Heaven by V. C. Andrews
"Don't look like that, Heavenly. Everything will work out, you'll see." Arms linked, we strolled on toward the nursing home to visit Grandpa.
"He ain't here," said Sally Trench when she responded to Tom's loud knocking. "Yer father done come an took him away."
"Pa's been here!" cried Tom, seeming
unbelievably happy. "Where did he take Grandpa?"
Sally Trench didn't know. "Left about half an hour ago," she informed us before she slammed the door.
"Pa could still be in town, Heavenly!" Tom cried excitedly. "If we hurry, maybe we can find him!"
"I don't want to see him, not ever!" I flared.
"Well, I do! He's the only one who can tell us where to find Keith and Our Jane."
Both of us began to run. Winnerrow was an easy city to search, one main street with twelve side roads. As we ran we looked in store windows, questioned those we saw walking. The sixth man we asked had seen Pa. "Think he was goin t' t'hospital."
Why would he go there? "You go on alone," I said tonelessly when Tom insisted.
Helplessly Tom spread his large, callused hands. His expression was miserable. "Heavenly, I've got to be honest. I've been lying to you all the time. In those letters, and those pictures I enclosed, those were only school friends named Thalia and Laurie. Buck Henry doesn't have any children but ones who're buried in a churchyard. That fine house belongs to Laurie's mother and father, six miles down the road. Buck Henry's house might once have been nice, but now it's rundown and needs repairing. He's a slave driver who works me twelve to fourteen hours a day."
"You mean you lied? All those letters when I lived in Candlewick--all lies?"
"All lies. Lies made up to make you feel good about me." His eyes pleaded. "I knew what you had to be thinking, and I didn't want you to worry, but now I have to say I hate that farm! Hate Buck Henry so much sometimes I feel if I don't escape I might kill him . . so please understand why I'm going to run away from him and find Pa. I have to do this."
To help Tom have what he wanted, to see Keith and Our Jane again, I'd do anything, even face the man I hated most in the world. "Hurry!" Tom kept urging, and soon we were both running toward the hospital.
"Maybe Cal will be with Kitty by this time," I gasped breathlessly when we were in the hospital lobby looking around.
"Sure," said a nurse when Tom asked about Luke Casteel, "he was here . . ."
"But where is he now?"
"Why, I don't know . . . been an hour ago since he asked the room number of Mrs. Dennison."
Pa had come to see Kitty . . . or me?
Grasping my hand tighter, Tom began to pull me along.
All the nurses and attendants had grown to know me by this time, and they greeted me by name as I took over and led Tom toward an elevator that would take us up to Kitty's room. I felt strange, almost numb, and so fearful of what I'd say and do when I saw Pa. Still, when I was in Kitty's room, and she was pale and weak-looking, and Cal was kneeling by the side of her bed crying, it took me moments to adjust to the disappointment of not seeing Pa, and then I was again shocked to see how happy Kitty looked. She lay on the narrow bed, beaming at me, at Tom. Why?
"Yer pa done come t'see me," she whispered in a frail voice I could hardly hear. "He asked bout ya, Heaven; he said he hoped t'see ya. Said he were sorry fer what he did in t'past, an hoped I'd fergive him. Ya know, neva thought in a million years I'd hear Luke Casteel sound--Cal, what way did he sound?"
"Humble," Cal said in a hoarse voice.
"Yeah, that's it. He were humbled, sorrysoundin." Her eyes were bright, as if she'd seen a miracle. And for days she hadn't spoken. "He looked at me, Heaven, an he neva did that before. When I loved him, an woulda died fer him, he neva saw me . . jus took me like I was a thin, an left. But he done changed, he has . . . an he's gone an left this here note fer ya."
Hers was a feverish kind of happiness, frenzied, as if she had to hurry, hurry. For the first time I saw she was dying, dying right before our eyes, maybe had been for months before we even came here, and both Cal and I had grown too accustomed to her erratic swings of moods to recognize they were
manifestations of depression, of frustrations . . . and fearful secret anxieties about that lump. Her thin hand seemed gaunt, her nails long and witchy, as she handed me the envelope with my name on the outside. But her smile, for the first time, seemed warm, loving.
"Did I say thank ya fer all ya've been doin fer me, Heaven? Got me a daughta, at last--an ain't it some-thin, though, ain't it, that Luke would come t'see me? Were ya t'one who sent fer him--were ya? Ya must have, cause he came in an he looked around, like he expected t'see ya. So go on, Heaven, go on, read what he says in his letta."
"This is Tom, my brother," I finally said.
"It's good to see you, Tom," said Cal, standing up and shaking his hand.
"Why, yer like Luke when he was yer age!" Kitty cried with delight, her pale eyes glowing strangely. "All ya need is black hair and black eyes . . . an ya'd be jus like yer pa! Ya would, ya would!"
She was touching, this devil-woman with her red hair and her long pink nails that had raked my skin many a time. Images of how she used to be flashed in and out of my brain; my ears rang with all the insults she'd thrown my way without regard for my feelings; and here she was putting tears in my eyes when I should have been feeling glad God was delivering to her just what she deserved. Yet I was crying. I sat in the chair that Cal pulled out for me and, with tears streaming to wet my blouse, I opened the letter from Pa and began to silently read.
"Daughta, read it aloud," whispered Kitty.
Again I glanced at her, sensing something different; then I began in a small voice:
"Dear Daughter,
"Sometimes a man does what he feels is necessary and lives to find out his problems could have been solved in better ways. I ask you to forgive me for things that can't be changed now.
"Our Jane and Keith are happy and healthy. They love their new parents, and Fanny loves hers.
"I have married again, and my wife insists that I try and put my family back together again. I have a fine home now, and earn a great deal of money. There is very little hope that I can buy back Keith and Our Jane, or Fanny, but I am hoping you and Tom will come to live with us. Your grandfather will also be there.
"Maybe this time I can be the kind of father you can love instead of hate.
Father"
There was an address and a telephone number beneath his name, but I could hardly read by this time. He'd never called me daughter before, never referred to himself as my father before--why now? I balled up the note and hurled it into the trash can near Kitty's bed.
Anger overrode all my other emotions. How could I trust a man who'd sell his children? How did I know for sure Tom and I would be all right in his care? What could he possibly do to earn a lot of money? Or had he married it? How could I believe anything he said? How could he know that Keith and Our Jane were truly happy where they were? Or Fanny? How could I know until I found out for myself?
Tom ran to retrieve the balled-up letter, and carefully he smoothed it out and read it silently. Each line he read made his face brighter.
"Why did ya do that?" asked Kitty with softness in her eyes. "It were a nice letta, it were, weren't it, Cal? Heaven, ya take it up an save it, cause there'll come a day when ya'll need t'see him again--" And then she failed and began to cry.
"Tom, let's go." I turned to leave.
"Wait a minute," whispered Kitty. "Got somethin else fer ya." She smiled weakly and took a small envelope from under her pillow. "Had a good talk wid yer pa--an he gave me this here t'keep fer ya, an give t'ya when t'time comes. It's my way of tryin t'make up fer what I did. . ." She floundered, glanced at Cal, then added, "I think t'time is now."
I was trembling as I took the second small envelope. What could Pa say in this one to make up for all he'd done? Maybe Our Jane and Keith were fine--but how could I be sure, when that horrible farmer had worked Tom like a sl
Again I read his small handwriting. My eyes widened even as my heart began to race.
Pa'd come to the hospital hoping to find me.
Your grandpa has told me you have your heart set on going to Boston to find your mother's parents. If that is your choice, to go there instead of coming to live with me and my wife, enclosed is a plane ticket I bought for you to use, and I have called your Boston grandparents to tell them you might be coming. Here is their address and telephone number. Write to me to let me know how things go.
My muscles tightened from the shock I felt. Why was he doing this? To get rid of me a second time? There were two addresses at the bottom of the letter, one written hurriedly in pencil. I stared at the names: Mr. and Mrs. James L. Rawlings.
I looked up. "Heaven," Cal said softly, "it was Kitty who persuaded your father to put the names of the couple who bought Our Jane and Keith in that note you hold. Now you know where they are, and someday you can go to see them.
I couldn't speak, could hardly think.
Tom was reading over my shoulder. "Heavenly, you see, you see, he's not as bad as you think! Now we can visit Our Jane and Keith. But I remember that contract the lawyer made Pa sign . . . we can never take them away--" He stopped short, staring at my face. I felt odd, my knees weak, all my emotions draining into the floor. I'd so wanted to find Keith and Our Jane, and now it appeared I could. But the plane ticket in my hand seemed blackmail to force me to stay out of their lives. Trembling still, I jammed the small envelope and its contents into my pocket, and said good-bye to Kitty before I strode out into the hallway, leaving Tom still talking to Cal.
Let Cal stay. I didn't care.
In the hall outside of her room I called "Tom!" impatiently, tired of waiting when he continued to talk in a low voice with Cal. "I'm not going to wait forever."
I turned and walked away. Tom hurried to catch up, and outside the hospital I headed for the motel, thinking that right now, today, I'd head for Boston . . . "Are you going with me to Boston, Tom?"
His long strides shortened to keep in step with me. He had his head lowered against the wind and rain. "Heavenly, we've got to talk."
"We can talk as we walk to the motel. I'll pack my things. Kitty's happy . . . did you see her face? Cal didn't even look at me. Why aren't you delighted to be going with me?"
"Everything has changed! Pa's different! Can't you tell by his letters? He went to see that woman, and she sees he's changed--why can't you? Heavenly, I want to go with you, you know I do, and Mr. Dennison said he'd pay my way, if that's what I wanted . . . but first I have to see Pa. I'm sure he's gone on to the Setterton home to look for you, and perhaps he's already been to visit Buck Henry, and suspects I am with you. We can catch him if we hurry."
"NO!" I flared, feeling my face burn with anger. "You go if you feel you have to, but I never want to see him again! He can't write two short notes and wipe the slate clean!"
"Then promise to stay put until you hear from me!"
I promised, still feeling numb from all that had happened to confuse my hatred. "Tom . . . you will go with me to Boston? Come with me, and together, after we're established, we'll go for Keith and Our Jane."
He was striding away from me! Turning at the corner to wave and smile. "Heavenly, hold on. Don't you dare go anywhere until you hear from me!"
I watched Tom walk away with a certain joy in his stride, as if he believed he'd find Pa, and with Pa he'd have a better life than with Buck Henry.
In the motel room, I lay down and gave in to a weird crying spell that left me weak and completely drained. I resolved before I slipped into sleep never to cry again.
When the telephone rang I woke up to answer it, and heard Tom on the other end saying he'd found Pa, and now they both were coming to see me. "Heavenly, he was in Stonewall Pharmacy asking for you, and for me. He's changed. You're not going to believe it when you see him! He's sorry for all the mean things he did and said, and he's going to say that when he sees you . . . so you be there when we drive up. Promise?"
I hung up without promising.
Tom had betrayed me!
Again I left the motel, to sit alone in the park. It wasn't until dark, when I felt Tom would have given up, that I returned to the motel and fell into the bed.
Tom wasn't going with me to Boston--he'd rather stay with Pa, and after all the vows we'd made to one another!
And Logan had flown off to college without making any effort to see me again. What did I have left but my mother's parents in Boston? Even Cal seemed indifferent to me now that he was so taken up with Kitty. I needed someone. Maybe this was Fate's way of seeing I went on to Boston to my
grandparents.
I was packing my clothes when Cal came in and told me that he knew about Tom finding Pa, and Pa driving Tom to the motel to pick me up, only I'd gone. "They looked all over town for you, Heaven. Tom presumed you'd already flown to Boston, and he looked so hurt. Anyway, he and your father gave up their search. Where were you?"
"Hiding in the park," I admitted. Cal didn't understand; still, he held me and rocked me as if I were six instead of sixteen. "If they call to check on me, you tell them you haven't seen me," I pleaded.
"Yes," he agreed, his eyes troubled as they tried to meet mine. "I do think, though, you should see Tom again, and talk to your father. Heaven, maybe he has changed. Maybe he is sorry. Maybe you don't have to fly to Boston, and will like living with your father and his new wife."
I turned my back. Pa hadn't changed.
Cal left me alone, and I continued to pack, thinking of what a sorry mess I'd let myself in for when I chose Kitty Dennison and her husband. I had almost packed all my clothes when Cal opened the door and stared at me, his eyes narrowed. "You're still going to Boston?"
"Yes."
"What about me?"
"What about you?"
He blushed, had the decency to bow his head. "The doctors examined Kitty a little while ago. I know this sounds incredible, but she's better! Really better. Her white-cell count is almost normal. Her platelet count is rising. The tumor has shrunk just a bit, and if this keeps up they think she will live. Heaven, that visit from your father gave her the will to go on. Now she says it was always me she loved most, and she didn't know it until she was on the brink of death-- what can I do? I can't turn away froth:my wife when she needs me so much, can I? So perhaps it is for the best that you go on to Boston with my prayers and all my love--and someday you and I will meet again, and maybe then you can forgive me for taking advantage of a young and sweet and beautiful girl."
Stunned, I widened my eyes in astonishment. "You never loved me!" I yelled accusingly, brokenly. "You used me!"
"I do love you! I will always love you! I hope wherever you go you'll always love me just a little. You were there when I needed someone. Go and forget Kitty and what was done, and don't step into Tom's life when he'll have everything going fine for him. Fanny is happy where she is. Leave Keith and Our Jane where they are. Your mother's people in Boston might object if you come with others. And forget me. I made my bed when I married Kitty. It doesn't have to be your bed too. Go now, while I have the strength to do the right thing. Go before she leaves that hospital a well woman, and her old self returns to seek you out and destroy you for taking what she thinks belongs solely to her. Kitty'll never truly change. She's been on the brink of death, afraid of what's on the other side . . . but once she recovers, she'll come after you. So, for your own sake . . . go now, today."
I didn't know what to say, or what to do. I could only stare with teary vision as he paced back and forth.
"Heaven, when your father was in the room with Kitty, she was the one who pleaded for him to tell you where Our Jane and Keith are. It was her gift to you to make up for all she's done."
I didn't understand, and
"Your father sensed you were running from him, and he guessed you'd never see him again, so he turned over to Tom more photographs of Our Jane and Keith so he could give them to you. I saw them, Heaven. They've grown since the last pictures sent to you. They have parents who adore them, and they live in a fine home, and attend one of the best schools in the country. If you have an idea of going there, remember you will take with you sad memories they might want to forget . . . think of that before you walk into their new lives. Give them time to grow up a bit more, Heaven, and give yourself time to mellow."
He said many things that I refused to hear.
Cal gave me cash that Pa had given him to pass on to me. I stared at the bills in my hand. A stack of twenty-dollar bills--amounting to five hundred dollars, the price Kitty and Cal had paid for me. My wide bleak eyes raised to meet Cal's--and he turned away.
That was ail I needed to really decide me. I'd go! I'd never come back! Not even to see Logan again! I was finished with Winnerrow and the Willies, and everybody who'd said they loved me.
The first flight to Atlanta, from where I could transfer to a plane for Boston, was the next day at nine. Cal drove me to the airport, and carried my bags for me. He seemed nervous, anxious to get away, before he kissed me good-bye; then his stark eyes fleetingly swept over my face, scanned down to my shoes, then up again, slowly, slowly. "Your plane takes off in twenty minutes. I'd like to stay and wait with you . . but I really should get back to Kitty."
"Yes, you really should," I said dryly. I wasn't going to say good-bye, wasn't . . . yet I did. "Goodbye . . . good-bye . . ." I wasn't going to cry or hurt inside to see him walk away without looking back, yet I did, though I saw him slow and hesitate before he shrugged, stood taller, and then walked off even faster. Going back to Kitty, and whatever the future held.
Twenty minutes to wait. How could I pass the time? I didn't have anyone now that Logan had run from me, now that Tom preferred Pa to me; and Fanny had long ago decided she didn't need me. . . . New doubts washed over me in great fearful waves. How did I know my mother's family would want me? But I had five hundred dollars, and even if things didn't work out right in Boston, I'd find a way to survive.