“Good. Maybe it’ll take your mind off some other things for a while.” He looked at me, at my blanket, at where my left hand was, as if he could see the diary through it. Then he nodded and walked out.
It occurred to me that perhaps this wasn’t only about my reading the diary. Perhaps my father worried more about me than my friends’ fathers worried about them, because he and I were the only ones in this immediate family now. Their fathers had someone else with whom to share the burden of worry. Just like Christopher had a greater weight placed on him, my father had that, too, when my mother died. And yet my father never was oppressive and controlling. He wasn’t obsessive about caring for me. I truly believed he trusted me more than the fathers of my friends trusted them.
My mother’s death hadn’t created any conflict between my father and me. It had made us more dependent on each other. I didn’t want to have to be older, more careful. Like Cathy, I wanted to enjoy being young, but because of how loving my father was, I couldn’t be rebellious and angry, careless and wasteful. I was even careful about being moody. I knew how sensitive my father was to my every expression of deep thought or any sharpness in my voice. I kept as much of it as I could submerged under a smile, but sometimes I felt like I might explode. Many times I witnessed my girlfriends whining or throwing a tantrum in front of their fathers and mothers. I couldn’t imagine doing that to my father.
None of my girlfriends did grocery shopping for their families. Only Lana ever mentioned cooking anything, and that was only under some duress. They weren’t spoiled so much as not relied on for anything really important. Oh, they had to take care of their things, keep their rooms clean and organized, and not let friends come over and mess up any part of their homes. They all had driver’s licenses, and most had either their own cars or their parents’ cars at their disposal. No one seemed to want for anything, and they all had whatever money was necessary for whatever they wanted to do.
I think the biggest difference between them and me now was that despite their possessions and privileges, they were still thought of as children. I was, too, of course, but it was different. My father and I had developed a more mature relationship. We truly respected each other.
The real reason for that, I believe, was that he showed me how vulnerable he was. I saw his pain. He was honest about it. We were equals that way, and because of that, our love for each other had grown stronger. I was confident that he was as terrified of losing me as I was of losing him. It was odd to think it, but what made us less lonely was knowing how lonely we both were and how much lonelier we could become.
I took the diary out from under the blanket and wondered if Christopher and Cathy would grow stronger or weaker together. Would their love for each other protect them all, or would their unhappiness eventually drive them apart? Christopher was smart enough to understand the dangers, but was Cathy? Did he want her to understand how vulnerable and tragic they had become? Probably not, but how long could he conceal it? And what would he do when the time came when he couldn’t lie to himself and to her anymore?
Dad was right, I thought, as I rose to get dressed. I had to take a holiday from all this. I was on an emotional merry-go-round. My head was spinning with thoughts and questions. Besides, I had to enjoy my day with Kane and my time with Uncle Tommy. I couldn’t do that if I didn’t give them my full attention. Dad was wise enough to suggest that, and yet, even after I had put the diary out of sight, I knew it wouldn’t leave me.
Not for a moment. It wasn’t that easy.
I hurried downstairs to breakfast and to prepare the picnic lunch. Afterward, I spent much more time than I dreamed I would deciding what to wear. I could look at my summer wardrobe, because it was going to be warmer than usual again, but I was always in a quandary about which color complimented me best. I couldn’t depend on my father’s opinion. In his eyes, every color looked good on me, and no matter how I wore my hair, it was perfect, too. I’d had limited experience with my mother, of course, but I was certain she would be more critical and helpful if she were alive.
There really wasn’t anyone who could substitute for her. I never trusted my girlfriends’ opinions about my clothes and my hair. Jealousy had a way of rearing its ugly head, even among dearly close friends. I had to confess to a little of it, too, that green-eyed envy. I would never admit it, especially if a boy made the accusation, but I did
believe it was natural to our sex to be at least a little jealous of one another. Even sisters might not be wholly truthful, particularly if they were close in age. That brought sibling rivalry in to add to our natural competition. You really couldn’t depend on saleswomen in department stores or boutique shops, either. They had another motivation for compliments and criticism: selling something more expensive to get a bigger commission.
I wondered if my girlfriends, who often complained about their mothers for one reason or another, knew how lucky they were to have someone with honest eyes to help them look and feel their best. Everyone takes so much for granted, I thought, until you lose some of it. Again, I imagined myself as Cathy. She was as motherless as I was, and as she grew older in that attic, she would have only her brother to tell her things and advise her, and he couldn’t be completely honest. He couldn’t tell her how much she was missing or how much better she would look and feel if they were free. He had to keep her calm so the twins would stay calm.
Despite my plan to be otherwise, I was so deep in thought about all this that I almost didn’t hear Kane at the front door, knocking and pushing the bell. I seemed to come up from under inky, dark water and rushed to greet him, apologizing so profusely he stood there with a dumb smile on his face.
“I want to be a part of whatever had you in such deep thought,” he said when I was finished.
Would you? I wondered, and I went about getting everything together for our picnic.
“Did you really have a good time last night?” Kane asked when we were on our way to the lake at Foxworth.
“Oh, very much.”
“Me, too.”
I saw the way he kept looking at me. “What?”
“You seem . . . distant. You wanted to do this today, right?”
“Oh, yes, Kane. I’m sorry if I seem distant.”
“Everything okay? I mean, I don’t mean to be nosy, but . . .”
“Everything’s fine. In fact, I’m excited. My uncle Tommy’s coming to visit us. He’s my father’s younger brother and lives in California. He’ll be here only one night, but I’m so looking forward to it.”
“That’s nice. Tell me about him,” he said, and I did. “Whoa. I hope you have that kind of enthusiasm if anyone asks you to tell them about me,” he commented when I had finished.
“We’ll see. You’re a story that’s just being started,” I said, and he laughed.
Ahead of us loomed the trees that lined the Foxworth property. They seemed to be sentinels standing guard over the memories. Could my father really rip down all the destruction and rebuild an entirely new house, driving the ghosts away? I knew it was going to be a great deal more than what he called “putting lipstick on a pig.” Whatever the design, the house would surely be totally different from Foxworth Hall. It would probably be something modern. And then there would be changes in the landscaping. Dad had already mentioned some things like a swimming pool, maybe a tennis court, and a much bigger driveway. No one who was old enough to remember the original Foxworth mansion or even the second one would think of it if they came to the new house.
“Any hints about what’s going to be replacing Foxworth?” Kane asked, as if he could read my thoughts.
“My father’s meeting with the architect and the owner today.”
“I bet it will be spectacular.”