Dollenganger 04 Seeds of Yesterday Read online

  "Melodie, I want to have a long talk with you as soon as we finish breakfast. You're not going to run away this time, or turn deaf ears, and shut out my voice with your blank stare."

  "Mother!" flared Bart. "Can't you see her viewpoint? Maybe someday Jory will be able to drag himself around on crutches, if he wears a heavy back brace and a harness . . . can you imagine Jory like that? I can't. Even I don't want to see him like that."

  Melodie let out a shrieking cry, jumping to her feet. Bart followed suit, to hold her protectively in his arms.

  "Don't cry, MeJodie," he soothed in a tender, caring voice. Melodie uttered another small cry of distress, then fled the terrace. The three of us sat quietly staring after her When she was out of sight, our eyes fixed on Bart, who sat down to finish his breakfast as if we weren't there.

  "Bart," said Chris in this opportune moment before Joel joined us, "what do you know about the wet sand in the papier-mache columns?"

  "I don't understand," said Bart smoothly, appearing very distracted as he stared at the door through which Melodie had disappeared.

  "Then I'll explain more carefully," went on Chris. "It was understood the sand would be dry so it would spill out easily and not harm anyone. Who wet the sand?"

  Narrowing his eyes first, Bart answered sharply, "So now I'm going to be accused of causing Jory's accident--and deliberately ruining the best time I've had until he was hurt. Why, it's just like it used to be when I was nine and ten. My fault, everything was always my fault. When Clover died, you both presumed I was the one to wrap the wire about his neck, never giving me the benefit of a doubt. When Apple was killed, again you thought it was me, when you knew I loved both Clover and Apple. I've never killed anything. Even when you found out later it was John Amos, you put me through hell before you said you were sorry. Well, say you're sorry now, for damned if I'll take the blame for Jory's broken back!"

  I wanted to believe him so much tears came to my eyes. "But who wet the sand, Bart?" I asked, leaning forward and reaching for his hand "Somebody did."

  His dark eyes went bleak. "Several of the workhands disliked me for being too bossy . . . but I don't really think they would do anything to hurt Jory. After all, it wasn't me up there."

  For some reason I believed him. He didn't know anything about the wet sand, and when I met Chris's eyes, I knew he was convinced as well. But in asking, we'd alienated Bart . . . again.

  He sat silently now, not smiling as he finished his meal. In the garden I glimpsed Joel in the shadows of dense shrubbery as if he'd been eavesdropping on our conversation while pretending to admire the flowers in bloom.

  "Forgive us if we hurt you, Bart. Please, do what you can to help us find out who did wet the sand. But for that, Jory would have the use of his legs."

  Wisely Cindy had kept very quiet during all of this.

  Bart started to reply, but at that moment Trevor stepped from the house and began serving us. Quickly I swallowed a light breakfast, then rose to go. I had to do something to bring back Melodie's sense of responsibility. "Excuse me, Chris, Cindy. Take your time and finish your breakfast. I'll join you later."

  Joel slipped out of the shadows of the dense shrubbery and seated himself beside Bart. As I turned to glance back over my shoulder, I saw Joel lean toward Bart, whispering something I couldn't make out.

  Feeling heavy of heart, I headed for the room that Melodie now used.

  Face down on the bed she and Jory had shared, Melodie was crying. I perched on the side of her bed, thinking about all the right words to say--but where were the right words? "He's alive, Melodie, and that counts, doesn't it? He's still with us. With you. You can reach out and touch him, talk to him, say all the things I wish I'd said to his father. Go to the hospital. Every day you stay away, he dies a bit more. If you don't go, if you just stay here and feel sorry for yourself, you'll live to regret it. Jory can still hear you, Melodie. Don't leave him now. He needs you now more than he's ever needed you before."

  Wild and hysterical, she turned to beat at me with small fists. I caught her wrists to keep from being injured.

  "But I can't face him, Cathy! I've known he lies there, silent and alone where I can't reach him. He doesn't answer when you speak, so why would he respond to me? If I kissed him and he said or did nothing, I'd die inside. Besides, you don't really know him, not like I do. You're his mother, not his wife. You don't realize just how important his sexual life is to him. Now he won't have any. Do you have any idea of what that one thing is doing to him? To say nothing of losing the use of his legs, and giving up his career. He so wanted to prove himself for his father's sake-- his real father's sake. And you kid yourself to think he's alive. He isn't. He's already left you, Cathy. Left me, too. He doesn't have to die. He's already dead while he's still alive."

  How her impassioned words stung me. Maybe because they were all too true.

  I panicked inside, realizing that Jory could very well do as Julian had done--find a way to end his life. I tried to console myself. Jory was not like his father, he was like Chris. Eventually Jory would come around and make the best of what he had left.

  I sat on that bed, staring at my daughter-in-law, and realized I didn't know her. Didn't know the girl I'd seen off and on since she was eleven. I'd seen the facade of a pretty, graceful girl who'd always seemed to adore Jory. "What kind of woman are you, Melodie? Just what kind?"

  She flipped over on her back and glared angrily at me.

  "Not your kind, Cathy!" she almost screamed. "You're made of special rugged stuff. I'm not. I was spoiled like you spoil your dear little Cindy. I was an only child and was given everything I wanted. I found out when I was small that life isn't all pretty picture book fables. And I didn't want it that way. When I was old enough, I ran to hide in the ballet. I told myself only in the world of fantasy could I find happiness. When I met Jory he seemed the prince I needed. Princes don't fall and injure their spinal cords, Cathy. They are never crippled. How can I live with Jory when I don't see him as a prince anymore? How, Cathy? Tell me how I can blind my eyes, and numb my senses, so I won't feel revulsion when he touches me. "

  I stood up.

  I stared down at her reddened eyes, her face made puffy from so much crying and felt all my admiration for her fade away. Weak, that's what she was. What a fool to believe that Jory wasn't made of the same flesh and blood as any other man. "Suppose the injury had been yours, Melodie. Would you want Jory to desert you?"

  She met my eyes squarely. "Yes, I would."

  I left Melodie still crying on her bed.

  Chris was waiting for me downstairs. "I thought if you went this morning, I'd visit him this afternoon, and Melodic can go to him tonight with Cindy. I'm sure you convinced her to go."

  "Yes, she'll go, but not today," I said without meeting his eyes. "She wants to wait until he opens his eyes and speaks--so that's my plan, to somehow reach him and make him respond.'

  "If anyone can do that, it will be you," Chris murmured in my hair.

  Jory lay supine on his hospital bed. The fracture was so low on his back that one fine day in the far future he might even gain back his potency. There were certain exercises he could do later on.

  I'd bought two huge long boxes of mixed bouquets that I'd put into tall vases.

  "Good morning, darling," I said brightly as I entered his small, sterile room.

  Jory didn't turn his head to look my way. He lay as I'd seen him last, staring straight up at the ceiling.

  Kissing his faintly chilled face, I began to arrange the flowers.

  "You'll be happy to know Melodie is no longer suffering from morning sickness. But she's tired most of the time. I remember I was tired, too, when I was pregnant with you."

  I bit down on my tongue, for I'd lost Julian not long after I knew I was with child. "It's a strange kind of summer, Jory. I can't say I really care for Joel. He seems very fond of Bart, but he does nothing but criticize Cindy. She can do nothing right in Joel's eyes, or in Bart's. I'm
thinking it would be a good idea to send Cindy off to a summer camp until school starts in the fall. You don't think Cindy is

  misbehaving, do you?"

  No answer.

  I tried not to sigh, or look at him with impatience. I drew a chair close to Jory's bed and caught hold of his limp hand. No response. It was like holding a dead fish. "Jory, they're going to keep on feeding you intravenously," I warned. "And if you still refuse to eat, they will put tubes in other veins, and use other methods to keep you alive, even if we have to eventually put you on every machine that will keep you going until you stop acting stubborn and come back to us."

  He didn't blink, or speak.

  "All right, Jory. I've been easy on you up until now--but I've had enough!" My tone turned harsh. "I love you too much to see you lie there and will yourself to die. So you don't care about anything, anymore, do you?

  "So you're crippled and you'll have to sit in a wheelchair until you can manage crutches, if you ever have that much ambition. So you're feeling sorry for yourself, and wondering how you can go on. Others have done it. Others have made lives for themselves, and been in worse condition than you are. So you tell yourself what others do doesn't count when it's your body, and your life--and maybe you're right. It doesn't matter what others do, if you want to think selfishly.

  "Tell me that the future holds nothing for you now. I thought that, too, at first. I don't like to see you lying there so still, Jory. It breaks my heart, your father's heart, and Cindy is beside herself with worry. Bart is so concerned he can't bear to come and see you lying there so withdrawn. And what do you think you're doing to Melodie? She's carrying your child, Jory. She's crying all day long. She's changing into a different person because she hears us talking about your lack of response and your stubborn inability to accept what can't be changed. We're sorry, terribly sorry you've lost the use of your legs--but what can any of us do but make the best out of a miserable situation? Jory, come back to us. We need you with us. We're not willing to stand back and watch you kill yourself. We love you. We don't give a damn if you can't dance and can't walk, we just want you alive, where we can see you, talk to you. Speak to us, Jory. Say something, anything. Speak to Melodie when she comes. Respond when she touches you . . . or you'll lose Melodie and your child. She loves you, you know that. But no woman can live on love when the object of her love turns away and rejects her. She doesn't come because she can't face the rejection that she knows you give us."

  During this long, impassioned speech, I'd kept my eyes on his face, hoping for some slight change of expression. I was rewarded by seeing a muscle near his tight lips twitch.

  Encouraged, I went on. "Melodie's parents have called and suggested that she return to them to have the baby. Do you want Melodie to go, thinking she can't do anything more for you? Jory, please, please, don't do this to all of us, to yourself. You have so much you can give the world. You're more than just a dancer, don't you know that? When you have talent it's only one branch on a tree full of many limbs. Why, you've never begun to explore the other branches. Who knows just what you might discover? Remember, I, too, made dancing my life, and when I couldn't dance, I didn't know what to do with myself. I'd hear the music playing, and you'd be dancing with Melodie in our family room. I'd stiffen inside and try to shut out the music that made my legs want to dance. My soul went soaring . . . and then I'd crash to earth and cry. But when I started writing, I stopped thinking about dancing. Jory, you'll find something of interest to replace dancing, I know you will."

  For the first time since he'd known he would never walk or dance again, Jory turned his head. That alone filled me with breathless joy.

  He met my eyes briefly. I saw the tears there, unshed but shining. "Mel is thinking about going to her parents?" he asked in a hoarse voice.

  Hope struggled to survive within me. I didn't know what Melodie would do now, even if he did come back to being himself. Yet I had to say everything right, and so seldom was I adequate. I'd failed with Julian, failed with Carrie. Please, God, don't let me fail with Jory.

  "She'd never leave you if you'd come back to her. She needs you, wants you. You turn away from us, proving to her that you'll turn from her as well. Your prolonged silence and unwillingness to eat say so much, Jory, so much to keep Melodie afraid. She's not like me. She doesn't bounce back, spring forth and kick and yell. She cries all the time. She only half eats . . . and she's pregnant, Jory. Pregnant with your baby. You think about how you felt when you heard what your father did and consider the effects your death will have on your child. Think long and hard about that before you continue with what you've got your mind set on. Think about yourself, and how much you wanted to have your own natural father. Jory, don't be like your father and leave a fatherless child behind you. Don't destroy us, when you destroy yourself!"

  "But, Mom!" he cried in great distress. "What am I going to do? I don't want to sit in a wheelchair the rest of my life! I'm angry, so damned angry I want to strike out and hurt everyone! What have I done to deserve this kind of punishment? I've been a good son, a faithful husband. But I can't be a husband now. There's no excitement down there anymore. I feel nothing below my waist. I'd be better off dead than like this!"

  My head lowered to press my cheek against his inert hand. "Maybe you would be, Jory. So go on and starve yourself, and will yourself to die, and never sit in a wheelchair--and don't think about any of us. Forget the grief you'll bring into our lives when you're gone. Forget about all those Chris and I have lost before. We can adjust, we're used to losing those we love most. We'll just add you to our long list of those to feel guilty about . . . for we will feel guilty. We'll search and search until we find something we failed to do right, and we'll enlarge that and make it grow, until it shuts out the sun and all happiness, and we'll go into our graves blaming ourselves for yet another life gone."

  "Mom! Stop! I can't stand to hear you talk like that!"

  "I can't stand what you're doing to us! Jory! Don't give up. It's not like you to even think of surrendering. Fight back. Tell yourself you're going to lick this and turn out a better, stronger person because you've faced up to adversities others can't even imagine."

  He was listening. "I don't know if I want to fight back. I've lain here since that night and thought about what I could do. Don't tell me I don't have to do anything because you're rich, and I've got money, too. Life is nothing without a goal, you know that."

  "Your child . . . make your child your goal. Making Melodie happy, another goal. Stay, Jory, stay . . . I can't bear to lose another, I can't, can't . . ." And then I was crying.

  And I'd determined not to show weakness and cry. I sobbed brokenly without looking at him. "After your father died, I made my baby the most important thing in my life. Maybe I did that to ease a guilty conscience, I don't know. But when you came along on Valentine's night and they laid you on my stomach so I could see you, my heart almost burst with pride. You were so strong looking, and your blue eyes were so bright. You grasped my finger and didn't want to let go. Paul was there, and Chris, too. They both adored you right from the beginning. You were such a happy, well-behaved baby. I think we all spoiled you, and you never had to cry to get what you wanted. Jory, now I know you are incapable of being spoiled. You've got an inner strength that will see you through. Eventually you'll be glad you hung on to see that child of yours. I know you'll be glad."

  During all of this, I'd sobbed my words almost incoherently. I think Jory felt sorry for me. His hand moved so he could wipe away my tears with the edge of his white sheet.

  "Got any ideas about what I could do in a wheelchair?" he asked in a small, mocking voice.

  "A thousand ideas, Jory. Why, this day isn't long enough to list them. You can learn to play the piano, study art, learn to write. Or you can become a ballet instructor. You don't have to strut around to do that--all you need is a good vocabulary and an untiring tongue. Or you can do something more mundane, like become a CPA, study law and give Bart so
me competition. In fact, there is very little you can't do. We're all handicapped in one way or another. You should know that. Bart's got his invisible handicap, worse than any you'll ever have. Think back to all his problems while you were dancing and having the time of your life. He was tormented by psychiatrists probing painfully into his deepest self."

  His eyes were brighter now, filling with vague hope that tried to find a mooring.

  "And think about the swimming pool Bart put in the yard. Your doctors say your arms are very strong, and after some physical therapy you can swim again."

  "What do you want me to do, Mom?" His voice was soft, gentle as his hand moved over my hair, and his gaze was tender.

  "Live, Jory, that's all."

  His eyes were soft now, full of tears that didn't fall. "What about you, Dad and Cindy? Weren't you planning to move to Hawaii?"

  For weeks I hadn't thought of Hawaii. I stared blankly before me. How could we leave now that Jory was injured and Melodie was in such distress? We couldn't leave.

  Foxworth Hall had trapped us again.

  The Reluctant Wife

  . Regretfully Chris and I neglected Cindy as we spent most of our time in the hospital with Jory. Cindy grew restless and bored in a hostile house with Joel, who gave her only disapproval, with Bart, who gave her only scorn, with Melodie, who had nothing to give to anyone.

  "Momma," she wailed. "I'm not having a good time! It's been a terrible summer, the worst. I'm sorry Jory's in the hospital and he won't ever walk or dance again, and I want to do what I can for him, but what about me? They only allow him to have two visitors at a time and you and Daddy are always with him. Even when I do see him, half the time I don't know what to say, or what to do. And I don't know what to do with myself when I'm here, either. This house is so isolated from the rest of the world it's like living on the moon-- boring, boring. You tell me not to go into the village, not to have dates unless you know about them, and you're never here to ask when someone invites me. You tell me not to swim when Bart and Joel are around. You tell me not to do so many things . . . what is it that I can do?"