Family Storms by V.C. Andrews Page A

was overwhelmed with the house and the gifts, all of my sadness was dead and buried? Could she possibly believe that I had already forgotten what had happened to my mother?
    I think she saw the look on my face and understood. Her smile flew off, and she grew serious as she approached me with the outfit.
    â€œOh, I know how unhappy and terrible you must feel,” she began. “I don’t want you to think for one moment that I don’t know or don’t care. I want you to remember and love your mother forever. I promised I would have whatever you wanted written on her tombstone, remember? As soon as you think of it, you tell me, and we’ll have it done, and then you and I will go there to see it. But in the meantime, you’ve got to survive and grow and be healthy again. Don’t blame me for trying to help you do that. I know you must hate me always talking about my Alena, but …”
    â€œNo, I don’t hate you for that,” I said quickly. I glanced at the framed photograph of her. “She was a very pretty girl, and I’m sure she was very nice.”
    â€œThank you, dear. If you don’t want to wear this,” she added, holding up the skirt and blouse, “you don’t have to. You can pick out something else.”
    â€œNo, it’s all right,” I said. I almost told her about my doll but somehow felt that there were things so private that theystill belonged only with Mama and me. Despite what Jackie called her charity, Mrs. March had not earned that trust. She was not my mother; she was not even a friend yet. She was simply someone who felt sorry for me and felt guilty because of what her daughter had done. It was I who was being the charitable one. I was letting her live with the guilt. That’s what Jackie had told me, and it made sense to me now more than ever.
    I reached for the outfit.
    â€œCan I help you get dressed?” she asked.
    I nodded, and she began by helping me take off the blouse I wore. She moaned at the sight of the fading black-and-blue marks and mumbled, “Poor child. What a horror you’ve gone through.” She looked as if she was going to burst into tears, so I made sure to tell her that none of it hurt as much as it had.
    After I was dressed in the sailor outfit, she wheeled me in front of the vanity table. I was amazed at how well it fit.
    â€œLet’s do something with your hair,” she said, and began brushing it. “You do have beautiful hair, and thick, too. I bet your mother’s hair was beautiful.”
    â€œYes. She used to wear it down to her wing bones.”
    â€œI wish I could have long hair, but Donald says it makes me look older, and if there is one thing Donald hates, it’s my looking older.”
    â€œWhat about him?”
    â€œMen can always look older and call it distinguished, didn’t you know?” she asked, smiling.
    She opened a drawer in the vanity table and chose some hair clips. When I saw how she had shaped my hair,I looked at the framed photo of Alena and realized it was very similar.
    â€œThere now,” she said, stepping back. “Don’t you look very pretty?”
    â€œI hope someday I’ll be half as pretty as my mother was,” I said.
    She kept her smile, but it lost its excitement and warmth. She nodded and turned me away from the vanity table. “I do hope you like Irish stew. Mrs. Caro makes the best.”
    â€œI don’t remember ever having it,” I said as she pushed me to the doorway.
    â€œWell, you eat just what you want. She’s made a special dessert for us, a surprise, too. Here we go,” she said, and turned me down the corridor toward the elevator.
    I had seen only a small part of the house when I arrived. When the elevator door opened, she pushed me to the left and around a corner. The hallway seemed endless, but along the way, she pointed out the game room, the formal dining room, the den and library, the