Most of the time now, she called me Violet. I stopped trying to correct her even though I knew that behind me Emily smirked and shook her head.
"Mamma's very, very sick," I told Emily one afternoon at the beginning of my seventh month of pregnancy. "You've got to get Papa to send for the doctor. She must go to a hospital. She's wasting away, too."
Emily ignored me and continued to walk down the corridor, jangling her damnable ring of jailer keys.
"Don't you care about her?" I cried. I stopped in the hallway and Emily was forced to turn around. "She's your mother. Your real mother!" I shouted.
"Lower your voice," Emily said, stepping back. "Of course, I care about her," she replied coolly. "I pray for her every night and every morning. Sometimes, I go into her room and hold an hour-long prayer vigil at her bedside. Didn't you notice the candles?"
"But Emily, she needs real medical attention and soon," I pleaded. "We've got to send for the doctor right away."
"We can't send for the doctor, you fool," she snapped. "Papa and I have been telling everyone that Mamma is pregnant with your child. We can't do anything like that until after the baby is born. Now let's go back to your room before all this chatter attracts attention. Go on now."
"We can't go on with this," I said. "Mamma's health is too important. I won't take another step."
"What?"
"I want to see Papa," I said defiantly. "Go down and tell him to come up."
"If you don't go right back into your room, I won't come for you tomorrow," Emily threatened.
"Get Papa," I insisted, and folded my arms under my breasts. "I'm not moving an inch until you do."
Emily glared angrily at me and then turned and went downstairs. A short while later, Papa came up the stairway, his hair wild, his eyes bloodshot
"What is it?" he demanded. "What's going on?"
"Papa, Mamma is very, very sick. We can't pretend it is she who is pregnant any longer. You must send for the doctor right now," I insisted.
"God's teeth!" he said, his rage setting his face on fire. His eyes blazed down at me. "How dare you tell me what I should do. Get back into your room. Go on," he said. When I didn't move, he pushed me. I didn't doubt that he would have struck me if I had hesitated one more instant.
"But Mamma's very sick," I moaned. "Please, Papa. Please," I pleaded.
"I'll look after Georgia. You look after yourself," he said. "Now go on." He extended his arm and pointed his finger at my door. I went back slowly, but as soon as I stepped in, Emily slammed my door shut and locked it.
She didn't return that evening with my dinner, and when I became concerned and knocked on the locked door, she responded so quickly, I could only assumed she had been standing on the other side of the door all that time waiting for me to grow impatient and hungry.
"Papa says you are to go to bed without any supper tonight," she declared through the closed door. "That's your punishment for your misbehavior earlier.
"
"What misbehavior? Emily, I'm only concerned about Mamma. That's not misbehavior."
"Defiance is misbehavior. We have to watch over you very carefully and not permit the smallest indiscretion," Emily explained. "Once the devil has an opening, no matter how small, he worms his way into our souls. Now you have another soul forming within you and how he would like to get his claws into that one, too. Go to sleep," she snapped.
"But Emily . . . wait," I cried, hearing her footsteps move off. I pounded the door and shook the handle, but she didn't return. Now I truly felt like a prisoner in my own room, but what made it hurt the most was the realization that poor Mamma wasn't going to get the medical attention she so desperately needed. Once again, because of me, someone I loved would be hurt.
When Emily returned the next morning with my breakfast, she declared that she and Papa had made a new decision.
"Until this ordeal is ended, we both agree it would be best if you didn't visit Mamma," she said, placing my tray on the table.
"What? Why not? I must see Mamma. She wants to see me; it cheers her up," I cried.
"Cheers her up," Emily mimicked with disdain. "She doesn't even know who you are anymore. She thinks you're her long-dead younger sister and she doesn't remember from one visit to another anyway."
"But . . . it still makes her feel better. I don't care if she mixes me up with her sister. I . . ."
"Papa said it would be best if you didn't go until after you've given birth and I agree," she declared.