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! (178 page)

For the life of me I couldn’t feel confident as I ushered Melodie toward Jory’s closed door. He had a privacy fetish about keeping his door closed at all times so no one could see a former
premier danseur
lying helpless on his bed. I rapped once, then twice, our signal. “Jory, it’s only I, your mother.”

“Come in, Mom,” he called with more welcome than he’d used before. “Dad told me you’d be showing up any second. I hope you brought me a good book to read. I’ve finished—”

He broke off and stared as I shoved Melodie into his room first.

Because I’d called Chris to tell him my plans, Chris had helped Jory out of his hospital garment, and he was now wearing a blue silk pajama top. His hair was neatly brushed, his face was clean shaven and he’d had his first haircut since his accident. He looked better than he had since that horrible night.

He tried to smile. Hope flared in his eyes, so glad to see her again.

She stood where I’d pushed her and didn’t take another step toward his bed. This caused his tentative smile to freeze on his face as he tried to hide his hunger . . . his faltering flame of hope as his eyes tried to meet with hers. She refused to meet his eyes. Quickly the smile vanished as the flame in his eyes
sputtered, flickered, then went out. Dead eyes now. He turned his face toward the wall.

Instantly I stepped up behind Melodie, pushing her toward his bed, before I moved to see what she was revealing on her face. She stood there with her arms full of red roses and gifts, rooted to the floor and trembling like an aspen tree in a high wind. I gave her a sharp nudge. “Say something,” I whispered.

“Hi, Jory,” she said in a quivery, small voice, her eyes desperate. I shoved her closer to him. “I’ve brought you roses . . . ,” she added.

Still he kept his face to the wall.

Again I nudged her, thinking I should get out and leave them alone; yet I feared the minute I did she’d whirl about and run.

“I’m sorry I haven’t visited before,” she said in a stumbling way, inching bit by bit closer to his bed. “I’ve also brought you gifts . . . a few things your mother said you needed.”

He whipped his head about, his dark blue eyes full of smoldering rage and resentment. “And my mother forced you to come, right? Well, you don’t have to stay. You’ve delivered your roses and your gifts—now GET OUT!”

Melodie broke, dropping the roses onto his bed, her gifts to the floor. She cried out as she tried to take his hand, a hand he quickly snatched away. “I love you, Jory . . . and I’m sorry, so sorry . . .”

“I don’t doubt for a minute you are sorry!” he shouted. “So sorry to see all the glamour disappear in a flashing moment, and now you’re stuck with a crippled husband! Well, you’re not stuck, Melodie! You can file for divorce tomorrow and leave!”

Back toward the door, I was filled with pity for him—and for her. Gently I eased out but left the door ajar just enough to hear and see what went on. I was so afraid Melodie would take this chance to leave, or else she’d do something to kill
his desire to live . . . and if I could, I would do anything to stop her.

One by one Melodie picked up the fallen roses. She threw old, dying flowers into the trash basket, filled the vase with water in the small adjacent bath, then carefully arranged the red roses, so carefully, taking so long, as if just by doing something she could hold off destroying him. When she’d done that, she turned again to the bed and picked up the three gifts. “Don’t you want to open them?” she asked weakly.

“I don’t need anything,” he said flatly, again staring at the wall so she saw only the back of his curly head.

From somewhere she drew courage. “I think you’ll like what’s inside. I’ve heard you say many a time what you wanted . . .”

“All I ever wanted was to dance until I was forty,” he choked out. “Now that is over, and I don’t need a wife or a dance partner, I don’t need or want anything.”

She put the gifts on the bed and stood there wringing her pale, thin hands, her silent tears beginning to fall. “I love you, Jory,” she choked. “I want to do everything right, but I’m not brave like your mother and father, and that’s why I didn’t visit before. Your mother wanted me to say I was sick, unable to come, but I could have come. I stayed in that house and cried, hoping I could find the strength I needed to smile when I did eventually come. I’m coming apart with shame for being weak, for not doing all I should for you when you need me . . . and the longer I stayed away, the harder it became for me to show up. I feared you wouldn’t talk to me, wouldn’t look at me, and I’d do something stupid to make you hate me. I don’t want a divorce, Jory. I’m still your wife. Chris took me to an obstetrician yesterday, and our baby is progressing normally.”

Pausing, she tentatively reached to touch his arm, He jerked spasmodically, as if her hand burned, but he didn’t snatch his arm away—she snatched hers.

From where I stood in the hallway, I could see enough of Jory’s face to know he was crying and trying hard not to let Melodie know that. Tears were in my eyes, too, as I cringed there, feeling a sneaky intruder who had no right to watch and listen. Even so I couldn’t move away, when I’d moved from Julian’s side only to find him dead the next time I looked. Like father, like son, like father like son beat the unhappy tattoo of the drums of fear in my head.

Again she reached to touch him, this time his hair. “Don’t turn your face away, Jory. Look at me. Let me see that you don’t hate me for failing you when you needed me most. Shout at me, hit me, but don’t stop communicating. I’m tied up in knots. I can’t sleep at night, feeling I should have done something to keep you from dancing that role. I’ve always hated that particular ballet and didn’t want to tell you when you choreographed it and made it your signature.” She wiped at her tears, then sank to her knees by his bed and bowed her head onto his hand, which she’d managed to seize.

Her low voice barely reached my ears. “We can make a life together. You can teach me how. Wherever you lead, Jory, I’ll follow . . . just tell me that you want me to stay.”

Maybe because she was hiding her face now, with her tears wetting his hand beneath her cheek, he turned his head and looked at her with such tormented, tragic eyes. He cleared his throat before he spoke and dried his tears with the edge of the sheet.

“I don’t want you to stay if living with me is going to be a burden. You can always go back to New York and dance with other partners. Because I’m crippled doesn’t mean you have to be crippled too. You have your career, and all those years of dedicated work. So go, Mel, with my blessings . . . I don’t need you now.”

My heart cried out, knowing differently.

She looked up, her makeup ruined from so many tears. “How could I live with myself, Jory? I’ll stay. I’ll do my best to
make you a good wife.” She paused while I thought her timing was so wrong, so damned wrong. She gave him time to think that he didn’t need a wife, only a nurse and companion, and a substitute mother for his child.

I closed my eyes and began to pray.
God, let her find the right words.
Why isn’t she telling him the ballet meant nothing without him? Why didn’t she say his happiness counted more than anything else? Melodie, Melodie, say something to make him believe his handicap doesn’t matter, it’s the man he’ll always be that you love. But she said nothing like this.

She only opened his gifts for him, showed them to him, while he studied her face with bleaker and bleaker eyes.

He thanked her for the bestselling novel she’d brought (chosen by me); thanked her for the traveling shaving kit with the sterling silver razors—straight edged, electric, and a third kind, dual edged—with a silver-handled lathering brush and a round mirror that could be attached to anything with a suction cup guaranteed to work. There was also a fancy silver mug with soap, cologne, and aftershave lotion. Then finally she was opening the best gift, a huge mahogany box full of watercolors, a hobby that Chris enjoyed. He planned to teach Jory the technique of using watercolors as soon as he came home. Jory stared at the paintbox for the longest time without interest before he looked away. “You have good taste, Mel.”

Bowing her head, she nodded. “Is there anything else you need?”

“No. Just leave. I’m sleepy. It’s nice to see you again, but I’m tired.”

She backed off hesitatingly, while my heart cried for them both. So much in love before his accident, and all that passion had been washed away in the deluge of her shock and his humiliation.

I stepped into the room.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything, but I think Jory is tired, Melodie.” I smiled at both brightly. “You just wait until
you see what we’re planning for your return home. If painting doesn’t interest you now, it will later on. At home we’ve got other treasures waiting for you. You’re going to be thrilled, but I can’t tell you anything. It’s all supposed to be a huge welcome-back surprise.” I hurried to embrace him, which wasn’t easy to do when his body was so bulky and hard with the cast. I kissed his cheek, ruffled his hair, and squeezed his fingers. “It’s going to be all right, darling,” I whispered. “She has to learn to accept just like you do. She’s trying hard, and if she doesn’t say the words you want to hear, it’s because she’s too much in shock to think straight.”

Ironically he smiled. “Sure, Mom, sure. She loves me just as much as she did when I could walk and dance. Nothing has changed. Nothing important.”

Melodie was already out of his room and standing in the hall waiting, so she didn’t hear any of this. Over and over again she repeated on our way home, with Chris following in his car, “Oh, my God, my God . . . oh, my God . . . what are we going to do?”

“You did fine, Melodie, just fine. The next time you’ll do even better,” said I, brightly.

*  *  *

A week passed and Melodie did do better on her second visit, and even better on her third. Now she didn’t resist when I told her where she had to go. She knew it wouldn’t do her any good to resist.

Another day I sat in my dressing room before the long mirror, carefully applying mascara. Chris stepped into view with a look of pleasure on his face.

“I’ve got something great to tell you,” he started. “Last week I went to visit the university scientific staff and filled out an application for their cancer research team. They realize there, of course, that I’ve only been an amateur biochemist in my spare time. Nevertheless, for some reason, some of my
answers seemed to please them, and they have asked me to join their staff of scientists. Cathy, I’m thrilled to have something to do. Bart has agreed to allow us to stay on here as long as we like, or until he marries. I’ve talked to Jory, and he wants to be near us. His apartment in New York is so small. Here he’ll have wide hall and large rooms that will accommodate his wheelchair. Right now he says he’ll never use one, but he will change his mind when that cast comes off.”

Chris’s enthusiasm for the new job was contagious. I wanted to see him happy, with something to do to take his mind off Jory’s problems. I stood to head for the closet, but he pulled me down on his lap to polish off his story. Some of what he said I didn’t understand, for every so often he’d forgetfully slip into medical jargon, which was still Greek to me.

“Will you be happy, Chris? It’s important for you to do what you want with your life. Jory’s happiness is important as well, but I don’t want you staying on here if Bart is going to be insufferable. Be honest . . . can you tolerate Bart just to give Jory a wonderful place to live?”

“Catherine, my love, as long as you are here, then of course I’ll be happy. As for Bart, I’ve put up with him all these years, and I can take it for as long as need be. I know who is seeing Jory through this traumatic period. I may help a little, but it’s you who brings more sunshine with your gossipy chatter, your lilting manner, your armloads of gifts, and your consistent reassurances that Melodie will change. He considers every word you say as if it comes straight from God.”

“But you’ll be coming and going, and we won’t see much of you,” I moaned.

“Hey, take that look off your face. I’ll drive home every night and try to reach here before dark.” He went on to explain that he didn’t have to reach the university lab until ten, and that would give us plenty of time to breakfast together. There wouldn’t be emergency calls to take him away at night; he’d have every weekend off, a month off with pay, not that money
mattered to us. We’d take trips to conventions where I’d meet people with innovative ideas, the kind of creative people I enjoyed best.

On and on he extolled the virtues of his new enterprise, making me accept something he seemed to want very much. Still, I slept in his arms that night, fretting, wishing we’d never come to this house that held so many terrible memories and had caused so many tragedies.

Around midnight, unable to sleep, I got up to sit in our private sitting room that adjoined our bedroom, knitting what was supposed to end up a fluffy white baby bonnet. I almost felt like my mother as I furiously knitted on and on with such intensity I couldn’t put it down. Like her I could never let anything alone until it was finished.

A soft rapping sounded on the door, soon followed by Melodie’s request to come in. Delighted to have her visit, I answered, “Of course, come in. I’m glad you saw the light under my door. I was thinking about you and Jory while I knitted, and darn if I know how to stop once I start a project.”

Falteringly she came to perch on the love seat next to me; her very uncertainty immediately put me on guard. She glance at my knitting, looked away. “I need someone to talk to, Cathy, someone wise, like you.”

How pitiful and young she sounded, even younger than Cindy. I put down my knitting to turn and embrace her. “Cry, Melodie, go on. You have enough to cry about. I’ve been harsh with you, and I know that.”

Her head bowed down on my shoulder as she let go and sobbed with abandon.

“Help me, Cathy, please help me. I don’t know what to do. I keep thinking of Jory and how terrible he must feel. I think about me and how inadequate
I
feel. I’m glad you made me go to see him, thought I hated you for doing that at the time. Today when I went alone, he smiled as if that proved something to him. I know I’ve been childish and weak. Yet each
time I have to force myself to enter his room. I hate seeing him lying so still on that bed, moving nothing but his arms and head. I kiss him, hold his hand, but once I start to talk about important things, he turns his head toward the wall and refuses to respond. Cathy . . . you may think he’s learning to accept his disability, but I think he’s willing himself to die—and it’s my fault, my fault!”