The Unwelcomed Child by V. C. Andrews

slipped under my blanket. I heard their voices, a low murmuring from the living room, and then I heard them go up to bed. The house fell into its own silence, imperfect because of the way some of it creaked.
    All the washing, polishing, and dusting of this house couldn’t wipe away the shouting, the cries, and the moans with the tears that fell within it, I thought. The walls were surely marked with all of it. To me, since it had been my world for so long, it was truly a living thing. It held all the secrets, but maybe those secrets were getting to be too stressful for it. Sometimes I felt the house spoke to me. I was embraced by it the moment I was born. What it wanted was for me to be able to throw open the windows and let the fresh air wash away its scars and wounds. I was its hope.
    Despite the conflict raging inside me, when I awoke, dressed, and went out to breakfast, I saw how beautiful a day it was going to be. Grandfather Prescott talked about going to buy me paint and brushes again. He was taking Grandmother Myra to meet the school principal, and then they would stop at a department store that carried everything I needed. She didn’t object.
    “Why don’t you make yourself a sandwich and have a picnic, too?” he suggested. “We’ll be gone until the afternoon.”
    I looked at Grandmother Myra quickly, expecting some sort of objection, but she said nothing until they were preparing to leave.
    “Don’t be out there later than four,” she said. “We’re having the Marxes over tonight, and I’m doing a roasted chicken, and I want to have homemade potato salad.”
    “Okay, Grandmother,” I said.
    Ironically, they were the ones pushing me out now. How could I go into the woods and not be drawn to the lake? I had told Mason I wouldn’t be there until two, but since Grandfather Prescott had suggested I take a picnic lunch, I could be there much earlier. How would I let Mason know?
    I made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and took an apple and some milk. Then I gathered my pencils and pad and left just before they did. Grandmother Myra warned me once again to be back no later than four.
    “Not that I know what you could do out there all that time,” she added.
    “Artists lose track of time,” Grandfather Prescott reminded her. He gave me his watch again and leaned over to whisper, “I’m looking into getting you your own watch. Maybe today.”
    “What are you two whispering about?” Grandmother Myra asked. Nothing got past her. She seemed to have ears and eyes working for her everywhere in this house. From what I was able to understand about my mother, I was positive she couldn’t wait to get out every day and escape the scrutiny.
    “For us to know and you to ponder,” he told her.
    She grunted. “I remember enough of that between you and your daughter,” she said.
    Whenever she referred to my mother when talking to him, she never failed to call her my grandfather’s daughter, as if she had nothing to do with her. A few times, I actually wondered if that could be possible, but then thought that she was certainly not anyone who would care for a child who had no blood relationship to her. She couldn’t possibly forgive my grandfather for something like that anyway. It was stupid even to think about it.
    He just winked at me, and they left.
    I listened to the silence for a few moments, as if I expected the house to tell me what I should and shouldn’t do. I heard nothing, of course. This was one question I had to answer for myself: risk being permitted to get into the world, mixing with girls and boys my own age, become unchained and able to explore everything, or stay away from the lake and Mason and Claudine?
    I still wasn’t sure what I would do when I stepped out of the house. My first thought was go to the clearing, draw, and have lunch, but when I came to that point in the forest where I could make a turn and head for the lake, I paused. My interest in Mason and Claudine was too