Petals on the Wind (Dollanganger 2)

Wow! Godsent! I was more than half-won. I knew people could always find the motivation to justify what they wanted; well enough I knew that. Even so, tears filled my eyes as I looked at Chris questioningly. He met my look and shook his head in bewilderment, confused as to what I wanted. His hand gripped mine like iron while he spoke, still looking at me, not at Dr. Paul. "We're sorry for the loss of your wife and son, sir. But we can't replace them, and I don't know if we'd be doing right to burden you with the expense of three kids not your own." Then he added, looking the doctor squarely in the eyes. "And you should think about this too. You'll have one hell of a time finding another wife when you assume guardianship of us."

"I don't intend to marry again," he replied in a strange way. Then he went on with an abstract air, "Julia was the name of my wife, and my son was named Scotty. He was only three when he died."

"Oh," I breathed, "how terrible to lose a son so young, and your wife too." His obvious grief and remorse reached out and touched me; I was very in tune with those who grieved. "Did they die in an accident, a car accident like our father?"

"An accident," he said sharply, "but not in a car."

"Our father was only thirty-six when he was killed, and we were having a surprise birthday party, with a cake, presents . . . and he never came, only two state policemen. . . ."

"Yes, Cathy," he said softly, "you've told me. The adolescent years aren't easy for anyone, and to be young and on your own, without the proper education, with little money, no family, no friends--"

"We've got each other!" said Chris staunchly, so as to test him more. "So, we will never truly be alone."

Paul went on. "If you don't want me, and what I have to give you isn't enough, then go on to Florida with my blessings. Throw away all those long hours you studied, Chris, just when you're almost there. And you, Cathy, can forget your dream of being a prima ballerina. And don't you think for one moment that's going to be a healthy, happy life for Carrie. I'm not persuading you to stay, for you'll do what you want to and have to. So make up your minds--is it to be me and the chance to fulfill your aspirations, or is it to be the hard, unknown world?"

I sat there on the balustrade as close as possible to Chris, with my hand held in his. I wanted to stay. I wanted what the doctor could give to Chris, to say nothing of Carrie and myself.

The southern breezes kept blowing, caressing my cheek and whispering too convincingly that everything would work out right. I could hear Henny in the kitchen making fresh dough for the hot rolls we'd eat in the morning, made golden by dripping butter. Butter was one of the things denied us before, and the luxury Chris had missed most.

Everything here beguiled me, the air, the soft, warm glow in the doctor's eyes. Even the banging of Henny's pots and pans began to work magic, and my heart, so heavily burdened for so long, began to feel lighter. Maybe perfection did exist outside of fairy tales. Maybe we were good enough to walk upright and proud beneath God's blue sky; maybe we were not contaminated shoots grown from the wrong seed planted in the wrong soil.

And more than anything the doctor had said, or anything his sparkling eyes implied, I think it was the roses that still bloomed, though it was winter, that made me feel dizzy from the overwhelming sweetness of their perfume.

But it wasn't Chris and I who decided. It was Carrie. Suddenly she jumped up from the top step and went flying into the doctor's outstretched arms. She flung herself against him and wrapped her thin arms about his neck. " don't want to go! I love you, Dr. Paul!" she cried out, almost frantic. don't want no Florida and no circus! I don't want to go anywhere!" Then she was crying, letting out all her grief for Cory, withheld for so long. He picked her up and held her on his lap, and put kisses on her wet cheeks before he used his handkerchief to mop up the tears.

"I love you too, Carrie. I always wanted a little girl with blond curls and big blue eyes, just like yours." But he wasn't looking at Carrie. He was looking at me.

"And I wanna be here for Christmas," sobbed Carrie. "I've never seen Santa Claus, not once." Of course she had, years ago, when our parents took the twins to a department store and Daddy snapped a picture of the two of them on Santa's lap, but maybe she'd forgotten.

How could a stranger come so easily into our lives and give us love, when our own blood kin had sought to give us death?

Life's Second Chance

. Carrie decided. We stayed. Even if she hadn't decided, still we would have stayed. How could we not?

We tried to give Dr. Paul what money we had left. He refused. "You keep that money for yourselves. You worked hard to get it, didn't you? And you might as well know I've seen my attorney so he can fill out the petitions that will bring your mother to Clairmont. I know you believe she won't come, but you can never tell. If I'm so lucky as to win permanent custody, I'll give each of you a weekly allowance. No one can feel free and happy without some money in his pocket. Most of my colleagues give their teenage children five dollars a week. Three dollars should be enough for a girl Carrie's age." He planned to buy all our clothes and everything else we needed for school. We could only stare at him, amazed he'd be so generous--again.

A few days before Christmas he drove us to a shopping mall that was carpeted in red; the ceiling was a glass dome; throngs of people swarmed about as pop Christmas music played. It was like fairyland! I glowed; so did Carrie and Chris--and our doctor. His huge hand held Carrie's small one as Chris and I held on to each other. I saw him watching us, enjoying our wide-eyed stares. We were charmed by everything. Awed, impressed, very wanting, fearful too he would see and try to satisfy all our yearnings.

I turned in circles when we reached the department that sold clothes for teenage girls. Dazzled and bewildered by so much, I looked at that, and looked at this, and couldn't decide what I wanted when everything was so pretty and I'd never had the chance to shop for myself before. Chris laughed at my indecision. "Go on," he urged, "now that you have the chance to fit yourself perfectly, try on what you like." I knew what he was thinking, for it had been my mean way to complain that Momma never brought me anything that fitted right.

With great care I selected parsimoniously the outfits I thought suitable for school that would begin for us in January. And I needed a coat, real shoes, and a raincoat and hat and umbrella. Everything that kindhearted, generous man allowed me to buy made me feel guilty, as if we were taking advantage of him.

To reward me for my slowness and my reluctance to buy too much, Paul said impatiently, "For heaven's sake, Cathy, don't think we're going shopping like this every week. I want you to buy enough today to last you through the winter. Chris, while we finish up here, you dash on to the young men's section and begin picking out what you want. While you do that, Cathy and I can outfit Carrie with the clothes she needs."

I noticed that all the adolescent girls in the store were turning to stare at my brother as he made his way to the young men's department.

At last we were going to be normal kids. Then, when I felt tentatively secure, Came let out a howl to shatter crystal palaces in London! Her cries jolted the salespeople, startled the customers, and a lady bumped her baby-stroller into a dummy who went crashing down. The baby in the stroller added his screams to Carrie's!

Chris came on the run to see who was murdering his small sister. She stood, feet wide apart, head thrown back, with tears of frustration streaming her cheeks.

"Good God, what's wrong now?" asked Chris as our doctor looked dumbfounded.

Men--what did they know? Obviously Carrie was outraged by the pretty little pastel dresses brought out for her approval. Baby clothes--that's what. Even so, all were too large, and none were red or purple-- absolutely not Carrie's style at all! "Try the toddler department," suggested the heartless, haughty blonde with the beehive hair. She smiled graciously at our doctor who appeared embarrassed.

Carrie was eight! To even mention "toddler clothes" was insulting! She screwed her face into a puckered prune. "I can't wear toddler clothes to school!

" she wailed. She pressed her face against my thigh and hugged my legs. "Cathy, don't make me wear pink and blue baby dresses! Everybody will laugh! I know they will! I want purple, red--no baby colors!"