Family Storms (43 page)

I
had no idea what Kiera would be like when she came home from the hospital. Mrs. March said that when her husband told Kiera I was going to remain with them, she wasn't upset.

“I wouldn't tell you she was overjoyed with the news,” Mrs. March told me, “but she looked relieved. Right now, that might simply be because she's not being blamed for something more. I don't know. I always had trouble understanding Kiera and expect I will continue to have trouble. I'll need your help.”

“We'll have to help each other with that,” I said, and she laughed.

I was moved back into Alena's suite. For me, it was like renewing an old friendship. I hadn't realized how much the suite and everything in it had become part of me. I shared it with the memory of Alena, but I felt it was more mine now, too.

My schoolwork improved considerably over the next
week. Mr. Denacio even took time out in instrumental class to have me demonstrate what real practice could do. What I enjoyed most was the expressions on the faces of my classmates. Why, they surely wondered, was I so buoyant and energetic, as well as happy, after all that had happened? They knew how much trouble Ricky and Kiera's other friends were in because of what had happened to her. Perhaps they were friendlier to me because they were hungry for more details. Once I had felt as if I had celebrity status because I was friends with seniors and did things with seniors. Now I had it because I was simply an exciting person to get to know.

Of course, I gave them little information, but that just made them more determined to talk to me, be with me, and invite me to their homes. It all made me feel much better about myself. Why, Lisa Dirk even told me I looked as if I was limping less and less.

On Friday, they brought Kiera home. She was still confined to bed rest. All of her meals were brought to her, which was nothing new to her, I guessed. When I arrived home, Mrs. March told me she was upstairs and getting better. She knew that because Kiera was complaining.

“However, I think she's still a bit stunned,” she said. “Dr. Kindle said psychological problems often follow such an event, so I wouldn't be upset about anything she might say or do right now.”

I knew she was trying to prepare me for anything Kiera might say or do to me, but I had a new sense of power and strength. I was no longer afraid of Kiera. Her friends had practically crawled underground. They were meek mice in
school now. Ricky's disposition remained unknown. If his parents hadn't had money and influence, he wouldn't even have been attending Pacifica. The few times I saw him, he said nothing to me, and I said nothing to him.

It was impossible to avoid seeing Kiera, so I thought it would be best if I simply went directly up to her suite. The door was open, and she was propped up on big pillows in her bed.

“How are you?” I asked.

She stared at me as if we had never met. “Terrible,” she finally replied. “They want me to stay in bed another three days or so. I haven't been able to wash my hair, put on any makeup, or anything. Look at what I look like.”

“Look at what you almost did,” I told her.

“Another goody two-shoes.” She looked away and then back at me. “Deidre called me in the hospital and told me what was going on with Ricky. I heard he told you things.”

“He did.”

“Are you happy now?”

“More than I was last week, yes,” I said.

She smirked. “It looks like I'm going to have to live with you.”

“Looks like it.”

“Why would you want to stay here after all you went through? They'd probably give you lots of money and place you in a comfortable new home.”

“Probably.”

“So?”

“I'm staying for Alena. I'm not
becoming
Alena,” I quickly added, “but I'm staying because of her. Besides, someone has to look after you.”

“Very funny.” She paused, her eyes narrowing a little.
Here it comes,
I thought. “I'm not going to say I'm sorry, if that's what you're waiting to hear.”

“That's all right. I can wait. Someday you will.”

“How did you get so arrogant?”

“I had a good teacher,” I said.

I saw her fighting a smile. “I don't want to like you,” she said defiantly.

“You will, eventually.”

“And I suppose you'll like me, is that it?”

“Maybe. Eventually.”

“Eventually, eventually. Everything's ‘eventually.'”

“Everything is. When my mother and I were living in the streets, I used to wonder if we'd ever get off them, get back into a home, into a life. If I asked her, she'd always say ‘soon.'
Soon
's a great word. It's full of promise and hope.”

“Is it?”

“Sure. Soon you'll get out of this bed, and soon you'll go to school. Soon you'll graduate and go to college, and soon you'll meet someone you can love, who can love you, and soon you'll get married and have a daughter maybe just like you, too.”

“Please. You sound like my mother now.”

“We all get to sound like our mothers.”

“She's not yours.”

“No, but she knows where to stand, when to smile, when to laugh and comfort me.”

“You're giving me a headache.”

“Okay.” I turned and started out.

“Hey.”

“What?”

“I don't like you yet, but I don't hate you anymore. Don't ask me why not. And don't say I hate myself more or anything stupid like that.”

“Okay.”

“They moved you back next door?”

“Yes.”

“Come back later, maybe eat in here. If you can stand it.”

“I think I can. I lived in the streets once, remember?”

Now she laughed.

I would eat with her, but before I did anything else, I asked Mrs. March for a favor, and she called Grover to bring the car around.

He drove me out to the cemetery where Mama was buried. It was one of those wonderful California late afternoons when the shadows from some scattered clouds were refreshing and the air cleaned out by the sea wind was sharp and fresh. When I entered the cemetery, the aroma of freshly cut grass surrounded me. It was a scent that spoke of life and renewal, even in a cemetery.

All week, I had felt guilty about being happy again. It was the old fear that by accepting the Marches' generosity and affection, I was betraying Mama. I was at the cemetery to ask for her forgiveness again, but I thought I would do it a different sort of way. When I reached her grave, I set down the case and took out the clarinet. Then I sat close to her tombstone and began to play.

And before I was finished, I was certain in my heart that wherever she was, she was smiling.

 

Pocket Star Books

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CLOUDBURST

V.C. Andrews
^®

Available in paperback
November 2011
from Pocket Star Books

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Cloudburst
…

Prologue

J
ust like there are all kinds of noise in our lives, there are all kinds of silence as well.

Mrs. Caro, my foster parents' cook, is from Ballyvaughan, a small coastal village in County Clare, Ireland, and she says, “When the sea is calm, it's like the world is holdin' its breath, darlin'. It's so peaceful, your heart seems to go into a slumber and you feel so content. To me, that's the sweetest silence.”

I knew that silence, too. When my mother and I had slept on the beach or when we had sat quietly and just stared out at the ocean, I had heard the same silence, and Mrs. Caro is right—it is sweet, because it brings a feeling of peace and even hope to your heart.

Another silence is the silence just before sleep, when you put the lights out. Even in my foster parents', the Marches, home, this enormous mansion in Pacific Palisades, California, with all the servants moving about and the army of workers on the property, it can get quiet
enough at night to hear your own thoughts or hear the door in your mind begin to open to permit your dreams and nightmares to tiptoe into your head.

In this deep silence before I do fall asleep, my memories of my mother and me living homeless in Santa Monica often come rushing back into my mind. They are very unpleasant memories, but try as hard as I can, I cannot forget them or keep them out. It's like trying to stop the rain from soaking you with a single umbrella.

Years after my father deserted us and depression and defeat had driven my mother to alcoholism, we literally slept in a very large carton on the beach and sold my mother's calligraphy and my handmade lanyards to tourists on the boardwalk. That little money barely kept us alive, until the fateful rainy night when the girl who is my foster parents' daughter, Kiera March, high on Ecstasy, drove through a red light and struck my mother and me as we were crossing the Pacific Coast highway. Mama was killed instantly, and I was injured seriously enough to spend weeks in the hospital recuperating from a serious femur fracture.

Oh, how silent the world was for me then.

There was the silence of tragedy, but also the silence that comes with great anger and rage, when you hate the sound of your own voice and especially the sound of other voices, none of which can really make you feel any better, and many of which were empty, mechanical voices without sincere compassion, voices with no particular interest in you or your welfare. You become just part of their routine, another daily statistic to be included in some report.

There is probably no deeper silence than the silence
that follows the loss of someone you love. I had suffered this silence, so I understood Jordan March's desperate search for someone new to love after she had lost her younger daughter Alena to acute Leukemia. From what I could see, because she and her husband, Donald, had favored Alena so much, their older daughter Kiera's resentment and jealousy fueled her rebellious and practically suicidal behavior, whether it took the shape of drugs, sex and alcohol, or simply driving fast and recklessly.

Partly out of a sense of guilt and partly out of a desire to have me take Alena's place in her heart, Jordan March surprised me with an idea one day at the hospital. She offered to take me into her home and give me all the things a wealthy family could give me. I of course hesitated. How could I go and live beside Kiera March, the girl whose wild and thoughtless behavior was responsible for my mother's death? Wouldn't that be the gravest insult against my own mother? Not that I cared about them then, but what would other people think of me?

My private-duty nurse, Jackie Knee, a nurse Jordan March personally arranged and paid for, told me to accept Jordan March's offer and, in fact, take everything I could from the wealthy Marches. Maybe that was my initial reason for entering their home and assuming many of Alena's things, besides living in her bedroom suite. Gradually, though, I found myself feeling sorry for Mr. and Mrs. March, and eventually, even feeling sorry for Kiera.

Did I forgive her or did I always harbor hate and a desire for vengeance deep down inside me? It took me a very long time to find that answer. Goodness knows that I had many
more reasons to hate Kiera after I was brought to her home. Naturally, she resented my presence. In the beginning, even her father resented me. I understood why. After all, I was a constant reminder to him about what a terrible thing Kiera had done, and a parent, especially one as proud and egotistical as Donald March, couldn't help but hate feeling responsible, and hate everyone and everything that made him do so.

Gradually, as Jordan March tried harder and harder to turn me into her lost daughter Alena, Kiera had another reason to despise me. Once again, it seemed as though she was becoming second best, at least as far as her mother was concerned, and I wasn't even blood related! I should have known she wouldn't stand by and let this happen to her again, that she would do anything and everything she could to drive me from her home.