Forbidden Sister by V. C. Andrews
Dirty notes were left in my desks or slipped into my hall locker. I thought if I ignored it all, it would go away, but it was as if my mere presence in the school was enough to keep it alive forever.
Despite what I had told her, Chastity returned to passing along the gossip she heard. What was too horrible to mention weeks ago in light of what had happened to my family was suddenly headline news again. I didn’t have to hear it to know what my fellow students were saying. I could see it in their licentious smiles and the whispering when they looked my way.
Not satisfied with their titillation and sick humor, some of Evan’s friends began hitting on me, crudely inviting me to do all sorts of sexual acts. I could sense that this was some sort of new game they had concocted, who could be more disgusting and attract my attention. They might even have taken bets on who would get me to go out with him. Most of the time, I simply ignored them. Some just laughed when I said, “No, thanks,” but one boy, Martin Horton, got nasty.
“Who do you think you are?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your sister is a prostitute, and you act like Princess Purity?”
“It’s not hard to act that way when someone like you acts like an ass,” I said, and walked away to the sound of loud laughter.
How I hate it here now, I thought, and sucked back my tears.
It was doubly difficult because I didn’t want to go home looking so down and unhappy every day. Mama was still going through her own depression and sadness. I knew she was anticipating my arrival after school in the hope that I would cheer her up. I had to put on the best act I could and invent good news. What was really upsetting me now was that Roxy had not responded in any way to my letter. Every time I heard the phone ring at home or when anyone came to the front door, I still anticipated her. I always expected that Mama would greet me after school with the news that Roxy had been there, but that never happened.
It got so that even if she was angered by my letter, I’d be happy. Anything was better than nothing, better than treating us as if we didn’t exist. Surely, that desk clerk had given it to her. How could she be so cold and unforgiving, especially since she knew I had come to her hotel and could come again?
A few times, I almost came out and told Mama what I had done, but I thought it would upset her even more. After all, she had tried, too. One night, I caught her sitting in her bedroom looking at one of the pictures of Roxy she had hidden from Papa. She was staring so hard at the photo that I expected she would break into sobs, but she just took a deep breath and put the picture back into a drawer.
Chastity tried to get me to talk about Roxy a number of times. She was as subtle about it as she could be, which wasn’t very. She would say something like “I wonder if your sister really doesn’t know what’s happened to your father.” Or she would pause when we were walking home and say, “That woman reminds me of your sister.”
I never responded, so she didn’t continue, but finally, one afternoon when we were studying for a test together at my house, she put down her notebook and glared at me in a way I had never seen her glare.
“What?”
“I know you’re going to get angry at me, and I know you might tell me to get out and never speak to me again.”
“What is it, Chastity?” I said, putting my notes aside, too. She sat there dumbly. “Just spit it out already.”
“I saw your sister two days ago.”
“What? Where?”
“Coming out of her hotel and getting into a limousine. She looked very dressed up. I’m only telling you,” she continued quickly, “because I thought maybe she really doesn’t know about your father. I mean, maybe she doesn’t read the newspaper or—”
“You went back there to spy on her?”
“Just for you,” she said. “I knew you wouldn’t go there, and I thought maybe—”
“Maybe what? What good would that do? You weren’t planning on talking to her, were you?”
She didn’t respond.
“You were?”
“Just for you, Emmie,” she repeated.
I shook my head. “You won’t let go of this, will you? You’re just as sick as the rest of them.”
“No, that’s not it. Really. I was thinking about you and your mother and how good it would be if somehow your sister came around and maybe apologized or something. She’s got to be sorry your father died, right?”
I looked away.
“I’m just thinking of you,” she whined.
Yeah, right, I thought. You just want something to jazz up your boring life.
Was there really such a thing as a best friend, or was that just another of life’s illusions? I was surely an expert on why best friends could be better than relatives, but the real reason for why best friends did things was often not easy to understand. Maybe we should say “the best possible friend” instead of “best friend.”
“I went to my sister’s hotel, and I left her a message,” I said after a long pause.
“You did? When?”
“About a month ago. I went in just as she was getting into the elevator.”
“Did she see you? Speak to you?” she quickly asked.
“No, but I went directly to the desk clerk and told him I had just seen her, so there was no point in his denying her existence.”
“Wow.”
“So, you see, there is no reason for you to go there anymore, Chastity. In fact, you’d be embarrassing my mother and me if you ever did speak to her, understand? It would be like begging her to give us her time.”
“You left her a letter?”
“It was more than a letter. She once gave me a charm bracelet, and I put it in the envelope. I told the desk clerk I was her sister, too. I hoped to stir up some feelings in her.”
“And she hasn’t responded, called or anything?”
“No. Nothing.”
“That’s horrible,” she said, tucking in her lips and widening her eyes. “I know what you should do now.”
“Really, what?”
“You should leave her another message. ‘Go to hell.’ ”
“And what good would that do?”
“Self-satisfaction. You would know that she knew she didn’t get away with it.”
“Get away with it? I’m not out for revenge. This isn’t some sort of childish game. She’s my sister, my mother’s daughter.” I shook my head. “I’m really sorry I ever told you about her.”
“That’s not fair,” Chastity whined. “You should always tell me your secrets. I tell you everything.”
I stared at her. At this moment, I felt as if I had left her so far behind on the maturity road that she was less than a dot. Why was I wasting any more time with her?
I looked at the notes for our upcoming test and then flung them across the room.
Chastity jumped in her seat. “Why did you do that?”
“I don’t care about this test. Just go home to study yourself. You don’t have to fail because of me. Go on!” I shouted at her.
She was too stunned to move.
“Get out!” I screamed, and she rose.
“All right, all right. You are so weird now. I know I should be sympathetic, but I can take just so much, too, you know,” she said, tears making her eyes glisten. “I have feelings just like you.”
I turned my back on her.
She paused in my bedroom doorway. “You know, everyone asks me why I remain friends with you, Emmie.”
“Right,” I said. “I know you have a whole lot of them lining up to take my place. Go for it.”
She stomped out and down the stairs. I heard her open and close the front door, and then I flopped back on my bed and stared up at the ceiling. Mama was in the doorway. She was in her robe and slippers. Lately, if she didn’t have to go out, she wouldn’t get dressed all day, and she would do little or nothing with her hair. I was worrying more and more about her, about how pale and frail she was looking.
“What was that all about?” she asked.<
“I’m tired of her, Mama. She’s such a busybody.”
“You just made that discovery?”
I didn’t say anything.
She came into my room and sat on my bed. “What is it really, Emmie?”
“I can’t stand not having Papa with us,” I said.
She sighed. “I know. He was very firm and on the surface seemingly insensitive at times, but you were the apple of his eye, and there was nothing he wouldn’t do for you.”
“Are we all right financially, Mama?” I asked.
“We’re fine,” she said, patting my hand.
“Are you all right?” I eyed her carefully.
Her lips quivered, and she nodded quickly, patted my hand again, and rose. “Just a little tired. I’ll get to sleep early tonight,” she said. She leaned over to kiss me and then walked out.
I could feel the darkness seeping in behind her, following her out of my room. It made my heart skip beats. Here I was feeling sorry for myself when it was Mama who should have all the attention. I was young. I would survive. Roxy survived, didn’t she?
Or did she?
Maybe she was more unhappy than it appeared. Maybe that was why she stayed away. Maybe she didn’t want us to know how bad things really were for her. Just maybe, she was ashamed of who and what she was, too ashamed to face her mother. Perhaps I had been too quick to condemn her.
Never did I dream that I would be lying in my bed thinking I was too hard on Roxy. Was my desperation for a sister, for more family, so great that I would overlook so much, even the way she had treated my parents? I had tried to forget her. I was still trying to hate her, but for some reason, I just couldn’t do it. Somehow, my vague memories of her grew stronger and more vivid. I could see her smile, hear her voice again. It was as if a door had been nudged open in my mind and memories were slipping out.
There was one in particular that I hadn’t recalled until now, the memory of Roxy holding my hand as we walked on an avenue. It seemed we were alone, returning from some errand she had completed. Maybe Papa didn’t know that Mama had permitted Roxy to take me along. I remembered her being very careful and protective, guiding me along, her grip on my hand so tight that it actually hurt a little. But I didn’t complain, because I was so happy to be treated like someone older. Other pedestrians looked at us and smiled. Look at how responsibly that older sister is behaving. I felt very proud, too.
The memory brought a smile to my face, but that was followed by a deeper sadness.
It was a precious moment, and it was gone forever.
I turned over and buried my face in my pillow. I don’t want to think about her. I don’t want to remember her.
Papa was right to disown her and forbid my even mentioning her name. How could she leave us like that? How could she be so stubborn and mean?
There was another thought. Was it selfish to think it?
If it was, I couldn’t help it. It was the thought that took me to sleep.
How could she leave me?
12
Maybe I was dwelling too much on myself, soaking myself in a gray pool of self-pity. I was walking through the school day with blinders over my eyes, not seeing or caring about anything or anyone else. I sat like a granite statue, barely changing expression, no matter what my teachers said. Finally, after weeks and weeks of this, one of my teachers, Mr. Collins, pulled me aside after class to talk about my work. He was very tall and stout but almost always pleasant with an almost impish smile. I really liked him. Right now, he hovered over me like the shadow of my conscience.
He was the first to do this, but I knew that teachers talked about their students in the faculty lounge, and my other teachers probably would follow his lead shortly. I couldn’t say I didn’t expect it. This was, after all, a private school, where students had their teachers’ full attention. Two of my classes had fewer than fifteen students in them. Mr. Collins, who taught math, had one of those classes.
“I know you and your mother have been through a very difficult time, Emmie,” he began, “but I also know how proud your father was about your grades. You and I know you can do much better than you’re doing.” I looked down as he spoke, and when I didn’t respond, he said, “Let’s just leave it at that, but you know I’m available anytime to help you. Just ask.”
I nodded, but I didn’t even say thank you. I was still drowning in self-pity. He had thrown me some rope. All I had to do was take hold, but at the moment, I didn’t care. I was still angry about Papa’s death, confused about Roxy, and annoyed with my classmates. Doing well at school had lost all attraction for me. It was unfair to treat my teachers with such indifference, I knew, but I seemed incapable of changing. I didn’t mind the silence and the self-imposed solitude. For now, staying to myself and pulling my head in like a turtle were more comfortable than anything else. It was truly as though my face had forgotten how to smile. Laughter was a thing of the past, a distant memory. Even when I heard other students joking with one another, I looked at them as if they were Martians.
I did get a similar short lecture from most of my other teachers over the next two days, and finally, Dr. Walter, our school dean and counselor, called Mama and told her to consider sending me to a therapist. At first, all that did was get me angrier. I was angry at myself more than at anyone else for letting this happen and hurting Mama, but for now, it was more convenient to blame the school. Mama, of course, blamed herself.
“I should have been paying more attention to you. Your father was always more involved in your schoolwork than I was,” she said after she told me about the call she had received. She had been waiting for me in the kitchen when I returned. This particular day, she had gotten dressed. Lately, she had our food delivered most of the time, and as far as I knew, she rarely left the house. I was sent out to the store whenever something was missing.
“I’m not failing anything, Mama. I don’t know why he had to call you and make such a big deal of it.”
“It is a big deal, Emmie. You know your father would never have been satisfied with your just passing everything, and you wouldn’t have been, either.”
She was sipping some tea. Now that she was wearing one of her nicer dresses, I could see how she had become much thinner. She had put on some makeup, but she still looked pale and wan. Her eyes were sleepy all the time, but now they were even duller, her lids quivering to stay open. Everything, even the smallest thing such as lifting a teacup, seemed to require a greater effort.
“I know you are not happy at the school,” she continued, “but I thought you would do the good work you always have done until we could find another school for you. You can’t go on like this, Emmie. You don’t have any friends or talk about anything at school the way you used to. Maybe it’s not a bad idea for you to see a therapist.”
“I don’t need a therapist to tell me what I should be doing in school, Mama. I’m sorry I let it go this far. I’ll work harder.”
“But you won’t be happy, will you?”
“I’ll try,” I promised.
She nodded softly, but I could see there was something else. I could always tell when Mama had a secret. She had a way of shifting her eyes so that she was looking past me and not at me.
“What is it, Mama? There’s something else,” I said, thinking that perhaps Roxy had finally contacted her, perhaps had even been there.
“I don’t want you getting nervous and all worked up, especially now.”
“Why would I?” I leaned forward. My heart, which had been almost hibernating in my chest, came to life and began to thump.
She pressed her lips together and took in a long breath through her nose. “I didn’t have a good result on a test.”
“What test?”
“I had my annual exam last week.”
“I didn’t know you were having that done.”
“It was scheduled some time ago, and you know how it is with some of these doctors, you don’t want to postpone. It would take months to get resched
“What test?”
“The Pap smear. They’re doing it over. Lots of times, the first result can be an error.”
“What if it’s not?”
“We’ll deal with it,” she said firmly. “Let’s not think the worst of everything.”
“When do you do the test again?”
“Soon,” she said. She smiled. “It’s going to be just fine.”
“Oh, Mama, with all this on your mind, I’m sorry I gave you something else to worry over. I’ll do better in school. I promise.”
“Sure you will,” she said.
I hugged her. We held each other a little longer than usual, and then she began to prepare our dinner. She tried desperately to get me to think of other things while we ate. She told me about her family in France and how Uncle Alain had called her twice that week already.
“He’s always asking after you,” she said.
The way she described him and Paris told me how much she longed for family now, longed to go home. Whenever she described a place, she would break into a warm, deep smile, the smile of someone who cherished a memory.
“We should go soon,” I said.
“Yes, we will. As soon as . . . as soon as we get a few things straightened out,” she said. I knew she was talking mainly about her health but also about me.
I told her to go rest after dinner while I cleaned up. By the time I was finished and looked in on her in the living room, I found she was asleep on the sofa, her right hand on the arm of it the way she had kept it there when Papa was sitting beside her in his chair. Sometimes they had held hands while they watched television. I didn’t wake her, although I wanted to. I couldn’t stand the look of exhaustion on her face. I needed to see her smile and hear her voice. She had the television on, but the volume was low. I went upstairs to get my homework and then returned and sat in Papa’s chair doing it and waiting for her to awaken. When she did, she looked terribly confused.
“Oh, I fell asleep,” she said, realizing. “I’m sorry.”
“Why should you be sorry? You’re tired, so you slept. Good,” I told her. “I wanted to finish all this anyway,” I added, showing her my books and notebooks.