© 2002 by Ashleen Woods AislinnDragon@aol.com http://www.oocities.org/Sonya_Harris_13/VCfanfiction.html
STORY LAST UPDATED ON 13/06/2002
This story mentions characters from the Foxworth series.
PROLOGUE
I am writing this out of necessity. It's not really for me; I could have lived my whole life without telling this to everyone. I am selfish, conceded, narcissistic, or so I have been told. Ian reminds me daily not to listen to what others say. He is a pillar of strength in a world that is always about to tumble down upon us. I am thankful for that in the least. I must say that it isn't difficult for me to put these words down, not as it had been for Catherine those many years ago. It seems like almost centuries ago, but who am I to say? I am writing this as a clear and present warning to anyone out there that might just consider for one moment that money is more important than family. It is for those who do believe that their fantasies can become realities, and all they'd have to do is play God with one person's life. Maybe Mother would have been more careful, maybe not. That is not for me to decide, as I am only one person, and I never was good at judging character. I just have to put this into writing to warn anyone who thinks that they can get away with murder just because they are rich.
Money may be able to buy off law enforcement, politicians, lawyers, yes. But it cannot buy back a wasted childhood, and it cannot buy off the winds of fate that blow though everyone's doors. And no, it cannot buy off a person who has revenge drilled deep into their mind and soul…
I dedicate this to Delilah Isabella Foxworth-Barker.
CHAPTER ONE
I woke up early in the morning hours. The sun was a blur behind the frosted window. I shivered. It was winter. I knew that. The window was permanently blurred, I knew not why. But it was winter. There was a chill in the atmosphere of the room coming from the attic window that I had left open.
The door opened… there stood my mother. Her brilliant blue eyes shined with happiness, but I knew not why.
"Darling," she began, such charm in her voice. "Darling, it is Christmas Eve. The snow is so beautiful. The mountains are just blanketed with the snow." She smiled. "Now, don't look so gloomy. I've brought you something. Something special, just as you are so special to me." She left the room for but a moment, then returned with a small, silver tree. "See, I didn't forget you. I thought you might be mad, but you aren't now, are you?" She smiled again, hopefully. How could I be mad at her?
She was my mother.
And I loved her dearly.
"I also will soon have another surprise. And so many presents I will bring you, dear. I will have lots of those. Believe me. I must hurry now. I will return tomorrow morning." She kissed me on the cheek, then rushed out like she did so often. Every day. Every morning and every night, she would leave me. She left the fake tree and two strands of lights, blue lights that were still in their packaging. Left so that I could continue my yearly ritual of putting on the lights, and putting on all my ornaments. I had lots of ornaments. They were made of construction paper, glitter; buttons strings all sorts of little things. They were all blue. My favourite colour - blue. The colour that reflected my eyes, my feelings…
"Blue
Songs are like tattoos
You know I've been to sea before…"
The song I knew by heart. The album I possessed, and it was getting worn. The record player was in the attic, it was old, and had a crank. I forget exactly what that type of player was called, but I knew it was old. Not an original, but very old all the same.
I went into the attic quite often. There were lots to do, and lots to see. All of it, though it may look original, was completely and utterly fake. Remakes. Mother had told me time and time again of Uncle, I can't recall how great he was - great-great somehow, whom had Foxworth Hall rebuilt. He's the one who had built the church, which I could see from the far dormer windows. But the most peculiar thing he had redone was in a small schoolroom.
Inside, there were five desks. Replicas, all of them, with scratches. Names and dates, but that was not what I found so interesting. There was an old rocking horse, a wagon with three wheels and a broken handle, and one green scooter - also broken. That, too, I dismissed, for on one of the blackboards, and there were boards on three of the four walls, was a message. It was short, but made a great impact on me:
"We lived here
Christopher, Cory, Carrie and me
Now there are only three."
Many times I would study that board, but never did I figure out who wrote it. Never did I touch it. Never did I erase that lament. Never did I even write on the empty part of that board. It seemed so sacred to me that it would be sacrilege to wipe away those words, that message that somebody put up there for a reason. I didn't know what that reason was, but I knew it would be wrong to remove those words. Why? I wondered who "me" was often, and why he or she specified that only three survived. I have lived in the attic ever since I could remember… at least, since I was five. I was resistant at first, but really, it wasn't so bad. Mother came to visit every morning, early, and every evening. And she still does to that Christmas day. When I was young, she would keep the door to the closet locked, so I didn't know of the attic until I was at least ten. Even then, I was told to never enter it unless she was with me. I was far too young for playing alone in such a massive, such a dangerous attic. And it was huge.
I obeyed my mother.
I loved my mother.
I was ordered to love my mother.
And to honour her…
It was no secret as of to why I lived in that room and the attic. Mother had always told me that Daddy wasn't to know about me. In fact, Mother wasn't supposed to have had me at all, but she said she had no choice - she wasn't about to give me up for adoption, for she had so longed for a girl. So she said I would be safe from Daddy in the attic. No one could harm me there, not even him. And I'd have the whole attic to myself. There was a strange, faded snail that she had always pointed out, though I know not why. It looked a yellowish tan, so faded I couldn't tell what the colour was years ago, and there was also a pinkish-purplish worm. Strange.
Daily she told me that I was special, I was privileged. And I believed her.
She was my mother.
I loved my mother.
I had to honour my mother.
I was happy enough. Blue. I felt blue at times, lonely. Who doesn't? I am human, though many for that. Books she bought weekly. I've read so much it is overwhelming. I've read
The Lord of the Rings, Lord of the Flies and Moby Dick. I've read
The Indwelling, and numerous Stephen King books. Those books, all of them, were decades old. I have read books about children who lived the standard life - outside. I have read about children who had religion shoved down their throats, a classic King book I do recall for this instance. But Mother always told me that was fiction. And I always listened to my mother. And why would I not love God, and try to obey Him? I wanted to please Mother, but I wondered why she had to remind me day in day out that I was special? Like she was in denial…
I was special, I had to believe it, though my instinct said not to. Mother said I was, told me I was. Imagine, one room, and only one room. Even if there were just one person in it, it would seem small and cramped. I was special. She reassured me of that.
And I believed her.
Holidays were nice. She would bring me food that was so much better than my everyday meals. True, the food was cold, but that made no difference to me. It was something different, and cold food was normal for me. It was normal to eat a warm breakfast, cold lunch and a cold dinner. Sometimes she'd bring me warm food later in the evening, but usually not. Daddy couldn't know about me. No, he couldn't. So why was he never in the north wing? What kept him from taking Mother's key and finding me? I wondered, but never questioned. I never saw my father, and was normal. For all I knew, he could be dead, but she told me he wasn't. He had just been gone for five years, then came back, not wanting any children. That's what she told me, though it seemed so unbelievable. Yet, I chose to believe. Funny, isn't it? How one can force themselves to not question. What was that saying? There are none so blind as those who won't see. How true.
Eagerly that day I waited and waited for my surprise. I could hardly contain myself. What would it be? I thought time and time again. During the day, to unsuccessfully take my mind off of my surprise - my presents - I played card games of all sorts. I knew solitaire, the classic one, and Spider Solitaire. I built card houses, played rummy by myself, and poker (which I wasn't supposed to play.) I played all sorts of things by myself. I live a solitary life. I had no brothers or sisters. Just me, myself and I.
And my mother.
How I loved my mother.
That night, while I lay awake in one of the double sized beds that had always been in my room, I giggled to myself. What special gift would Mother bring her "special" girl? Was it the paint pallet I had been yearning for? Or would it be the gorgeous porcelain doll she had shown me? What was it?
I loved porcelain dolls. I had a fabulous dollhouse, locked in a huge glass case. The people looked so happy, it was unbelievable. They were too happy if you asked me. Nobody could be so cheery as those dolls. But I suppose it would be even worse if they were frowning. How I would have loved to open the case and play with them, create false happenings that would make them happy. But I couldn't. And it just wasn't as effective to pretend I was playing with them. So I was content to sit and stare at them when I had nothing else I wanted to do.
I guess I was at the perfect age. Fourteen - it was the time when a girl's dreams blossomed, a time for romances in my books, and adventures. I had many adventures of my own in the attic. I just loved the dresses that were created to look like real pre-Civil War clothes. I would put them on, even at such an old age, and pretend to be Scarlett, which I had read numerous times. I would prance around in my world, and act out outrageous plots. There were lots of mirrors for me to look at myself in, and one set of mirrors that had a bar attached to them. I wondered why someone would want a replica of that?
I also would open the windows and watch the sun and the birds in the summer. Where did they fly? Where was it that they needed to be at that was so important that they had to fly away every time I went onto the roof? I would always sunbathe in the warm summer sunshine, but that I would never tell Mother. In the winter, I would open one of the windows to allow fresh air to blow into my room from the attic - whose air was usually stuffy and full of dust. I would, of course, close the window when I was in the attic; it was cold enough with the windows closed and no insulation. It was almost like being outside, I would have to pile on the clothes and coats. Suddenly, I was pulled out of my dreams by a shuffling of feet, possibly a struggle. I could faintly hear someone reprimanding. What was it they were saying?
"What did you think you were doing up here?" Was that what I heard? No, couldn't be - could it? I jerked up in my bed. What was that? The noise continued. I jumped up and pulled on a robe.
Always, always be modest. My mother's reminder came to mind. Her voice echoed in through my head. I turned on the lamp, which was between the two beds. I could hear someone fumbling with the lock, and slowly the door came open. With it came Mother, who was dragging someone into the room with her. The person was so obviously unwilling I had to cover my ears when he called out for help.
Shut up! I thought. What an annoying yell. Why on earth was he here? Then I was curious.
Once inside, she quickly shut the door and locked it once more. I looked wide-eyed at the boy who had to be close to my age. I had never known a boy, at least not since I was three. I didn't remember him, but I saw that strange boy in the only picture I had of myself out of this room. The boy in the picture was older than me, but only by a year, I was sure of that. But I was never told anything more about him. And I was never told why he wasn't more familiar, or why he wasn't around anymore. And as usual, I never questioned my mother's reasoning. If I were meant to know then she would tell me.
Mother's eyes gleamed at me. "Look, India, look at what I have brought, somebody for you to talk to. Darling, you no longer will be alone, you are special; do you see?" I didn't have anything to say. I looked him over suspiciously. Why did she think I wanted to share her love? I was jealous from the start. This boy, despite his perfect looks (not one thing suspicious about his looks, perfect in every way), I wouldn't be won over, not by anyone's charms. "Doll, why don't you say something? Aren't you pleased?"
"Who the hell is she?" the boy asked. "And how did she get here?" I ignored him. Who was he to ask who I was? He was on my "territory"; what nerve to ask who I was! I looked to Mother.
"I guess." I looked at him again - blue eyes, blond hair. The same blue eyes… as Mother? I didn't like that thought. I didn't want a brother. I didn't want any siblings. Mother was only supposed to love me, not anybody else. Who wanted to share the one that was the most important in their life? I certainly didn't want to.
"How long will he be here?" I continued to ask. "The night? A week?" Mother's gleam dissipated, and her expression took on a rather depressed look. She glanced down at the floor, then back to me.
"Honey, I went through a lot of planning to get your half-brother here. Aren't you happy?" I smiled weakly, trying to fake a bit of happiness.
"You mean you actually thought up a plan to bring me here? I'm appalled!" he broke in. Mother ignored him, just as I had.
"Yes, Mother," I said.
She felt more self-assured, and beamed happily. "Good. He is to stay with you."
"You're sicker than I thought," he interrupted again.
"You be quiet," she said sternly. "If you had kept to your own concerns then maybe you would not be in this predicament." I looked at her. She had just said that she had brought him as a surprise, not because he wasn't keeping to his own affairs. He was a surprise, though; she was not lying about that. But he wasn't a pleasant surprise. Not pleasant at all.
I knew that she wouldn't lie to me, didn't I?
"I thought you were just a little shifty, Mother," and how he had pronounced 'Mother' would send shivers down one's spine, "but now I know that you are insane. Completely and utterly insane." She slapped him across his face - hard, too. There was a red mark where her hand had hit him.
"Honour thy Mother," she replied, then left the room, locking the door. Half-brother. My father didn't want me, but how was he my half brother? Was Daddy dead? Was he gone, left on a plane? Was he still married to Mother, or what? Mother had always led me to believe that she was still married to him, but how could that be when I had a half-brother, instead of a full-blooded brother. And if Father was dead, or run off, then shouldn't I be allowed to leave this room? I couldn't ask questions. I had to have faith in her, love and trust.
She was my mother, after all.
I gave him one last look, then ignored him once more. I picked up a book and began to read, while he stalked back and forth, looking at this and studying that.
"Where's the TV?"
I stared at him blankly. Yes, I knew what a television was, of course I knew. Boy, did I know! And how badly I wanted one, but I wasn't allowed to have one. I had read about TV, and how other children my age watched it like it was going out of style. But of course, I didn't have one, not if Mother didn't approve of it. She said too much of it was garbage, and that I should be using my head. If I watched TV, then I'd become like a zombie or "couch
potato". I couldn't watch anything bad. I could only have good influences.
"I don't have one. Why would I?" I was trying to act cool, calm.
He gave me the strangest look, pity, disbelief and wonder, all mixed into one expression. "Why would you
not have one should be the question," he retorted. I looked down and tried to keep from blushing. How embarrassing! I knew that I was going to get nowhere when trying to explain things to him, but I tried anyway.
"Are you crazy? The television makes you lazy. And Mother says that some of the things on it aren't even fit for most adults. Not that she is obsessed with morals and religion - not like my great-great-great - or something or other - uncle Joel. Or Malcolm, I don't even know what he is to me. I get so confused when she gets into explaining the past, which she doesn't do often. I just know that Malcolm was the one who inspired my other uncle, Uncle Bartholomew to rebuild Foxworth Hall. And that is why the attic is so spooky, because everything in it is exactly as it was said to be originally." I was proud of myself for remembering all of that information - whether it was useless or not. But just remembering what little Mother had told me sent shivers down my spine. I liked the attic, but sometimes I just couldn't get myself to go into it because I had thought too long, about how crazy my ancestors were. But not Mother, no. She wasn't crazy. And neither was I, for that matter, though I felt like I was at times.
He sighed, giving up. Instead, he changed the subject. "How long have you been imprisoned?" he asked me. Cautiously, I looked about, and I don't even know why.
"I have never been imprisoned. Now, if you mean how long have I lived here, all my life?" I looked at him hard. Had he actually been serious? I didn't believe that I had ever been imprisoned, not ever. "I had to be at least five when I came here. Maybe a little older, and maybe a tad bit younger. I'm not sure." And I wasn't at the time. His jaw almost dropped open.
"Do you mean to tell me that you've been here all your life?" He suddenly looked sceptical. "How can you expect me to believe that? Who are you, anyway?"
"I am India Foxworth. My mother is Delilah Foxworth. Of course, she is going by her maiden name, I think. And who might you be?"
"Ian. Ian Barker. But my mom is Delilah, too." He looked around the room. "I don't live with her, or I shouldn't be living here. I haven't known her since I was six. My father had divorced her, but none of it is your business."
"I never asked you." He was getting boring real fast. I turned back to my book.
"Don't you even want to run away? Don't you want to run around outside? Have you never had the urge to swim, or to ski, or something? You've never wanted to do any outside sports?" I rolled my eyes. Lord! What was I? A boy? I shook my head. I didn't want to do boy sports.
"Whatever for? I can do whatever exercising I wish to up in the attic. And Mother always tells me about the weather, the season, the year. I can look out of the dormer windows, too. And in the summer, I lie in the sun. So why should I want to ski, or swim, or run around?" Of course, I did want to run around. Who doesn't like to go outside? But I figured, why want something that you know you will never have? Besides, I know that Mother promised me that when I come of age, then
I could run outside and walk around all I want - when I'm an adult. I could wait. I knew I could. And to me, this boy made absolutely no sense at all to me. I seemed to make just as much sense to him as he did to me. "Let's just forget it," I said; once more I tried to read.
"What's in the attic?" he asked.
"Lots of stuff. Clothes, furniture, pianos, trunks. I play the piano sometimes, but I'm not very good."
"Do you like it here at all?"
"Yes, Mother always brings me all sorts of things I need. Soon she'll come back with today's food."
"Today's food?" he asked.
"Yes, of course. I can hardly go strolling down the stairs any time I want to, now, can I? And I have to eat sometime, not just in the early morning and in the late evening. So she brings me something to eat. Breakfast, lunch and supper. That's how it is. It's always been that way, and until I'm of age, it will continue to be that way."
"And when will that be?"
"Well, when do you think? When I'm eighte-" Just then, Mother entered the room, bearing that all too familiar picnic basket. I had timed my words perfectly. I knew she would enter any minute when I mentioned the daily food supply to him.
"Here is your food," Mother said, setting the basket down upon the table that I always ate on. I was to always keep things neat. I was to always keep things clean.
Ian glared at her. "I always wondered why you kept the north wing closed off. You had to hide your little secret, didn't you?"
She slapped him hard. "Now you listen here, I want you to knock it off right now. What kind of nonsense is that, anyway? Secret. What secret is there? You, as well as I, know that the whole story is in print. So how is it a secret? That is enough, I will be back tomorrow morning." She looked Ian sternly in the eyes. "There had better not be a word from your mouth or you will regret ever coming here."
"I already do regret coming here," he mumbled under his breath. Mother left, locking the door, as I was accustomed to.
I looked questioningly at him. "In print?" I asked.
"She's nuts" was his only reply.
"Take that back!" I flared. How dare he insult her? Twice now! He had called her crazy, as well. "How can you say that about your own mother?" I asked accusingly. "That's not right."
"Easily. And she's the one who is not right. I don't believe you actually think you're supposed to live you whole life out in one room, like a caged animal or something."
"Not my whole life. Only until I am eighteen. That's when I can live and be safe. You see, it is simple, if you look at it from my perspective. You're a boy."
"Yes…"
"Don't interrupt. I am a girl. Your dad, or my dad or whatever, never wanted a girl. So what do you think they would think of me? They being either my dad or your dad or both. However we're related. I'm really confused."
"That's 'cause she wants you to be confused. That way you'll never have a complete grip on reality, so you'll always be dependent on her."
I shook my head vigorously. "That's not true!"
"If you believe what she says, then you're nuts, too."
"I am not."
"There's no sense in arguing."
"Isn't there?"
He stopped and sighed. "I can tell there's not going to be any winning with you."
Suddenly Mother once again entered my room. "I almost forgot. Your surprise," she said, showing a huge box with shiny paper and a soft, silk bow. "Your present, darling. Your surprise. This is what I really wanted to bring you."
Eagerly, I took the box. "May I open it?" I asked. Ian rolled his eyes at my politeness. I shot him an annoyed look.
"Yes, my doll, you may." She had stressed 'doll'. I wondered why. Dismissing any questions I might have had, I carefully opened the present. Inside were a frilly white tutu, a white suit and dancing slippers. I had no idea why I would get such a gift as this from her; I had never mentioned ballet to her in any way, despite my love of Tchaikovsky. I did question this, because there really was nothing else to do or say about such an unexpected gift.
"Why did you buy me this?" I asked. I had no desire to become a ballerina. I couldn't care less about dancing in any way, shape or form - except maybe waltzes or what I considered "modern rock" music (to which I couldn't dance to, but I sure thought I could).
"Because, I want you to dance. You should have a hobby; it's healthy to have something that you can strive toward. Something you can always improve on. I want you to take up ballet and dance your worries away, dance away any and every trouble you may have. Dance them all away." She got the strangest look on her face. Sort of vague. Like she was living in a dream world - as if she was trying to mould me into something she wanted - something that I wouldn't be able to say no to. I shook my head, but only when she wasn't looking at me.
"Mother, where do I begin? I don't know the slightest thing about ballet - or even dancing!" I sounded a little desperate; I didn't know how I could do this right and still please her. I know I sounded overly despaired, but I couldn't help it.
"How can you come here day-in, day-out and expect this girl to know anything about ballet when you've never given her lessons? And when you haven't taken her to any classes? You are crazy," Ian said.
"I told you to keep to yourself. My daughter can and will become a famous dancer, and when-"
"And when they find out about her screwed-up childhood? Then they'll all laugh at her, and mock her."
Mother ignored him. " - you become famous, you will be happy that you danced when I told you to."
"Mom," Ian interrupted again. "Ballerinas who are famous have been dancing since they were five. She hasn't danced one step, how can she accomplish years of practice and become famous while she's still young? You're not being very realistic."
"Why do you care?" she said as a reply. He looked away. "I don't think you know what you're talking about, Ian. So please do not speak unless spoken to. And besides, you may not be able to, but I know India can." She was calm; not so much demanding as she was asking. He succumbed to her pleading eyes, saying to keep quiet about something. And what was that something?
"Dance, my doll," she said again. "Dance until you are the best. Dance until you can dance no more." She reached out to brush back my hair with her hand. "You are special." She walked over to Ian, who tried to pull away when she reached out to him. "You will love me, as I love you. Ian, sometime you will love me. I am your mother. You cannot refuse me for long, for I do love you, and I know you love me. Please, try your best to be accepting. You are here on your own account; admit it." She kissed his forehead and smoothed back his hair. I knew it!
He was trying to steal her love from me! I wouldn't have it! I looked away, then grabbed the box Mother had given me and went into the bathroom to put it on. I'd be damned if I didn't at least try to please her! At the bottom of the box was a book with a gorgeous ballerina on it. I picked it up and looked at the cover.
"I must try, for you, Mother." I sighed deeply, then pulled the robe back over my new ballet outfit and exited the bathroom. Mother was gone by then, and Ian was examining a new gold pocket watch that she had given to him. I almost turned green from jealousy. "She gave you that?" I asked almost in an outrage.
"Yeah." He smiled smugly, as if to rub it in. "Why have you got that robe on over your tutu?" he asked.
"Always be modest," I retorted, and headed for the closet door. I didn't care how cold it'd be: I would warm up soon enough.
"You must be nuts. What is not modest about all that frilly stuff, anyway? And why should I care what you look like? You're my half-sister. What's the big deal?" I thought for a moment about that. He was right. I was related to him by blood, so why should I bother being modest? It's not like we would ever even think about doing anything - not that I knew what that was at the time, other than what I'd read in books. Mother never talked too much about that sort of thing. Nobody did.
But, having him win the argument would not be a good start, and so I quickly came up with another excuse for having my robe on.
"It's cold in the attic. The robe will keep me warm until I've exercised enough to be warm with out it." I opened the door, allowing a gust of cold air to blow through. I shivered a little, then picked up a flashlight I kept near the door on a small stand. With the book in hand, I began my assent up the narrow stairway.
Toward the barre I travelled, picking up an old vitriol on the way, and carrying it with me. After carefully setting the old thing down, I began to sift through my many stacks of albums. I pulled out my favourite Joni Mitchell album, and a double album set of Tchaikovsky songs. For sure, there was
Swan Lake, Sleeping Beauty, The Nutcracker and the 1812
Overture. But I didn't put the classical music on first. I wound up the player, and put the "Blue" album on the turntable.
"I am on a lonely road and I am
Travelling, travelling, travelling…
Looking for something,
What can it be?"
I closed my eyes, then got up to shut the window. I had left it open by accident, and a small pile of snow now lay on the window ledge. I touched the cold flurries and watched them sparkle and melt on my hand. Sighing, I shut the window and got down to work.
The ballet book was so dryly written that twice I almost fell asleep. And the way it was worded was so confusing! I had not the slightest idea what being
en pointe was! Of course, now I do, but at the time I was too naïve (or just plain dull-witted) to know what it was or how to do one.
Suddenly, my thoughts were interrupted. "You haven't even started yet?" Ian asked.
I looked up. "Most people read instructions first," I retorted.
"And how would you know what everybody else does? Whom have you talked to recently?" I glared hatefully at him. Why would he say such a thing? He didn't even know me. And how would he know whom I have and haven't seen, even though the only person I've seen is my mother. And my grandmother - but she was not a pleasant sight…
CHAPTER TWO
For some reason, my grandmother hated me. She felt the same way about Mother, though it was less obvious. She didn't hate us nearly as much as my grandfather did, though. And for what reason? I really didn't know. Mother said that they really had no reason to hate me, but Grandmother said that it was because Mother married her cousin. So why was any of this my fault? Why would anybody blame me?
Really, my grandmother wasn't mean. She was just - how do I put this? Disapproving. She showed her dislike for me openly; yet never hit me. Grandfather on the other hand hated me. He was so disgusted he would not even come to visit me. He refused to have anything to do with me, and if it was not for the fact that the family fortune was in his wife's name (due to the fact that it was her father who had inherited Foxworth Hall), he wouldn't even let me live in Foxworth Hall, or eat food bought with money from the Foxworth funds, and stocks (which were still bringing in money from being invested daily).
I looked down. "I know because Mother told me, and Grandmother criticises when I act before thoroughly examining directions." I could hear her stern voice even now, repeating: "I wish you'd learn from your mistakes. Always, always look before you leap. Read directions think before you act, not while acting."
Ian smiled. "Hey, I didn't mean to sound so harsh. I only meant that maybe you should stretch first. You know, most ballerinas are quite flexible, but that's only because they exercise first and have done so for years. Before you jump into twirling about, shouldn't you practice getting nimble for a week or two? Stretch your leg and arm muscles, otherwise you'll pull something." I stared in awe at him. How did he know so much about ballet? Sure, stretching was only common sense, but
I could tell by his confidence that he knew much more than he chose to say.
"But I should read this anyway, shouldn't I? Because before I start I should at least know what I'm doing - have a little background on the moves. Study what I should know." By then the song playing was one of my favourites -
"Carey".
"What the heck are you listening to?" he asked me. I grabbed the record sleeve and handed it to him. "My God! This does date back. Do you know this was released in the nineteen-sixties? That was years ago! I'm not talking just forty years; I'm talking much more than that. Do you even know what year it is now?" he asked.
"Yes, of course I know what year it is," I answered heatedly. Golly! How dumb did he think I was? I glared at him. "Why can't I like old music?"
"This is not old music. Old doesn't begin to describe it. Now prehistoric… that might touch home base." I frowned.
"But I bet you like classical." He nodded. "And it's much older than this. Music can withstand the trials of time. Create music that everyone treasures and you have immortality. You are immortal."
He blinked, then smiled with understanding. "Maybe I've underestimated you. Being naïve doesn't mean you're totally idiotic. And I'm not saying that in a bad way. But I do refuse to say that you're intelligent until I see some substantial proof." His expression became serious. "Respect must be earned. And it's not easily earned. Learn that, and when you're finally free… you'll have something you can use in the real world." He turned and left the attic, leaving me confused and curious. Grandmother's words came to my mind:
Curiosity killed the cat.
I smiled to myself.
Ah, yes, but satisfaction brought him back.
I bent down and changed the record. Swan Lake - so relaxing. I sat down and began stretching - the right leg, the left leg. By the time I had finished practicing, my legs ached terribly. And even then, I only quit because I had not eaten my breakfast, and ten o'clock was drawing ever so near. I heard my stomach grumble.
Ian had come back up and was looking through some old books that were in the schoolroom. They were reproductions of the originals - and not quite as fragile as one might think.
One of my favourite books that I had found so many years ago in the old attic schoolroom was about Lily and her prince, Raymond. I dreamed that one day I could find a fairly world - that I would witness the wonderful feeling and magic of being in love. The magic that was produced by that love. Someday, I would be the one to find where the purple grass grows. Someday…
"Have you eaten yet?" he asked me.
I was rubbing my aching legs and - having taken off the awkward tutu - was now getting cold. I grabbed my robe and answered. "No, I'm going down right now to eat, though."
He followed my lead down the stairway. "Do you have a microwave anywhere?" he asked when we reached the bottom of the stairs.
I wrinkled my nose. "Microwave? Heavens no! On the last Friday of every month people come in here to clean, so I can't have a microwave. That would be too hard to move in and out of the attic."
"Couldn't you keep it in there? In the attic?" He pointed towards the attic and I shook my head.
"No, the smell of food would linger and the maids would wonder why. Besides, there isn't a plug-in up there. That's why there are so many battery-operated lights up in there. And oil lamps. But the fire in the lamps is dangerous. That's why I hang them from the high rafters with wire. That way, the wire, unlike rope, won't burn. The lamp can't get knocked over, and the handle of the lamps is long enough that the heat from the fire doesn't affect the temperature of the wire. I try to be very cautious of fires. Mother also has an escape plan - if I had to use it. I keep a rope next to every set of windows in the attic."
"And what about that window?" he asked, walking over to it. "Someone has it nailed shut, so how would you get a rope out of this one?" I laughed aloud.
"What's so funny?"
"The window can easily be broken. And there's rope under the bed, too."
He nodded, fully understanding the concept now. "I still don't feel safe, but it's a good plan." He looked thoughtful. "If a fire did start, and you survived, what would your dad think? I mean, he's not supposed to know about you, right?"
"I don't really know. That has never crossed my mind before." I looked away and mumbled to myself. "I will have to bring that up with Mother." I got out the food and separated what should be eaten at that part of the day. "Wait a minute, how did you know Daddy isn't supposed to know about me?" I asked as he began to hurriedly eat. I never ate fast; it wasn't in good taste. I made a mental note to myself - never marry a pig.
He stopped and looked up. Before he could answer, the door flew open, and in stepped my grandmother. Really, she didn't ever come in to see me, to get to know me, or to show affection. She looked me up and then down, then moved her eyes to Ian. She frowned a bit, but proceeded to speak. "Did you remember to thank God before beginning?" she asked. Not harshly, just reminding me.
She knew I had not, so I didn't bother to lie. "No, I forgot to. I'm very sorry." I averted my eyes from hers.
"Don't forget to say Grace next time." She pointed to Ian. "You are now in my home. Not your mother's, but mine. I will expect you to follow my rules, not your mother's. I can be strict when a particular situation calls for it. Don't take me lightly. In the past, I have tolerated you, and I have loved you. Don't think that just because of that you have an upper hand. From this day forward, you are equal with your sister. You will get no privileges. No advantages. So be forewarned." I could see that she loved him more than she loved me - if she even loved me at all. Her eyes practically shined with love for him; though I could also tell, she was now more than ever trying to hide this affection.
Mother had always hinted that when Grandma was little, her uncle Bart, whom I have mentioned before as my great-great-uncle, had befriended his great-uncle Joel, and that Joel had tried to convince Grandma and her brother that they were devil's issue - or something like that. There was not serious hatred in Grandma for me, but she was religious like her uncle Bartholomew. Mother said that he straightened out in the end, whenever the end was. I didn't know. But oh, how I wanted to know! I wanted to know all about my ancestors and all their dark secrets of the past! I wanted to know more about my family history; I wanted to find out why Uncle Joel would want to make my grandmother and uncle feel inferior. I never knew my uncle Darren, but I often dreamed that someday I would. How I had wished I were old enough to leave the attic so I could do some real searching. I would look throughout the whole house for clues to the past! If only…
Ian obviously looked stressed. I could tell that he really loved our grandmother, and to be rejected in such a formal way had to be horrible for him. I knew that she didn't like me much - never, not even at the beginning, even if her eyes did try to tell another story. Yes, she looked like she could love me, but she was forcing herself to hate me. Why? Was it because my grandfather hated me? Or were there other reasons? It didn't matter much to me anymore. I was used to it by now; the wound was still fresh for him.
I was snapped out of my thoughts by Grandmother's projecting voice. "I want you two to look at me - in the eyes." She waited for our attention, then continued.
"Several times in the Foxworths' past, family members have married other relatives. There is no pattern that I could find, so I am trying to take more precautions this time."
She raised an eyebrow almost suspiciously, looking particularly at me. "Mainly with you," she pronounced. "Incest is not accepted in society, and it is not accepted in the Bible. I am not saying that either of you are evil, but should you continue this unusual trend our family has begun so many years ago, then I will completely turn my heart away from both of you and not allow you in this house, for such terrible sins are not to be permitted underneath this roof ever again. If you believe that you should have separate rooms, I am sorry. I cannot afford any more rooms, or I would place you in separate ones. But the maids, as was the case long before you two were even a thought conceived in your mother's mind, this same problem occurred. Therefore, in my own way, I too am continuing the curse."
She straightened her back and looked aside to the painting on the wall. They each depicted Hell in one way or another. These she frowned deeply upon, but never removed. She shook her head at them, but didn't take them down. Why not?
She said one more thing. "Don't turn you back on God. Don't be sinful. And don't put your mother upon a pedestal. She has flaws that I dare not say, and that you dare never think. If you do place her high in your minds, then you will someday regret it."
She walked out of the room, silence following the sound of the door locking. I looked down at the floor. Incest in the family? I wonder whom… And what did she mean by "this" time? I quickly finished my food, trying to keep from blushing about my grandmother's words. I would never want to marry my half-brother! That was wrong, that was - well, gosh! That was just plain disgusting!
I changed into some clothes. Surely Grandmother didn't disapprove of my ballet outfit. Was it inappropriate? I proceeded to grab a coat and went upstairs into the attic after I had finished getting dressed. I didn't want to think about what Grandmother had said. I didn't want to think about what my ancestors had done. It was just that - something someone else had done, not me. It wasn't my fault - and it surely wasn't something I wanted to continue. I did wonder why she looked at me as if I was the one who was going to promote it in the end. I promised myself that day that I'd never even consider my brother in that way. I couldn't - I wouldn't.
Would I?
The attic was still as cold as ever. It would be until at least the beginning of March. I looked through a photo album with pictures that would be considered old now, but would have been new when it was placed in the album. Two girls and two boys. It wasn't a photograph, because it had a picture of a ghost or something else hovering above the four children. I could tell that it had been torn from something because the left edge of it was ridged as though it had been carefully separated from something made of stiff paper. A poster? A book? What did it mean? And why would it be in this photo album? I sighed; my head was swarming with questions. Would any of them ever be answered?
There was also a picture of a blond man. Oh, how old this one looked! On the back in scrawled fancy handwriting was the name Christopher Garland Foxworth. He looked just the slightest bit like the illustrated picture of the oldest boy on the previous page. But most of all, the eyes looked like Momma's, like mine, like Grandmother's, and even like Ian's.
Why do pictures hold so much mystery? Why did I come up here to look at these when I want to forget about all this? Further still, there were pictures of my grandmother and her brother - her twin - when they were young. And there was a picture of my great-something-or-other-Bartholomew Foxworth, all dressed up in his preaching clothes and standing next to his adopted sister Cindy, from the back of the picture. Yes, these were things I knew, small titbits that Momma would give to me every so often when I buttered her up and put her in a good mood. Once I had thought that they were actually husband and wife, but Momma quickly told me the truth and told me to never, never say that around Grandmother. She seemed to have a special fondness toward Uncle Bart, and so I kept my mouth shut tight about that…
I felt a hand on my shoulder and nearly jumped. "Hey, it's just me," Ian said, looking over my shoulder at the pictures.
"Lord's nightgown! You nearly scared me out of my skin. You do sneak around, don't you?"
He smiled devilishly. "What can I say? If you do something well, go with it." He concentrated once more on the pictures. "That's Grandma when she was little, isn't it?"
I nodded. She and Uncle Darren were so young, so innocent looking. Who knew that she, a little cherub then, would look so beautiful, and yet still so rock hard now? I glanced back at Ian. "This would have been some time in the nineties, would it not have been?"
"Dunno. Probably."
"And what do you think of this?" I asked, flipping back to the first picture of the four children. Ian took it slowly from me then removed the picture from the album.
"I'm not sure. Where did you get this from?" He flipped it over and looked at the back. All that was there was a blank yellow side that should have been white, but age had turned its colour. "It's old."
"I don't know. I found it right there, with the other pictures, in an unlocked trunk."
His eyes scanned the room for the trunk I spoke of. "Where?" he asked.
"Over there," I said, getting up to show him.
"If this is what I think it is…" he trailed off.
"What?"
"Never mind. What all was in there?"
"Just ballet clothes - lots of them. They've been used, too. Lots of them have runs in them, and any feathers are torn up and missing pieces." I stopped short.
"Have you ever met Uncle Darren?" I asked curiously.
His expression changed from interest to deep thought. "Once. But it was a long time ago; I was just a kid. He's long dead from cancer now. Too bad, what with all the research housed at the Christopher Sheffield Memorial Cancer Research Centre started by our great-whatever-uncle Bart. He's someone I've never met, but I think he's still alive. He dedicated it to his dad who he had hated forever. I'm not sure why; no one really knows the details, and if they do, they keep their mouths shut about it. I'm not sure if our great-uncle Jory is alive or not. He got in an accident and was crippled, but I've heard nothing of him from my dad. Could be because he and Mom divorced, who knows."
"How do you know so much about our family?"
"Dad tells me. Or told me." He shot a bitter look down the narrow stairway, where Mother could have been, but wasn't. "He knows a lot about the
Foxworths. That's why he married Mom, for the money. And she was available. I'm not sure why she married him… she didn't love him, I don't think."
"Wait, if your dad married my mom, and we have two different dads, then obviously your dad and mom divorced."
He nodded. "Good deduction, Watson."
"Oh, hush. Let me finish. So my mom later married my dad, and she says he still lives here. So have you seen him? I don't think he knows of me. Don't think… well, I have no idea what Mother has told him, or what she tells me. I'm so confused I've even forgotten why she wants me up here. I don't really care anymore.
But have you seen him? Do you know what he looks like? I've never seen him."
He looked down, a bit of disappointment in his eyes. "I'm sorry, I've never seen your dad. I don't even know who he is." He looked up, directly in my eyes. "Do you realise he doesn't even live here? I don't know what she's told you, but he's not here. Never was that I know of. I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you, but you're up here for no reason."
I stood up, and took a step away from him. "What are you saying? He's not here? What do you mean? Are you saying that Mother is lying to me, has always been lying to me?" I flared the questions at him, one after another.
Shocked, he moved toward me. "I didn't mean to say that. All I'm saying is that in all the times I have visited Mom, I've never seen him. The only man in this house is Grandpa, and I don't think he knows of you, either. I didn't even know, and I'd visited plenty of times. There's no one here but servants, cooks and the family. That's it."
I looked deeper into his eyes to see if he was telling the truth. The eyes never lie, no matter how hard a person tries. No, he wasn't lying. So why would Mother tell me Daddy was here, and I couldn't leave? Did I dare ask her? Lose faith in her?
Was Mother lying?
More importantly, why?
Sighing, I turned toward the window. Maybe I did want to run around outside. Maybe I was just fooling myself to please Mother, ignoring the innate urge to take long walks in the woods, or swim in the ocean. Why did I do all this just to please her? The answer was simple.
She was my mother.
Finally, I replied. "I believe you." I turned my gaze away from him, outside the window. Grey. Grey. And blue. Blue… laced with white, frosted snowflakes, holding onto each other for dear life, virtually swearing not to let go. If only people were more like that…
I was beginning to question my mother. It was the first step in my mental transformation. Ian entering my life would shape and change many new and old opinions that I had about my life, and about my mother.
And it was far from the last step. Maybe I would see the world with my own eyes. Maybe, while I was still young.
CHAPTER THREE
It was only a week after Ian had moved in. Mother had brought so many gifts that night, and hot food, that I just couldn't build up the nerve to ask her any of the many questions I wanted to. I couldn't let her know my true feelings, my suspicions. Ian was still resistant to loving Momma, but I could see him weakening. He was coming around to her charm, and Momma could charm anyone, she could win anyone over. Her radiant blue eyes could rip a person's heart apart in seconds flat, and have them begging for forgiveness for any little thing, even if she'd been the one who had insulted them. Of course, I had never witnessed this, and I doubt she could do that to Grandmother, but she was a different story entirely. Other than her, I was just sure Mother could hold power over anyone. Yes, she charmed all… until they saw her mad. Maybe that's why Ian's dad divorced her. At least, I think he divorced her. Hmm… I should ask.
I forced myself to be content and stay in the attic to paint. Mother had bought me expensive paints - brand name Bob Ross oils, and canvas that you have to fit and staple yourself. It occupied my time, time that I had plenty of to waste. I figured it had to be better to live in a false world where the only security I had was the faith I had in my mother, and the fact that I was going to be out of here soon. Soon… only a few more years. Heck, I had already been here for such a long time, what possible damage could it do to be here just a few more years?
But the more I tried to lose myself in my painting, the worse the questions nagged at my brain. I attempted to dance, but got nothing from that, due to Ian's persistence, trying to convince me that I should be trying to find a way to escape. Or be thinking of a place I could go to escape. I wondered what kept him here.
He had a place to go, didn't he? What was keeping him here with me? In this so-called "Hell". And anyway, why did he care so much? He didn't know me, but still he insisted that I demand my "freedom". It didn't matter to me, did it? No, I was meant to be here, I thought. But my thoughts were confused now more than ever, and I was beginning to lose any identity I had previously had. I was changing, and whether or not it was for the better or not, I'll never know.
Did my freedom mean his freedom? Or was there something deeper? Did he actually want to help me? Or was it just his guilty conscience that wouldn't let him leave me here in my so-called "prison"? So many questions…
Never any answers.
Mother had brought Ian many things, too. Besides the gold pocket watch she had given him on Christmas morning, he now possessed a gold ring, much like a class ring, with his name etched on the inside of the band. The top had an eagle with spread wings with diamonds in its talons. Tennis shoes, jeans and a few shirts, just a few other things she got him. Still, she hadn't won his love - but she was chipping away at his stubbornness. Day after day, he was making less and less smart comments; a feeble acceptance of circumstances, I suppose. Slowly, he was beginning to tolerate her cooing, her soft smiles, in spite of her obvious keeping him against his will. He was taking his situation more seriously, and arguing with Mother would not help him get his way. But why had Mother wanted him up here to begin with, anyway? That's what I wanted to do. As much as I loved her, she seemed to constantly be in a dream world, so much that often times she'd call me another girl's name. This always puzzled me, but I would respectfully correct her, then ignore the fact that it even happened.
But yes, I noticed his hatred fading away, and again, his weary acceptance of what was happening. And still I was immaturely jealous of sharing her love with another; even worse, my own half-brother that I hadn't even known existed! How dare he just pop up and take away all the attention and love I was supposed to be receiving? Yes, I was childishly selfish, thinking only of myself, and the attention I should have been getting. But on the other hand, look at my circumstances. I was alone. I was the only person who lived in the attic for years; it was only natural for me to be jealous when the only person who showed me any love and affection now had another to pay attention to. Of course I was mad, what else would a spoiled child be? Spoiled, I suppose in the sense that I had everything any girl could possibly ever want to own. Everything but the real trees outside, and fresh air to breathe. But no, I couldn't let those nasty thoughts that Ian influenced to enter my mind. No, I wouldn't. He was an outsider, and I couldn't accept him, could I? I asked too many questions, yes I know I did, but I needed answers. To my dismay, there were none. At least, not immediately.
It was a dreary January morning. Ian had now been with me for probably two weeks. I wasn't sure if he was counting down to his birthday or not, but Mother sure was making a big deal about it. "Darling, you just wait. On February twenty-third you will be so surprised. I'm having a big cake baked for you. I know I'm no good at cooking, but I do plan on helping. And when we get it up here, we'll put the candles and write your name in icing and it will be wonderful. You'll see. I have other things to give you as well. You'll be the happiest boy alive."
"Are you letting me out?" he asked, plainly, already knowing the answer, but wanting to torture himself by asking again.
Mother's face fell, and she looked slowly down. "I thought you would like it here. You're with me all the time now, and I thought you'd love it." She stood up.
"No, I'm afraid you're not leaving yet. It's not healthy to dwell on one thing so much; you should find a hobby." She brightened up again. "And I know just the thing! I'll bring you something for you to do. A good, healthy hobby. You two be good now, okay?" She left like a breeze, shutting and locking that damned door behind her again. I sighed and went upstairs. I felt like painting. Ian stayed on the bed where he was reading.
Tiny flakes dropped past the window swiftly. I was concentrating on the window. Snow still lay upon it, seeming to blend in mysteriously with the glass itself. That was about all I could see from this angle, but still I stood and studied the lines of frost and ice. Carefully, I applied a few strokes of grey. The snow was a dirty white from sitting on the ledge, and seemed to be edged with the faintest trim of blue. And grey. Lots of grey.
Ian came up behind me, then laughed sarcastically. "Here with her all the time. What a joke. And look what she gave me to do." He held out a model airplane kit. "How old does she think I am?"
"Some men do that. Just for a hobby. Not to fly the planes around." I squinted and made another thin line.
Ian leaned over my shoulder to look at the painting. "Blue, red, black and grey. Lovely. So happy and bright," he jested.
I looked back. "Well, that's what I see. But there's no red. No red at all."
"Yeah, I know. It's in a song. An old song. You've probably heard it and liked it."
"'Fraid not, never heard of it. Sorry."
"Well, you like Bob Dylan?" I nodded in reply, then turned back to my painting. "I don't listen to him, but I figured you would. I prefer modern music. Do you ever listen?"
"Nope. I don't have a radio. Mother never gives me any to listen to, either. I don't even have a CD player. Just the old phonograph."
"Don't tell me you can't have a small radio that you can pick up and put in the attic. A battery-operated one, at that." He paused and before I could answer, he replied. "No, wait, it's unholy to listen to modern music." Sometimes his sarcasm got on my nerves.
"No, I just don't think I'd like it, anyway. And besides - I've never asked Momma for a radio, so why would she have got me one?"
"Why did she get me this?" he asked, shaking the model box. I suppressed a smile, and quickly looked away to deeply gaze at the crisp design of frost that had spread over the window. It reminded me of the window downstairs - only not permanent. Spring would come along - soon, hopefully - and melt away the patterns on the window.
Only a few more long, drowsy months, I told myself. Just a few more months of cold, snow, frost and grey. And deep blues, grey-blues. I had colours for every season. Green and bright blue for spring; yellow, deep green and a lighter blue for summer; orange, brown, pale blue for autumn. And grey-blue, white and dark grey for winter. And how slow the winter seemed to pass.
"That song wasn't by Bob Dylan, just about him, I think," Ian mumbled, then walked away. I glanced back at him stalking over to one of the couches, pulling out his book, and sitting down to read some more. I glanced at the title:
War and Peace. Hmm… so he was interested in something other than complaining. I hadn't even dreamed, or planned on tackling such a book. And yet here I was, thinking about how thick and boring that book probably was, when I had read
Gone with the Wind twice. He would find that boring.
I calmly dipped my brush into another colour, and continued painting. The day was slowly crawling by, slower than the winter was, and if the sun had been out at all, it would have been just afternoon. The sun would have been tilting toward the west, just between the monstrous Blue Ridge Mountains.
Incomplete
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