I looked at Cathy quickly. A month? Stuck here? I gave her my best “keep it to yourself” look, and she didn’t start to rant and rave. Momma promised that in the meantime, she would have enough money to buy us things and bring them to us. Just before she left, she told us she was just as much a prisoner as we were, even worse, because she was under her father and mother’s close scrutiny.
“If I just breathe wrong, they’ll pounce.”
I knew her technique so well. She hoped that if we felt sorry for her, we wouldn’t feel as sorry for ourselves. I didn’t say anything. Momma was who she was, I thought. I loved her more than any child could love his mother, but I wasn’t blind to her weaknesses. I had to tolerate them. She needed me to be strong for her and for us all, now more than ever.
When we went to sleep that night, I persuaded Cathy to think only good thoughts. I teased her the way I used to and promised her that she would be the dancer she dreamed of being. I called her “Cathy Doll,” which was the stage name she hoped to have. It worked. Yes, I was like Momma. I knew how to get my sister to cooperate, and together, I thought we could handle the twins. I’d start by teaching them things they should be learning in school. We’d make it through this, I told myself. We’d give Momma the time she needed.
I thought they had all fallen asleep finally, but when I looked at Ca
thy, I saw her eyes were still wide open. She was thinking too hard.
“What?” I asked her. “What are you thinking so hard about?”
“We could have been born with horns and tails.”
“No, that’s ridiculous.”
She sat up and looked at me. “But this is why we all have blue eyes and golden hair.”
“There are scientific reasons for hair and eye color based on genetics, what you inherited. The scientific information isn’t perfect yet.” I said. I was tired now myself, very tired. Thinking can exhaust you, too.
“Still,” Cathy said, pushing hope into herself. “If we follow her rules and she thinks we’re good, she’ll treat us like she should treat her grandchildren.”
“Sure,” I said.
She lay down again. “It will be all right,” she whispered, more to herself than to me.
I looked at the locked door and then at my little brother and sister curled in fetal positions, dreaming good dreams the way children their age should.
I wanted to whisper, “It will be all right,” to myself, too.
But my lips wouldn’t let me.
Nor would my heart.
What a mistake reading Christopher’s diary before I went to sleep was becoming. I spent a night tossing and turning, picturing the four of them shut up in that mansion and believing that their mother would find a way to rescue them. Normally, Christopher was too smart to buy into his mother’s fantasies, but this time, lying right beside his intelligence was his hope. It was weaker, thinner, but he clung to it. What choice did he have? They were too young and needy to be able to do anything more for themselves. How would even three of them survive all this?
The more I thought about them, the more questions I had, and those questions were like tiny balls of hail pounding at my brain, making sleep almost impossible. I finally did fall asleep, but only a couple of hours before I had to get up, and thank goodness, this time, I had remembered to set my alarm.
I leaped out of my bed and nearly drowned myself in the shower to wake up. Usually, I gave myself plenty of time to dress, do my hair, and put on a little lipstick before I made an appearance. I was mumbling annoyance at myself all the way down the stairs.
“Heard your alarm go off,” my father said as soon as I set foot in the kitchen. He turned to give me a scornful look. “How late did you stay up?”
“Not that late,” I said, and dropped like a sack of potatoes into my chair.
He pulled the corners of his mouth in tightly and gave me his best look of disappointment. He had squeezed fresh oranges for my juice and was at the stove preparing French toast for both of us. The aroma helped me become more alert.
I stretched, drank my juice, and smiled. “You usually wait until the weekend to make that.”
“Had a craving and thought you might, too.”
“Maybe you should return to being a short-order cook, Dad. You’re so good at it.”
“Thank you, but no thank you. This Masterwood is not going to work for anyone else.”
“Open your own diner. I’ll be hostess, waitress. We’ll call it Burt’s Eats or something.”
“How I wish I was young enough to have fantasies again,” he said. “I wish I was eighteen again.” He brought me a plate of French toast. He put the maple syrup next to it and the jar of Mrs. Wheeler’s homemade jam. Mrs. Wheeler was a widow who lived five miles or so down the road and made jams, sour pickles and sour tomatoes, pies, and birthday cakes to supplement her income. My father was always drumming up more business for her. He said she reminded him of his mother, “who treated her kitchen the way most people treat a church.”