We hugged, and I went to bed, for the first time in a long time not hearing Christopher Dollanganger whispering beneath my pillow.
The following day was taken up with last-minute shopping for our dinner and Aunt Barbara and me getting the centerpiece and the decorations done. While we were away, Mrs. Osterhouse brought Dad the turkey he had ordered. He liked to brine it for at least one full day. He said it was the secret to perfect juicy turkey. Aunt Barbara confessed that she wasn’t much of a cook. She knew how good my father was and told me one of the main reasons she had come was for his dinner. While I drove about, she told me more stories about their youth.
Despite how I wanted to avoid it, it seemed impossible for me now to ever hear stories about brothers and sisters without thinking about Christopher and Cathy. She told me about how protective my father was of her, and I really could appreciate how much she admired him. Perhaps just as much as Cathy admired Christopher.
Years later, could they ever talk about what their lives were like at Foxworth? Did they have horrible flashbacks, wake up at night from images of their living nightmare? Could they comfort each other?
As if she knew what I was thinking, on the way home, Aunt Barbara suddenly said, “So tell me about this diary that was found at Foxworth.”
For a moment, I was too stunned to speak. Even though Aunt Barbara was my father’s sister, I never suspected that he had revealed it and discussed it with her. First, I was upset that he had done so without telling me, mainly because I believed it was something only he and I shared. I realized immediately how hypocritical being upset because of that was. After all, I had revealed it and was reading it with Kane. Second, I didn’t know what he had told her. Could it be that he knew I was reading it with Kane, and this was his way of telling me? Or he suspected it, and this was his way of finding out?
“I didn’t know Dad had told you about it,” I began. I glanced at her and turned back to watch where I was driving. We were almost home.
“He’s worried about your reading it,” she said.
“I know.”
“Have you finished reading it?”
“Not yet. I’ve been busy, and it’s not easy to take,” I said.
“Exactly why he’s worried about it,” she said.
“I can handle it.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt you can, but why bother now? You can’t do anything to change what happened. I remember how much it all disturbed your mother. Did you know that at one point, your parents were considering moving from Charlottesville?”
“No. I knew she didn’t want to talk about it or hear about it, but I didn’t know it had ever been that bad.”
“It was. A reporter from the New York Times once came to visit your mother. Of course, they were doing a Halloween special, and the story attracted an editor’s interest. When your mother refused to talk to him, he went around trying to dig up stuff and implied that your mother knew way more than she had ever revealed, even though she had little or nothing to do with the Foxworth family. That set off people she knew who were after her to confide in them. She lost friends over it.”
“Dad never told me about that.”
“I’m sure he didn’t tell you about the fight he got into, either,” she added, and I slowed down.
“What fight?”
“It didn’t last long. It was one of those one-punch deals. I forget exactly where they were, an event of some sort, and some woman made a nasty remark about your mother’s relationship to the mad Foxworth family. Your father said something to her, and then her husband came at him, and your father floored him. I just happened to talk to them that night. You weren’t even born yet,” she said. “It was around then that they toyed with moving away. The only reason I’m telling you about it is so you’ll understand why your father isn’t happy about your having that diary. You haven’t told anyone about it, have you?”
I felt my throat tighten up. It was as if my whole body was revolting against even the possibility of my lying, and yet I didn’t want to confess to my aunt Barbara and not to my father. That would add pain.
I shook my head.
“How much more do you have to read?”
“Not much.”
She was silent.
“Did my father ask you to tell me all this?”
“Sorta,” she said.
I pulled into the driveway and pressed the garage door opener.
“Let’s just forget about it,” she said. “I can see you’re old enough to deal with anything like that anyway, and I’ll tell him not to worry about you. Okay?”
I nodded.