles in the garage, and she didn't even give us time to say good-bye to our friends, and that very evening we set off on a train headed for the Blue Ridge Mountains.
"We felt happy to be going to a fine, rich house, but not so happy about meeting a grandfather who sounded cruel. Our mother told us we'd have to hide away until she could win back his affections. Momma said
one
night only, or maybe two or three, then we could go downstairs and meet her father. He was dying of heart disease and never climbed the stairs so we were safe enough up there as long as we didn't make much noise. The grandmother gave us the attic to play in. It was huge--and dirty, and full of spiders, mice and insects. And that's where we played and tried to make the best of it until Momma won back her father's good will and we could go down and begin to enjoy living like rich children. But soon enough we found out that our grandfather was never going to forgive our mother for marrying his half-brother and we were going to remain 'Devil's issue.' We'd have to live up there until he was dead!"
I went on, despite the look of pained incredulity in the doctor's eyes. "And as if that weren't bad enough, being locked up in one room with our playground in the attic, we soon found out our grandmother hated us too! She gave us a long list of what we could do and what we couldn't do. We were never to look out of the front windows, or even open the heavy draperies to let in some light
"At first the meals the grandmother brought up each morning in a picnic hamper were rather good, but gradually they worsened to only sandwiches, potato salad and fried chicken. Never any desserts, for they would rot our teeth and we couldn't go to a dentist. Of course, when our birthdays came around, Momma would sneak us up ice cream and a bakery cake, and plenty of presents. Oh, you bet she bought us everything to make up for what she was doing to us--as if books and games and toys could ever make up for all we were losing--our health, our belief in ourselves. And, worst of all, we began to lose faith in
her!
"Another year came, and that summer Momma didn't even visit us at all! Then, in October she showed up again to tell us she'd married a second time and had spent the summer touring Europe on her honeymoon! I could have killed her! She could have told us, but she'd gone away and not said a word to explain! She brought us expensive gifts, clothes that didn't fit, and thought that made up for everything, when it didn't make up for
anything!
Finally I was able to convince Chris we should find a way to escape that house and forget about inheriting a fortune. He didn't want to go, because he thought that any day the grandfather might die, and he wanted to go to college, then medical school and become a doctor--like you."
"A doctor like me . . ." said Dr. Sheffield with a strange sigh. His eyes were soft with sympathy, and something darker too. "It's a strange story, Cathy, and hard to believe."
"Wait a minute!" I cried. "I haven't finished. I haven't told you the worst part! The grandfather did die, and he did write our mother into his will so she'd inherit his tremendous fortune--but he added a codicil that said she could never have children. If it were ever proven she'd given birth to children by her first husband, she'd have to forfeit everything she'd inherited and everything she'd bought with the money!"
I paused. I glanced at Chris who sat pale and weak looking, staring at me with hurt and pleading eyes. But he needn't have worried; I wasn't going to speak of Cory. I turned again to the doctor. "Now that mysterious, elusive factor you can't put your finger on--the thing wrong with Carrie that makes her throw up, and us too sometimes. It's really very simple. You see, once our mother knew she could never claim us and keep the fortune, she decided to get rid of us. The grandmother began to add sugared doughnuts to the basket. We ate them eagerly enough, not knowing that they were coated with arsenic.
And so I'd said it.
Poisoned doughnuts to sweeten our imprisoned days as we stole from our room by using the wooden key Chris had fashioned. Day by day dying for nine months while we sneaked into our mother's grand bedroom suite and took all the one- and five-dollar bills we could find. Almost a year we'd traversed those long, dim corridors, stealing into her room to take what money we could.
"In that one room, Doctor, we lived three years and four months and sixteen days."
When I'd concluded my long tale the doctor sat very quietly staring at me with compassion, shock, and concern. "So you see, Doctor," I said to finish, "you can't force us to go to the police and tell our story! They might throw the grandmother and our mother in jail, but we'd suffer too! Not only from the publicity, but also from being separated. They'd put us in foster homes, or make us wards of the court, and we've sworn to stay together, always!"
Chris was staring at the floor. He spoke without looking up. "Take care of our sister. Do whatever is needed to make her well again, and both Cathy and I will find a way to meet our obligations."
"Hold on, Chris," said the doctor in his slow, patient way. "You and Cathy have been fed arsenic too and will need to undergo many of the same tests I order for Carrie. Look at the two of you. You're thin, pale, weak. You need good food, rest and plenty of fresh air and sunshine. Maybe there is something I can do to help."
"You're a stranger to us, sir," Chris said respectfully, "and we don't expect or need anyone's charity or pity. Cathy and I are not that weak or sick. Carrie's the one most affected."
Full of indignation, I spun about to glare at Chris. We'd be fools to reject help from this kind man just so we could salvage some of our pride that had already gone down in defeat so many times before. What difference did one more time make?