Lightning Strikes by V. C. Andrews
I waited another thirty seconds or so and then I rose to leave, feeling as if my legs had turned to lead. With ponderous but quick steps, I hurried back to the rear entrance of the house and went inside. I could feel my blood settle, the chill ease up, but my heart was still racing and my throat felt as if there was a scream caught in it. After a deep breath, the feeling disappeared. I started down the hall toward my room.
My robe was soaked and so was my hair. I fetched a clean, dry nightgown, returned to the bathroom and dried myself with a towel. Gradually, the chill left me entirely and I went back to my bedroom. I gazed out the window. The cottage was completely dark now. The rain was falling harder and faster, beating a frantic tattoo on my small window. It matched the rhythm of my heart. I closed the curtain and retreated to my bed, anxious to get under the covers. Shivers came from thoughts now and not cold air.
How strange, sad and frightening it was. I could only imagine how long it had been going on. After what I had seen, could I ever look at my Great-uncle Richard the same way? Would he take one look at me and know that I had spied on him and Mary Margaret? And what about her? Would she know as well? Did he force her to do this or did she want to do it? Perhaps he paid her something extra.
The rain continued to lash against the house. Staccato beats on the walls and the roof were like drums marching me toward the nightmares that eagerly awaited entrance into my world of dreams as soon as I had closed my eyes. I was afraid to fall asleep.
What kind of place had I been sent to? Yes, these people were rich and highly respected. They socialized with royalty and dwelled in the corridors of power and prestige. They dressed correctly, spoke perfectly, and made it seem as if everything they did and was done for them had complete balance.
But they lived in a house with a dark history. They had restored and modernized it, yet they had brought their own ghosts to dwell alongside the ones that were supposedly trapped inside these walls. A river of pain flowed through these richly designed and decorated rooms.
Despite what they said and how they lived, my Great-uncle Richard and my Great-aunt Leonora had obviously been unable to accept their tragic loss. Now that I was in my warm bed and I could think, I was less and less frightened by it all. Pity and irony replaced the terror I had experienced in the shadows outside those cottage windows. Through their seemingly perfect English lives, they tried to build a wall around themselves to shut away their pain and lock away their secrets. It wasn't working; it probably never worked and never would.
Truth was as powerful and as insistent as water. It would seep in every small opening, and every attempt to plug up the holes in their hearts would fail, for another hole would simply form until all these castle walls would crumble and the truth would flood and wash away the false faces. There wasn't a false face in the world that could successfully hide what the false heart did know. Reading Shakespeare had taught me that.
All my great-aunt and great-uncle had to do was admit to their pain. Great-uncle Richard was trying desperately to ignore the pain with his secret cottage, but one day it would surely collapse around him and that would be even worse, so I did feel pity for them.
The irony came from realizing how desperately some parents held on to their children and the memories whereas mine had tried to deny my very existence. If Great-uncle Richard's daughter could appear before him now, how his heart would burst with joy. What would my father's heart do when I appeared? Would it squirm and shrink in his chest, close up like a fist?
Funny, I thought, how even though the scene in the cottage was terribly bizarre, I couldn't help but be jealous. I never had a father sit on my bed and read to me. I never had a father fix my blanket and kiss my cheek and wish me sweet dreams. I never had a father who gave me a feeling of security and love, who protected me from the demons that danced outside my windows. For a moment I almost wished I was Mary Margaret, pretending, but feeling the love I longed to feel.
What would be my first words to my real father? Should I ask him how he intended to make it up to me? Should I ask him to compensate for all those long and lonely nights, the deep holes of emptiness in which I dwelled? Should I hate him or should I love him?
Maybe I should drag him to the cottage of dreams and force him to read me a bedtime story. In my heart of hearts, I believed my Great-uncle Richard, perhaps more than anyone, would understand why I wanted to do that. He wouldn't laugh or condemn me for it. He might even send Boggs in that limousine to pick up my father and bring him here.
"You've got a daughter you denied all these years?" he would say in astonishment. "Why? Why were you given the opportunity to have her and deny her while I, who was thankful for my own daughter, was denied her? Why?"
Where were the answers to all these questions? Should I even bother to look for them or should I go on like so many people I knew now and pretend there were no questions? Did I even have a choice?
Some time ago, a beautiful young woman threw herself impulsively, recklessly into the arms of a handsome, intelligent black man who had somehow captured her heart. They were too passionate to care about anything but their own need to feel more alive. He planted his seed in her and she gave birth to me as much out of defiance as anything, I imagine. Their love was not the lasting kind. They parted because they weren't willing to make the bigger sacrifices and I, I was forgotten along with the passion.
Years later, I would appear before them and I would try to understand what it was that made me.
Was it Fate punishing them?
Was it love emerging despite them?
Was it some carefree, wandering spark of life that drifted into my name?
Today, I had looked at the man who made me and he was still a stranger.
Tomorrow, I would look at him again.
My ears were filled with the sound of that music box. I closed my eyes and imagined my father's lips on my cheek. I heard him say, "I won't let you be afraid again."
And knowing I could dream that dream, I wasn't afraid of sleep.
10
Denied Again
.
It was performance night, yet my heart wasn't
thumping as I had expected it would. Nervousness had turned into raw fear and that had dropped a sheet of thin ice over me, making me feel numb to the point where I couldn't feel my own heartbeat. It was being smothered by a pillow of tension. Philip Roder was finishing his dance selection taken from The Nutcracker He looked so graceful and perfect. Why did I have to follow him? The distinction between someone who was well on his way to becoming a professional and me, a naked amateur, would never be as clear.
Sarah Broadhurst, whom I knew was green with envy because I had been chosen over her to perform the cut from Hamlet, made a point of coming up to me while I waited in the wings to tell me that the audiences who came to the school's showcase evenings were very sophisticated.
"These are the same people who frequent the London theater and there will be many agents and even some directors sitting out there looking for potential new talent.
It's far different from performing in some high school in America," she said with disdain. "It's not an audience clumped with doting relatives who refuse to see mistakes and mediocrity. These people have seen and heard Hamlet many, many times and will know immediately whether you are any good."
"Thanks," I said, refusing to show her how much she had unnerved me. "It's nice of you to care enough to want to help me."
"Help you?"
"I hope I can do the same for you someday, Sarah," I followed just as Philip's dance piece came to an end. The applause was deafening.
The school's theater was small, intimate. The audience was practically in the lap of the performers. Every sound resonated. I anticipated hearing my own voice reverberate, making me even more aware of every sour syllable I might utter.
Now that I was moments away from stepping onto that stage, my smothered heart burst out and pounded madly. The curtain was closed to give the audience the sense of
In a way it wasn't hard for me to understand her insanity. Her father had been taken from her and she felt lost and alone and terribly betrayed.
I waited in the wings. Clarence took his position. Sarah was right about one thing: the audience had that look of anticipation, clearly illustrating that they knew exactly what was to come.
The curtain opened and Clarence turned and said, "How now, what noise is that?"
I entered slowly, paused and looked up as if I had heard something. The audience was so still, I thought for a moment that they all might have left, including my Great-aunt Leonora and my Great-uncle Richard who were seated in the second row center.
Clarence finished Laertes's speech to express his shock at seeing his sister turned into a madwoman.
I smiled as insanely as I could at the audience. Caught in the spotlight, I could barely make out any of their faces, which was good.
"They bore him barefac'd on the bier," I began and sang, "Hey non nonny, nonny, hey nonny.
"And in his grave rain 'd many a teal: Fare you well, my dove."
It didn't take more than five minutes or so to do the scene of madness. I crossed from one side of the stage to the other and when I entered the wing on the opposite side, I felt as if I had walked barefoot over a bed of nails.
The applause that followed was almost as loud as it had been for Philip Roder. Mr. MacWaine was waiting there to greet me.
"You're launched," he declared. "Hear that?" he asked referring to the ovation. "Remember it well. You'll hear it many, many more times, my dear," he promised.
Behind him, Randall was glowing. He was scheduled to sing his solo in a moment.
"Was I really all right?" I asked.
"You looked and sounded like you were born to be in the lights," Randall said. He gave me a quick peck on the cheek and strutted out onstage, looking buoyed by my performance. He sang beautifully. By the time all our performances were over, Mr. MacWaine was floating with such happiness, I didn't think his feet touched the ground.
"This was one of the best showcases the school has ever had," he declared.
Sarah Broadhurst grimaced so sharply, she looked like she was in pain.
Afterward, at our tea-and-cake reception, Mr. MacWaine's evaluation appeared to be justified. People were fawning over us, giving us so many compliments, I felt guilty of sinful pride. My greataunt basked in the accolades I received, declaring at least a half dozen times that I was her au pair from America. My Great-uncle Richard was as reserved-as ever, but I noticed he looked at me differently. Twice before the evening ended, I caught him staring at me. It was as if I had turned into Cinderella. There was a glint of respect, of appreciation in his eyes, although he never betrayed it in his voice or manner.
Afterward, in the car going home, he offered a more detailed review of my performance.
"The school is teaching you poise, control. I was impressed with your stage voice, your diction, and I thought you did rather well with your body. For an American youth performing an English classic, that is," he added.
"What a shame your parents aren't alive and here to see you," my Great-aunt Leonora added. "I'm sure their hearts would have burst with pride."
"She's too old for that sort of thing now, Leonora.
What she has to do is win over the minds and hearts of complete strangers if she is to go on with a stage career," Great-uncle Richard declared.
"Still, it's nice to have family around you at times like this," she said wistfully.
Great-uncle Richard seemed to be annoyed with her and turned away, growing silent. Still, from time to time before we arrived at Endfield Place, he stole what I thought were furtive glances at me. I could feel his gaze and when I looked at him, he always shifted his eyes and stared out the window. Once we arrived at the house, he quickly went to his den.
"I know you must be tired, dear," Great-aunt Leonora said. "These things are so emotionally exhausting. For the life of me, I don't know why anyone would want a career on the stage. Life is a stage enough?'
"That's what Shakespeare said," I told her.
"Of course it is," she said even though I was positive she didn't know what I meant. "Why did you think I said it? Well, I'll be sure to write my sister and tell her of your great success," she added, laughed nervously and went to her room.
Randall had wanted me to go out with him after the reception, but I didn't think it was proper to leave the Endfields in light of their attending the
performances. I retreated instead to my own small closet of a room, prepared for bed and then lay there, basking in my immediate memories: the applause, how I had felt on stage, the pleasure in Mr.
MacWaine's face, Randall's glee and all the wonderful comments at the reception.
Maybe I could do this. Maybe it wasn't a pipe dream after all and Grandma Hudson was right in pressuring me to come here and study. What I couldn't help but wonder is what my real father would have thought of my performance. After all, he was a Shakespearean expert, wasn't he?
I imagined that he had come to our performance and sat in the back of the audience, undetected. Afterward, he was so impressed with me that he made a point of coming to the reception to tell me so, and all this without knowing that I was his daughter.
He would invite me to have coffee or tea with him to discuss my career and to talk about the great plays. And then, in the middle of all that, I would burst out with the truth and he would be so
overwhelmed but so overjoyed that he would embrace me and be anxious to announce the news to everyone.
I felt a smile settle into my face as I lay there, staring into the darkness, dreaming. Suddenly I heard Boggs's loud footsteps in the hail. It sounded as if he was trying to poke holes in the floor with his heels. The door of my little room rattled when he passed by. I heard his door open and close and then all grew quiet. The small stow' of noise shook me out of my reverie.
What was I doing anyway but pretending and dabbling in childish make-believe. Maybe I was not so different from my Great-uncle Richard
participating in his illusions with Mary Margaret.
How long had she and my Great-uncle Richard been conducting this little drama? I wondered. Did she want to participate or was she forced to in order to keep her job? Who else knew beside Boggs? Did Great-aunt Leonora know but pretend not to? Was this why Mrs. Chester was so adamant that I mind my own business when I had asked about the cottage?
This is truly a house filled with ghosts, I thought, ghosts better left undisturbed. I would be like everyone else and pretend none of it was happening. Minding your own business seemed to be the credo for survival in this world. In a real sense it wasn't so different from the world I had been raised in when I lived in Washington. Hear no evil, see no evil and you'll get through it all was the lesson everyone learned as soon as she or he could hear, see and understand.
Maybe the stage was the safest place after all. It was like stepping through the looking glass into a wonderland where people could cry and laugh and touch each other and look at each other and worry about nothing at all except the sound of applause when the curtain came down.
Do anything you can, I told myself, to keep what my drama teacher called the invisible fourth wall between yourself and the real world. Then you'll always be safe. Then, you'll finally be safe.
There had been something magnetic about seeing my real father and his children. Try as I would, I couldn't keep the memory of it out of my mind. I didn't want to tell Randall how much I was thinking about my father because I was afraid he might rush out and do something even more dramatic. When he had forged ahe
All the next week, whenever I could, I returned to the street on which my father lived and I stood around waiting across the street to catch a glimpse of him. I saw his wife twice, once by herself and once with their little boy. Seeing her again, I was able to appreciate her good looks more. She had a reddish tint to her brown hair. The first time I saw her she wore it down and loose around her shoulders, and the second time she had it woven into a French twist.
When I looked at her the second time, she wasn't much more than a dozen or so feet away. I kept my head down but looked up quickly when we were close to each other. Her face really was angular and interesting with almond-shaped brown eyes and tiny freckles peppered on the crests of her cheeks. She had a soft, perfect mouth that relaxed into a gentle, friendly smile when her eyes met mine, even for a split second. It sent a cold electric shock into my stomach because I felt like someone who had been discovered spying.
This time she was wearing a dark gray sweater and a long, flowing skirt. She looked no older than a first- or second-year college girl to me. Her little boy held tightly to her hand, but kept his head down as if he was counting cracks in the sidewalk. It was all over in seconds, but how my heart pounded.
I never saw my father the entire week. I was either there at the wrong times to catch him or he was away. It was frustrating. I told myself I was just tormenting myself more and more by going there. Why look at something or someone who could never be what you wanted him to be? I felt like a very poor girl standing in front of the windows of an expensive department store looking in on things I could never hope to own. Wasn't it better to simply pretend the store didn't exist, to walk right by and never look inside?