Christopher's Diary: Secrets of Foxworth by V. C. Andrews
“Ha,” I said. “So much for her Bible study. Adam wasn’t the one who listened to the devil in Paradise. It was Eve. She obviously never read Shakespeare’s ‘Macbeth,’ either. It was Lady Macbeth who got him to kill the king. Our grandmother has it completely opposite to the truth. Women are a bigger influence on men than men are on women. Look at how much Momma got Daddy to do!”
“You tell her all that, not me,” Cathy said.
“If she says that to me, I will.”
Cathy nodded, but I thought I saw her look at me a little differently. Did she think it was so? Did she expect something evil would come from me? How easy it was to plant a suspicion, I thought. Perhaps our great-grandmother had done that to Grandmother Olivia, and now she was passing it down to us.
I put the diary down and thought about the ideas Cathy’s grandmother was putting into her head about Christopher and men in general. She struck me as being too young to really understand, and yet from the way Christopher described her, I thought she was at that point where she was more aware of her own budding sexuality. How difficult that surely was for a girl her age, being so confined and rarely having her mother available to speak with her privately.
Even though Christopher had made it clear that neither he nor Cathy was ever ashamed of their nudity because their mother wasn’t ashamed of hers, there had to come a point when they would feel differently. Would Christopher reveal that? Would Cathy say something to embarrass him or make him feel guilty?
Lana, Suzette, and I did reveal very intimate things about ourselves to one another. It made the three of us feel better about ourselves, our own bodies, and our feelings to know that we all had similar thoughts and experiences. We didn’t mature simultaneously, but changes began to happen to each of us at about the same time. Lana was the last of the three to have her first period, but both Suzette and I had described it enough for her to know exactly what to expect. Between Suzette’s mother and Lana’s, Lana’s was apparently the more prudish and reluctant to answer questions and discuss things. Lana said she would often say, “You’ll learn about it in school.” I told them most of the things my aunt Barbara had told me. We often compared notes and revealed sexual fantasies, laughing about them most of the time. The point was, we had some self-confidence about ourselves. We were never afraid of what was happening. We never felt we were dangling out there on some kind of wild roller coaster of emotions.
How would it have been to be in an attic with my older brother, my much younger brother and sister, a mother who was practically never around, and a grandmother who wanted me to believe that my own body was a vessel of sin? Nobody who wasn’t there with those children, especially Cathy, and no one who didn’t have this diary would have any idea what exactly her mother had done to her by shutting her up in an attic just when she was about to fly into her femininity.
There were different kinds of tears in my eyes when I picked up the diary again, tears of compassion and pity and tears of rage, so many I didn’t think I could read another word, but I sucked in my breath, wiped my eyes, and turned the page. From the first few lines, it looked like maybe there was some hope.
Later in the afternoon, we all looked up with surprise when Grandmother Olivia came into the room. Except for her spying on us, she rarely appeared any time other than breakfast, lunch, or dinner. None of us complained about not seeing her, but I couldn’t help wondering if we weren’t always on her mind one way or another. I think she felt confident that she had hidden us away well, but even if one of her servants suspected something, I doubted that he or she would ever dare question her about it. She appeared to have control of everything and everyone associated with this mansion.
Of course, that made me ask myself many questions, questions I would never voice aloud in front of Cathy. If Grandmother Olivia had so much power, why didn’t she simply tell her husband we were here and that this was the way it would be? How could a sick old man put up much opposition? She seemed well and strong. He surely depended on her for every morsel he ate and everything that had to be done legally for the Foxworth family.
Maybe that was all true, I told myself, but maybe she wanted to see us suffer, punish Momma, and test us to see if we were as evil as she suspected. How long would it take to satisfy her? Why wasn’t all the time that had passed already enough? What else did she want from us, from Momma? Was this her way of ensuring that we would be doomed after all? What children in our predicament wouldn’t have broken one or more of her precious rules by now? Was she always out there on the other side of that door waiting to pounce? She couldn’t hate us, she didn’t know us, but she surely hated the idea of us.
I really believed all this, which was why I was taken aback when she entered the room this time. She was carrying a clay pot of yellow chrysanthemums, real yellow chrysanthemums! She walked right over to Cathy and put the pot in her hands. Cathy’s mouth fell open. The twins were fascinated. I took a step forward, debating whether to say thank you, or ask her why she was giving them to us.
“Here are some real flowers for your fake garden,” she declared.
Cathy looked at me, helpless for a moment. I mouthed “Thank you,” and she began to thank her.
Our grandmother stared at her as she fumbled one statement of gratitude after another.
Was she studying her, seeing if Cathy had the capacity to be grateful for something, had any manners? Was this whole thing an experiment, another test? I was just as surprised as Cathy was that Grandmother Olivia had even taken note of what we were doing in the attic.
She turned to look at me, and for a second, I thought there was some sign of human kindness in her. It was as if love had come up into her throat like a burp, and she had to get it out, maybe because she didn’t want it to be there. Maybe she hated herself for having even an iota of feeling for us. She marched out without saying another word. A silence fell. We were waiting for a second shoe to drop or something, but nothing happened.
The twins closed in on the flowers. It had been so long since they had seen anything from nature that was real, alive, and beautiful, something that would make them feel they were in the world again. Carrie wanted to hold the pot. Cathy handed it to her gently, and the twins hovered over it as if it were a pet.
“We’ll put it on the east windowsill so it will get morning sunshine,” I said.
“What the hell is this?” Cathy asked, suddenly realizing what had happened. “Is she changing? Did something Momma do change her mind about us? Did she decide she likes us or something?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Let’s wait to see what else she does.”
“Maybe we won’t be stuck here much longer,” Cathy said. Her whole demeanor changed. Her face brightened. I could see she was off and running with her plans for when we were let out into the world again.
“The first thing I will do is get to a phone and call my friends. They probably thought we were kidnapped by aliens or something. And I want a big fat chocolate ice cream cone before I eat anything else. I want to go to Momma’s beauty salon and have my hair washed and styled. I want to go shopping and get some new shoes, new dresses and blouses. I want—”
“Cathy,” I said sharply. The twins were beginning to listen. I nodded at them. “You’ll have them crying again.”
She looked at them and then at the door. “She’d better not be teasing us,” she threatened. “She’d better not.”
That idea hadn’t even occurred to me, but what if Cathy was right? Was she cruel enough to do that? She seemed cruel enough to do most anything. Did Momma know about these flowers? Was she holding out a promise just to see if we would lunge and claw and maybe prove to be the evil children she claimed we were?
“Let’s not think about it right now,” I said. “Let’s just take it a day at a time.”
“A day! Why don’t you say it the way it is, a week at a time, a month?”
“All right, calm down,” I said. “Please.”
She bit her lower lip and w
Despite my feeling the same conflicting emotions Cathy had obviously felt and my need to learn more and discover what this gift of flowers was all about, I had trouble keeping my eyes open. It wasn’t simply reading too much. I could read tons of history and science, especially compared with how much I had read of the diary, and not be as sleepy. It wasn’t the reading so much as the emotional involvement.
As I read, I felt myself getting tenser. It was draining. Subtly, in so many small ways, I had entered Foxworth and lived alongside Christopher, Cathy, and the twins. I felt like I was there, invisible, right beside them, seeing and feeling what they were seeing and feeling. All of it, but mainly having to care for their younger brother and sister, who were more fragile and confused, was simply too heavy a burden to bear. Christopher wasn’t giving in to it, but I could sense his fatigue.
All teenagers wanted to rush our lives, become old enough to do more and be more independent. We wanted adult responsibilities. We were always envying older girls who seemed to have far more control of their own lives, even the ones who hadn’t gone to college but were still living at home. They had no curfews, no rules beyond the rules they set for themselves, and certainly fewer lectures and chastisements to tolerate.
Who among us wanted to be younger? Who wanted to be told when to take a bath or a shower, when to eat and sleep, and where we could and couldn’t go? Who wanted all our decisions made for us and just to be content looking forward to birthdays and holidays? Who complained about not being able to pretend with dolls? No, none of us longed to be younger.
In a real way, Christopher and Cathy had been dragged back years when they were locked away in Foxworth. Everything they did and had was strictly controlled. Even the little independence they had begun to enjoy before coming to Foxworth was washed away. They had to eat, bathe, and sleep when they were told to, and they were submitted to more scrutiny than even when they were Carrie and Cory’s age. It was hard for Cathy because she was on the verge of becoming a young lady, and it was hard for Christopher because he was already light-years older than most boys and had really serious ambitions.
On the other hand, while they were being handled and treated as if they were infants, Christopher and Cathy were forced to be more like parents than siblings to the twins. They had to care for them as their parents would, and they bore the responsibility for their health and happiness. In a way, they were being pulled in two different directions. It had to have been exhausting. What would I have done?
Just thinking about it made me even more tired. My eyes closed like two window shutters being slammed shut. I fell asleep with the diary in my hand and didn’t wake up until I heard my father knocking on the door.
“Come in,” I called, and quickly put the diary under the blanket as I sat up.
“You okay?”
“Yes, I just . . .”
“Read too much?” he asked, standing with his arms crossed over his chest, looking down at me and nodding.
“Probably,” I said.
“I have a meeting with the architect and the new owner today. It will carry over into lunch.”
“Okay. Oh, I’m doing the picnic with Kane at the Foxworth lake,” I said, reminding myself as much as him.
“Well, the weatherman was right for a change. You’ve got the weather for it,” he said. “You be careful. Don’t go near the site.”
“We won’t.”
“Remember, your uncle Tommy’s coming tomorrow. Don’t make any other plans. He’s only here for one night.”
“I won’t. I can’t wait to see him.”
“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
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 . . .”