Forbidden Sister by V. C. Andrews
They all looked my way. The depressed, forlorn, and pitiful Emmie Wilcox they had grown used to seeing, the girl they had beaten down with their remarks and disapproving looks, was suddenly more cheerful and happier than they were. I could see the confusion on their faces and almost hear the debate going on in their soft ice-cream brains. Should they become friends with me again? Was it worth the risk? Could they still be contaminated? Suddenly, they looked willing to risk it in order to hear about this illicit and dangerous world.
Sorry. It’s too late for you all, I thought. I’ll be leaving this school and probably not setting eyes on any of you again. But I wasn’t leaving with a tail of shame between my legs. I was leaving even more confident and stronger. After what I had been through, no challenges or obstacles lying in my path would frighten me.
At least, that was what I hoped.
24
I was both excited and sad when Roxy and I were driven to the airport to fly to Paris. It had been so long since I had gone to France, and I had been so young, that my memories were vague. It was exciting because everything would be like new, seen for the first time. Also, I was looking forward to spending quality sister time with Roxy. Even though I had been sharing her apartment with her, we saw little of each other from day to day because she was out and often busy at night. Until now, there was a thick veil of secrecy hanging between us. After the candid talk we had the morning after she was beaten, I felt there was a rip in the veil. What she did, whom she saw, all of it, had been on a need-to-know basis. I had to be careful about what I said and what I asked. Maybe that was about to change.
Despite the act I had put on for Chastity and the others to make my life seem glamorous and fun, living in a hotel, even in an apartment in that hotel, still felt strange and uncomfortable to me. I had trouble calling it home, even in my own thoughts. I would think, It’s time to get back to the hotel or I’d better get back to the hotel, never I’d better get back home.
The desk clerks and bellboys all had gotten used to seeing me, but I never failed to detect some lustful thought hiding behind their nods and smiles. I imagined they believed that either I, too, was in Mrs. Brittany’s employ or I was being trained by her, soon to be one of her own. No matter when I entered the lobby, I felt I was running the gauntlet of lewd stares and comments. They undressed me in their minds and groped me in their dreams. Maybe that was why the first thing I usually did when I returned from school was to take a shower. By the time I had reached the elevators, I imagined their saliva and their eye prints stuck on my skin.
This trip that Roxy and I were taking was the first time in a very long time that I had left the city. I loved New York, just as Papa and Mama had, but escaping from the sad memories and getting away from the school and the hotel were like opening the windows in a house after a fresh rain. Maybe it was because of my French heritage, but I thought of France as home, too. I had family there. I knew the language and the customs almost as well as I knew my American customs and language. I was confident that none of it would feel strange or terribly different for me.
But I was also melancholy and wistful. This had been a trip that Mama and I were going to take. We had talked about it often. I knew she had been looking forward so much to seeing her family again. Now that I was older and could appreciate everything more, she had been eager to show me places and things she loved. She often said seeing something again through the eyes of your daughter was like seeing it anew. She had wanted to share in my wonder, my pleasure and excitement.
To ease the sadness and the pain, I told myself that I was taking her with me. She was inside me and always would be. Maybe when loved ones died, they didn’t go off to another world but instead slipped inside you and curled up, waiting to be remembered or to do just what Mama wanted to do, live life through your eyes.
I was eager to know if Roxy had any of these thoughts and feelings. When I spoke about some of it on the plane, she became a little melancholy herself and revealed that she had been to Paris a few times but always on a trip with a client and therefore unable to make contact with any of our family. She said it especially bothered her that she couldn’t call or see Uncle Alain, but it was just not possible.
I wanted to ask why it wasn’t possible, but I knew. It was because she didn’t want him to know how she had gotten there, whom she was with, and what she was doing. She hated saying it, probably even thinking it, but despite the face she put on, she was ashamed. Right now, I could see that remembering that made her sad.
However, she also remembered places and things Mama had loved. She admitted going to the Left Bank on one of her trips to search for a particular café Mama had described to her when she was just a few years younger than I was and still living with our parents.
“I found it, and I was able to spend an hour there, sipping coffee and watching people and thinking of Mama sitting there just as I was. We’ll go there,” she promised.
Perhaps it was wishful thinking or just my overworking imagination, but as we traveled farther and farther from America, from New York in particular, I thought I felt a change in Roxy, a softening. She looked more like someone who was escaping than I did. I could see it in her smile and hear it in her voice when she spoke to flight attendants and to me.
Was it possible? Could we erase all of the ugly and nasty things that had happened to us simply by taking this trip together? Was it our own private pilgrimage, our religious journey, that would cleanse us and renew us? Were we like visitors to Lourdes or some similar holy place looking for miracles? Perhaps it was wrong to put too much weight and pressure on a two-week vacation, but I could at least tell myself that it was a transition to something better.
We had already decided before we left that even though I had only two and a half months remaining in the school year, I would transfer to a public school when we returned. She promised me that I wouldn’t even have to go back to my old school for one day. She would take care of it all.
“I’ll deal with your Dr. Sevenson,” she said, obviously eager to confront her.
She told me that she had someone working on the arrangements and paperwork for us while we were away.
Roxy always seemed to have someone in some high place doing things for her. The lawyer she had hired to handle Mama’s estate and the sale of the town house was very efficient. The town house had been sold two weeks before our trip, and the proceeds were placed along with my other inheritance in funds and accounts that would earn interest and provide for all of my needs and my college education. Roxy was determined that I go further in education than she had and have a profession.
“You need to be able to support yourself. It’s only when you are dependent on others that you are forced to make compromises you later regret,” she said in a very pensive moment. “That was one of Papa’s lessons that I refused to learn, and I suffered for it. Make something of yourself, and whatever you do, don’t put all your hopes on a man.”
“You sound as if you hate men,” I told her. I thought that was ironic for someone who was so involved with so many men.
She laughed. “I’m a fisherman who hates fish,” she replied, but then she became very quiet. I saw that she didn’t want to talk anymore, so I didn’t push her, even though my mind was under an avalanche of new questions.
Was there someone during the earlier years, someone she thought might rescue her, love her? Did Mrs. Brittany somehow prevent it in order to keep her working for her, perhaps telling her that she owed her, just as she had recently done? Or did this man simply learn too much about her and flee?
Without any formal education, how had she learned so much about people, places? How did she know how to hold a conversation with these obvious financial princes, captains of industries, wealthy entrepreneurs, and highly educated men? Was it all just sex?
She had told me it wasn’t just sex, that sometimes she was really just an escort. Well, how did she know how to compose herself and be part of a conversation with people who were s
How often did she come back to her apartment and just cry? How often did she cry about losing her parents and me? Did she ever consider coming back to us? What stopped her? Was it just her pride, her stubborn pride, or did she think it was too late?
All the time I had been with her, I had lived with these questions buzzing around in my head like bees in a garden. Sometimes they were so close to the tip of my tongue that I actually uttered the first word and then choked back the rest. When I was younger and she was gone and I would think about her out there in the city, I felt sorry for her. Actually, when I learned that she was living in an expensive boutique hotel, buying expensive clothes, looking so beautiful and accomplished, I became angry. After all, she had defied Papa and hurt Mama when she had run off.
I had wanted her to be a ragtag young woman panhandling in the parks or at the bus and train stations. I envisioned her sleeping under bridges, living in some hobo village, scratching and clawing her way into some safe place but always sleeping with one eye open, anticipating a drug addict or drunk taking whatever she had managed to scrounge together and maybe attacking her sexually. She wouldn’t have beautiful hair and a beautiful complexion. She would suffer from some disease, always look in desperate need of a bath, and have bleeding feet because of shoes that didn’t fit.
In short, she would be what Papa expected her to be, too, a victim of her own foolish and disruptive ways. Maybe that was why he was even more upset when he saw her that day in the limousine, flush and beautiful, healthy and enticing. She defied him and was not suffering. On the contrary, she was flourishing.
These thoughts zigzagged through my mind as we flew to Paris. Except for the times we ate together, Roxy and I rarely spent so long with each other with no one else competing for her attention as we did on the flight. She fell asleep, but I couldn’t. When she was asleep and she didn’t know I was studying her, I thought she looked even more vulnerable than I was. There was still something young and sensitive in her face. Asleep, without her guard up, she resembled me more. I saw movement under her closed eyelids and could only imagine what sort of nightmares she might have.
It was then that I realized why Roxy wanted to do what she did or how she could work for someone like Mrs. Brittany. She might never admit it to me or anyone else, but she was desperate for Papa. She threw herself at other men, luxuriated in their arms and under their kisses with her eyes closed, imagining that Papa had embraced her again. He was back. He would protect her.
These thoughts brought tears to my eyes. Without her realizing it, I laid my head softly against her shoulder and closed my eyes. I, too, fell asleep, and I was sure that if she woke up before me, she wouldn’t move. My eyes did snap open when the lights came on and the flight attendants began making preparations for our landing in Paris.
“You okay?” Roxy asked.
“Yes, fine.”
“Oui, bien,” she said, reminding me that we should rely on our French.
As soon as we retrieved our luggage and headed out, we saw Uncle Alain waving among other friends and relatives of other passengers.
“That’s Maurice,” she said, referring to the curly-light-brown-haired man beside him. He was a little taller than Uncle Alain and stouter. He had soft, almost rust-colored eyes and a smile that involved every part of his jolly round face. He looked like someone happily surprised at the sight of his own rarely seen relatives. In fact, he was waving at us as enthusiastically as Uncle Alain.
“Bienvenue,” they both shouted. Uncle Alain held out his arms, and Roxy looked to me to go to him first. Maurice kissed Roxy on both sides of her face and then embraced me and did the same while Uncle Alain kissed Roxy and took her bags. Maurice took mine.
“How was your trip?”
“Très bien,” I said.
“Oh, no,” Maurice said. “If they speak only French, how will I improve my English?”
All four of us laughed.
“Maurice has made a spectacular dinner for you tonight,” Uncle Alain said. “It is his day off today, but he’s like . . . what do you say, a busman?”
“Yes,” Roxy said. “It’s called a busman’s holiday when you do on your vacation or your day off exactly what you do when you work.”
“Making dinner for two beautiful women is not work for me,” Maurice said in perfect English. I complimented him on it, and he embraced me tighter and kissed me on my cheek. “I like her.”
“You like anyone who gives you compliments,” Uncle Alain told him, and, turning to us, he added, “He’s always looking for praise.”
“So? This is not French?” Maurice asked, and we laughed again.
How quickly I felt at home with them, and from the look on Roxy’s face, she had, too.
We all got into Uncle Alain’s Peugeot sedan and started for the Saint-Germain area of Paris, where they had their apartment. It was located on the famous Left Bank, known for its bohemian lifestyle. Their apartment was off the Boulevard Saint-Germain, a beautiful wide street that stretched for nearly two miles. There were cafés on the boulevard and near it. As we rode, Uncle Alain felt obligated to point out sights such as Saint-Germain-des-Prés, the oldest church in Paris.
“It was first built in 542 to house holy relics,” Uncle Alain told us. “And then it was rebuilt in the eleventh century, the nineteenth, and again in the 1990s.”
“Your uncle should be a tour guide, no?”
“He is just very proud of where he lives,” I said, and Maurice turned around to look at me.
“Voilà! She is truly a special jeune femme, n’est-ce pas?”
“Oui, mais oui. Elle est ma nièce?” Uncle Alain said.
“Such an ego. Giving you credit for being special just because he’s your uncle,” Maurice said in English, and we were all laughing again.
They had what I understood was a very large apartment for Paris. It was on the top floor of a five-floor building that had been constructed before the United States was in existence. Of course, it had been refurbished many times. Their apartment had three bedrooms, a good-size living room, a dining room, and a very updated kitchen, which Uncle Alain called Maurice’s studio.
“After all, a chef like Maurice is a true artist. You two rest up. Then we’ll have cocktails and hors d’oeuvres and one of Maurice’s signature meals. He’s made the dessert, too.”
Maurice stood next to him, looking very proud. We knew he had done much of the planning. The apartment was filled with delicious aromas. Roxy and I looked at each other gleefully and then went to our bedrooms. Just before she got to hers, she turned to Uncle Alain, who escorted us, and thanked him for what he was doing.
“What am I doing? Only what an uncle should do, n’est-ce pas?”
She leaned into him and in hardly more than a whisper said, “Aucun d’autre ferait ce que vous faites.”
She hugged him and went into her room. He glanced at me.
Why was she so emphatic about it? I wondered. She told him that few uncles would do what he was doing. Doing what? Letting us be his guest for our vacation? I wasn’t making little of it, but she made it sound life-saving. Then again, I thought, maybe in a way it was. Things weren’t going so smoothly between Roxy and Mrs. Brittany now. Who knew what awaited her on our return? I put the thought aside and went to rest, shower, and dress for Maurice’s dinner.
They had wonderful wine, and Maurice had made duck à l’orange. It was something Mama made on special occasions, but I had to admit, hers didn’t taste as good as Maurice’s.
“You’re going to make his head explode with these compliments,” Uncle Alain said, but when Maurice brought out his soufflés, it was impossible not to rave.
“Are we going to eat like this every night?” I asked.
I never drank as much wine as I did t
Uncle Alain was up early to go to his office. During breakfast, he told me about some of the work he was doing with international law, mainly involving businesses. From time to time, it took him traveling to China, South America, and other European countries. He had even done work in Russia. I told him how exciting it all sounded to me.
“Travel is wonderful. It fills your life, Emmie. It’s important to be open to other cultures, other ways of thinking. I’m sure you’ll find your way.”
Maurice left shortly after he did. Preparation was critical for his cooking, and we could already see how much of a perfectionist he was. We were invited to his restaurant that evening. He warned us not to eat very much for lunch.
“You’ll be given the chef’s menu,” he said.
“What does that mean?” I asked Roxy.
“You sample everything he’s made for the evening, and with each serving, you get a different wine.”
“How do you know these things, Roxy?”
She laughed. “I was trained like a seal. I’ve had the chef’s menu in some of the finest New York restaurants, but I’m sure this will be extra special for us. Let’s get going,” she told me, and we were off for our touring.
I was jealous of how well Roxy knew her way around Paris. We took the Métro to the Arc de Triomphe and walked the Champs-Èlysées, where Roxy splurged on some new French dresses for both of us. Neither of us used any English the entire time, and then she took me to have lunch at a restaurant not far from the Eiffel Tower. We decided we couldn’t go up the tower right then because the lines were so long.
“Maybe before we leave, we’ll have dinner at the Jules Verne,” she said. “That’s the restaurant on the Eiffel Tower.”