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Authors: V. C. Andrews
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mean—”
“We need to pray together and not rake over the details right now,” he said firmly. “It’s like tearing scabs off of fresh wounds.”
His mother nodded and reached for his hand, too. With our heads bowed, we all entered the dining room, John’s father trailing behind. In moments, I knew, it would take on the aura of a private chapel. We all faced the crucifix on the wall, but to me, Jesus looked deaf and blind. Does he really hear the prayers of the rich who would have a harder time entering heaven than a camel would have passing through the eye of a needle? I thought, but I prayed just as loudly. I would do anything to get Mary back.
My parents were far more emotional when they arrived. My mother looked as if she had been crying for most of the trip, and when she embraced me, she held on tightly until my father gently urged her back so he could also embrace me and kiss me. Unlike John’s parents, my parents looked their age and also looked as if they enjoyed their food. Both sets of parents immediately began to comfort each other more than us. Fortunately, my parents were very tired, and after a good hour or so of talk seasoned with frequent sobbing and then curses and rage, my mother agreed to go to sleep. My father tended to her. John’s parents stayed at our house until nearly one and then left. Except for a call John received from a friend at work who was checking to see if he was all right since he had left work so early and hadn’t called in, the phone didn’t ring all evening.
Now that it was late, a cemetery stillness had come over our home. Lights were dimmed. Darkness seemed to crawl in under the doors, seeping in and around me like black smoke. I drifted in and out and finally, after John’s prodding, took another pill and went to sleep.
The moment I woke up, I asked John if there had been any calls. He was already up, dressed, and brushing his hair in the bathroom.
“No,” he said without turning to me. He finished his hair and stepped out. “As soon as you’re up and about, they want to meet with us.”
“Has something happened to her? It had nothing to do with any ransom, did it? Did they find her?”
“No, Grace. I would have woken you if anything like that had occurred. Take a shower and get dressed,” he said. He didn’t look tired and overwrought now. I didn’t know why it should, but it irked me. His strength and self-control were something I had come to despise. I had brought that up in therapy often, but it was especially true right now in light of my fragile hold on sanity. I knew I should be grateful to have someone this strong to lean on and depend on, but it had a different effect on me. My therapist agreed. It made me feel weaker, less competent, in fact worthless, especially now, when I was needed the most.
“I’ll be right there,” I told him, getting out of bed.
“Good,” he said. He stepped forward and embraced me, but it was his father’s sort of embrace, quick and with little warmth.
He does blame me, I thought. Despite his faith and belief that God knows and controls all things, he blames me. He would never say it, however. At that moment, I wished he would. That seemed to me to be more natural—even, ironically, more loving. I was no Abraham ready to sacrifice his Isaac, and deep down inside him, he was no Abraham, either, I thought or maybe hoped. But I knew in my heart that if this continued and was never resolved, I’d be the only one in the family who hated God.
5
Waiting and Praying
My parents had gotten up way ahead of both of us. My mother had sent my father out to buy some groceries. When I descended the stairs, I discovered that she had already prepared some breakfast for everyone, one of her elaborate breakfasts with a choice of omelets, bacon, and sausages. I knew she was trying to be helpful, but I also knew she was showing me that work would hold us together. “Keep busy” was the message in her eyes. John’s parents
“We need to pray together and not rake over the details right now,” he said firmly. “It’s like tearing scabs off of fresh wounds.”
His mother nodded and reached for his hand, too. With our heads bowed, we all entered the dining room, John’s father trailing behind. In moments, I knew, it would take on the aura of a private chapel. We all faced the crucifix on the wall, but to me, Jesus looked deaf and blind. Does he really hear the prayers of the rich who would have a harder time entering heaven than a camel would have passing through the eye of a needle? I thought, but I prayed just as loudly. I would do anything to get Mary back.
My parents were far more emotional when they arrived. My mother looked as if she had been crying for most of the trip, and when she embraced me, she held on tightly until my father gently urged her back so he could also embrace me and kiss me. Unlike John’s parents, my parents looked their age and also looked as if they enjoyed their food. Both sets of parents immediately began to comfort each other more than us. Fortunately, my parents were very tired, and after a good hour or so of talk seasoned with frequent sobbing and then curses and rage, my mother agreed to go to sleep. My father tended to her. John’s parents stayed at our house until nearly one and then left. Except for a call John received from a friend at work who was checking to see if he was all right since he had left work so early and hadn’t called in, the phone didn’t ring all evening.
Now that it was late, a cemetery stillness had come over our home. Lights were dimmed. Darkness seemed to crawl in under the doors, seeping in and around me like black smoke. I drifted in and out and finally, after John’s prodding, took another pill and went to sleep.
The moment I woke up, I asked John if there had been any calls. He was already up, dressed, and brushing his hair in the bathroom.
“No,” he said without turning to me. He finished his hair and stepped out. “As soon as you’re up and about, they want to meet with us.”
“Has something happened to her? It had nothing to do with any ransom, did it? Did they find her?”
“No, Grace. I would have woken you if anything like that had occurred. Take a shower and get dressed,” he said. He didn’t look tired and overwrought now. I didn’t know why it should, but it irked me. His strength and self-control were something I had come to despise. I had brought that up in therapy often, but it was especially true right now in light of my fragile hold on sanity. I knew I should be grateful to have someone this strong to lean on and depend on, but it had a different effect on me. My therapist agreed. It made me feel weaker, less competent, in fact worthless, especially now, when I was needed the most.
“I’ll be right there,” I told him, getting out of bed.
“Good,” he said. He stepped forward and embraced me, but it was his father’s sort of embrace, quick and with little warmth.
He does blame me, I thought. Despite his faith and belief that God knows and controls all things, he blames me. He would never say it, however. At that moment, I wished he would. That seemed to me to be more natural—even, ironically, more loving. I was no Abraham ready to sacrifice his Isaac, and deep down inside him, he was no Abraham, either, I thought or maybe hoped. But I knew in my heart that if this continued and was never resolved, I’d be the only one in the family who hated God.
5
Waiting and Praying
My parents had gotten up way ahead of both of us. My mother had sent my father out to buy some groceries. When I descended the stairs, I discovered that she had already prepared some breakfast for everyone, one of her elaborate breakfasts with a choice of omelets, bacon, and sausages. I knew she was trying to be helpful, but I also knew she was showing me that work would hold us together. “Keep busy” was the message in her eyes. John’s parents
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