Second Child (5 page)

For a long moment neither of them said a word. Then Teri stirred on the couch and got uncertainly to her feet. Her mouth opened, and when at last she spoke, her voice was rough, as though she’d spent most of the day crying. “F-Father?”

Choking with emotion, Charles strode across the room in three quick steps and slipped his arms around the girl. She stiffened for a moment, but then seemed to relax, her face resting against his chest. He clumsily stroked her hair, then tipped her face up so he could look into it. “It’s all right, Teri,” he whispered. “I’m here, and you’re not alone, and I’m going to make everything better for you.” He held her close again, and though he couldn’t see her face as she pressed it once more against his chest, he imagined he could feel a tiny smile breaking through her grief.

Until this moment, he knew, she must have felt totally alone in the world.

Alone and terrified.

Melissa sat at the small vanity that stood between the two large windows of her bedroom, toying with the supper that Cora had brought her an hour ago. Try as she would, she had managed to eat no more than half of it, and even that was lying like a lead weight in the pit of her stomach. She stared disconsolately at the plate, wishing she could summon up the appetite to finish the food. Cora had made all her favorites for her birthday supper—a small steak cooked just the way she liked it, with corn on the cob (the white kind, which didn’t even seem to get caught in your teeth) and sugar snap beans she herself had helped Tag plant last spring in Cora’s little garden behind the garage. And she should have been hungry—she’d barely eaten anything all day.

She heard a footstep in the hall outside her room and quickly picked up her knife and fork, certain it was her mother coming to check on her. But when the door opened, it was only Cora, and Melissa felt herself relax. Then she flushed with guilt as the housekeeper eyed the half-filled plate. “I—I’m sorry, Cora,” she said. “I just couldn’t eat much tonight.”

“Now don’t you worry about it, Missy,” Cora replied, using the nickname that Phyllis Holloway had long ago forbidden. “You just eat what you want, and save a little room for this.” She set a thick wedge of chocolate cake on the vanity, nodding with satisfaction as she saw a smile break through Melissa’s gloom. “The way I look at it,” she went on, “what happened at the party’s just as well. None of those kids would have appreciated my cake half as much as you do, and this way we got a lot left over. Tomorrow, you and Tag can poke away at it all day long.”

Abandoning the remains of the steak, Melissa picked up her fork and plunged it into the moist bulk of the cake. But just as she was about to put the morsel into her mouth, her mother appeared in the doorway.

“Now, Melissa,” Phyllis said. “You know we don’t have dessert until we’ve finished our dinner.”

The brief flicker of eagerness died in Melissa’s eyes, and she obediently put her fork back on the plate. “I—I guess I’m too full, Cora,” she said, her eyes pleading with the housekeeper not to argue with her mother. “Maybe I’ll be able to eat some tomorrow.”

Cora, her own eyes carefully avoiding Phyllis, picked up the plates containing the remains of Melissa’s dinner and slipped out the door.

Without another word to her daughter, Phyllis followed the housekeeper out, firmly closing the door behind her.

Melissa, left alone once more, moved back to the bed, where she huddled, waiting for the inevitable.

She picked up a book, tried to read it, but found herself going over and over the same page, her eyes taking in the print, but her mind refusing to absorb the sense of the words. The minutes ticked by, and finally, when the sound of Cora’s voice calling out to Blackie signaled that the old woman was on her way back to her own house for the night, Melissa put the book aside. Five minutes later her bedroom door opened once more and her mother stepped inside. Wordlessly, Phyllis went to the windows and closed them. At last she turned to face her daughter.

“How dare you?” she asked, her voice quivering with the indignation she’d been nursing all afternoon. “Doesn’t anything matter to you at all? Do you have no appreciation for everything I try to do for you?”

Melissa shrank back on the bed, her knees drawn defensively up against her chest. Her eyes fixed on her mother, and in her mind she began whispering silently to D’Arcy.

What did I do, D’Arcy? What? I didn’t do anything to anyone. Why can’t Mama understand that they don’t like me?

“Your dress, Melissa?” Phyllis suddenly demanded. “Where is it?”

Melissa was silent for a split second, but as her mother took a step toward her, she forced herself to speak through her constricted throat. “The closet,” she whispered.

Her eyes narrowing, Phyllis turned and moved to the closet, hurling the door open with enough force to make it bang loudly against the wall. The pink organdy dress lay crumpled on the floor where it had lain since slipping off the hanger Melissa had hastily put it on earlier. Phyllis snatched it up, then turned to face her daughter. “Is this
the way you treat your clothes?” she demanded. She grasped the dress in both hands, then jerked hard. There was a tearing sound that made Melissa want to sob.

Then, as if brought back to life by the violence of Phyllis’s action, Melissa jumped off the bed and rushed toward her mother. “Don’t!” she cried. “Don’t tear my dress!” She reached for the dress but stopped as her mother’s hand snaked out and slapped her sharply across the cheek.

Melissa gasped, and staggered back toward the bed. As Phyllis followed her, the torn dress clutched in one hand while the other tightened into a fist, Melissa cowered back against the headboard.

Help me!
she silently cried out to the room that was empty except for herself and her mother.
Please, D’Arcy, help me. Don’t let her hit me again!
As her mother came closer, Melissa’s eyes darted around the room, as if searching for someplace to hide or for someone to come to her aid.

And then, in the corner of the room, she saw the familiar shadow. Barely visible at first, the diaphanous form quickly took on the shape of a girl and moved soundlessly toward the bed.

Stop her,
Melissa whispered silently to the strange form she alone could see.
Oh, please—tell her I didn’t do anything. Don’t let her punish me!
And then D’Arcy was beside her, whispering softly, directly, into her mind.

Sleep, Melissa. I’m here now, and I’ll take care of you. Just go to sleep …

As her mother came to the bedside, Melissa felt the soft warmth of D’Arcy’s arms slip around her, cradling her. She closed her eyes and listened only to the sound of D’Arcy’s musical voice, crooning to her. Her mother’s angry words died away, and then the familiar darkness of sleep began to close around her. She drifted away, leaving D’Arcy alone to absorb her mother’s wrath.

Phyllis’s hand closed on Melissa’s arm and jerked her upright. “Why shouldn’t I rip up the dress?” she demanded. “Did you pay for it? Do you even take care of it? Will you even wear it? Of course not!” She shook Melissa then, pushing her back onto the pillows. Methodically, she tore the dress into two pieces, then ripped it again, jerking
the sleeves from the shoulder seams and flinging them in Melissa’s face.

“I don’t know what to do with you!” she grated, glaring at her daughter. “Do you know how hard it was to get those children here today? Do you think they wanted to come? And how do you show your appreciation? You insult them, that’s how!”

Her right hand closed on Melissa’s shoulder again and jerked her around. Melissa flopped to the side but made no sound, nor did her arms move up to ward off her mother’s anger. Her eyes, wide open, stared straight ahead as Phyllis began shaking her violently, flinging her against the headboard.

Through it all Melissa remained silent, saying nothing, not even crying out at the sharp stabs of pain in her neck or the hard crack when her head struck the headboard.

And her eyes, still wide open, seemed to stare sightlessly straight ahead as her mother’s fury finally spent itself.

Panting with her own exertions, Phyllis released Melissa’s shoulders and let her drop back onto the bed. Then she picked up the torn remnants that had been the pink party dress and flung them once more toward Melissa. “By tomorrow,” she said, her voice low and dangerous, “I’ll expect the dress to be mended and back in the closet.”

Glowering darkly at her daughter, she turned and stalked from the room.

As soon as the door closed, Melissa rose from the bed and moved over to the vanity. Cocking her head in a faintly curious manner, she gazed into the mirror with blank and empty eyes. Her own image stared back at her, but in the reflection it seemed somehow different. Her face seemed thinner, the layer of fat peeled away to expose her bone structure, and her features had softened. Tentatively, she reached up to touch her hair, pushing it back and away from her face, then let her fingers caress her stinging ears, still sore from the blows they had received from her mother. At last, turning from the mirror, she picked up the pieces of the dress and moved to the door. Switching off the lights in her room, she stepped out into the darkness of the hall. She paused, listening, but the house was silent now.

Carrying the ruined dress with her, she moved down
the long hallway until she came to the steep flight of stairs that led to the attic. Once more she paused, then went on, carefully climbing the stairs until she came to the closed door that led to the attic itself.

She slipped inside and closed the door behind her. The attic was almost pitch-dark, lit only by a pale glow of moonlight that penetrated the small dormer windows in the roof. But Melissa, her eyes never wavering, moved easily through the gloom, threading her way through the piles of boxes, the ancient steamer trunks, and the old furniture that had been consigned to the attic over the years.

Unconscious of her surroundings, she didn’t pause as she trod the attic floor, finally coming to a small room tucked beneath the sloping roof. Inside there was a worn sofa and a chest of drawers. On a small table in front of the sofa there was an oil lamp, and Melissa, putting the tatters of the dress on the sofa for a moment, struck a match and carefully lit the lamp.

The tiny room glowed with a soft orange light.

She moved to the dresser, and from the bottom drawer took an old wooden box filled with an assortment of needles, thread, thimbles, and pins. Carrying the box with her, she returned to the sofa, sat down, and opened the box. Carefully, she chose a shade of thread that nearly matched the dress.

Pulling off a length of thread, she expertly slid its end through the eye of a needle, then began to work.

Her fingers moving quickly, she began to reset the right sleeve into the body of the dress. The needle flashed up and down, each stitch tiny and perfectly even.

Oblivious to her surroundings, she worked steadily and silently in the flickering light of the oil lamp.

The hours passed, but her fingers never tired, and her arms never ached from holding the material.

For it was not truly Melissa who worked through those endless hours. Not Melissa, but some other child, who sewed steadily in the silence of the night until the first rays of sun began to creep up out of the sea. Then, her work completed, she allowed herself to sleep.

Cora Peterson woke promptly at five-thirty the next morning, just as she had nearly every day of her life. She
dressed, then made her bed, glancing uneasily out her bedroom window every now and then, looking across the yard and up at the closed windows of Melissa’s room. She thought about breaking her normal routine and going directly to the main house to see if Melissa was all right.

Certainly, she hadn’t looked all right last night, when she’d been unable to finish her supper. The poor child’s nerves had been strung tight as a violin string, and her face had looked positively drawn. But perhaps she’d simply been tired, Cora thought, and forgotten to reopen her windows when she’d gone to bed. After all, there hadn’t been any trouble at all so far this summer, and so the housekeeper decided not to worry about it.

She finished making her bed, and rapped sharply on Tag’s door before going downstairs to fix their breakfast. Of course, it would be a lot easier for her to make their breakfasts in the big kitchen of the main house, but the second Mrs. Holloway—she still thought of Phyllis that way, even after all these years—had her rules, and one was that the staff cooked for themselves.

“The staff,” Cora snorted to herself as she began scrambling half a dozen eggs. Just like there were a lot of footmen and maids, and maybe even a butler around. Well, that had been a couple of generations back, and even Cora, at seventy-three, could barely remember those days. Now it was nothing more than a weekly cleaning crew coming in, with she herself making do from one day to the next. Still, she didn’t mind. After all, she’d been taking care of Charles Holloway since the day he was born, and she’d go on taking care of him and his children as long as she had a breath left in her.

Thinking about Charles brought back Polly, and for a moment Cora thought she might cry. But that wouldn’t do any good at all, and if there was one thing Cora prided herself on, it was her own practicality. No, she mustn’t dwell on Polly at all. Instead, she would start thinking about Teri coming home.

A bedroom would have to be chosen for her—maybe the nice sunny one at the northeast corner, which looked straight out over the cove.

She paused. What was she thinking of? It wasn’t a baby who was coming back to Secret Cove in a few days. It was
a teenage girl. A girl who would certainly want to decide for herself which room she wanted.

Her thoughts were interrupted as Tag, wearing only a pair of worn-out cutoff jeans, loped into the kitchen and sprawled on the chair. Cora eyed his clothes archly. “You planning to take another day off?” she asked.

Tag shook his head. “I’m gonna work in the vegetable garden. Mrs. Holloway won’t even see me.”

Cora grunted, and put a plate of food in front of her grandson, wondering, not for the first time, where his personality had come from. Certainly not from her son, who had spent almost every day of his childhood wiggling out of whatever task she assigned him. And not from his mother, either, who, as far as Cora had been able to tell, had spent most of her time in the tavern where Kirk Peterson had met her. The two of them had taken off while Tag was still an infant, leaving the baby with her “for a couple of weeks.” The weeks had stretched into months, and then years. So she’d raised Tag herself, and been pleased to find that her grandson was turning out exactly the way her son hadn’t. He worked hard, never seemed to get angry at anybody, and regarded the world with a sunny disposition that Cora thought he must have invented himself, since he hadn’t gotten it from anywhere else. Now, putting her own plate on the table, she glanced again at his disreputable cutoffs. “Well, if she tells you to change into pants and a shirt, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”