Read Online Easter Island by Jennifer Vanderbes - Free Book Online

He had never done this before.
    “Understand this,” he said. “Alice does not need to be fixed. She needs to be cared for. And you will not now or ever refer to any of Alice’s behavior as a problem or defect. Do I need to repeat myself?”
    Elsa’s head dropped—she had meant only to see if they could help Alice. She refused to answer. Was she not the one who always fought on Alice’s behalf? Suddenly a shriek erupted beside her—Alice, hand raised above her head, face flushed with anger, began to twist and spin, until the propeller of her arm landed with a firm thwack on their father’s stomach. She swung back for another strike, but their father caught her wrist. His eyes were mapped with capillaries.
    “Alice. My little Alice.”
    But Alice only glared at him, the vein on her forehead plump with rage, her narrow chest rising and falling with exertion. He released her wrist and Alice again launched her arm.
    “Allie,” said Elsa, grabbing her. “It’s all right.”
    Their father stared down at them as though searching for the just response. This was too much for him; Elsa could see it. It was the first time he had shown such exhaustion, such confusion. He shook his head, then walked down the steps toward the busy London street.
    “Elsa, I hit him!” Alice wrenched free from Elsa’s grip. “I hit Papa. Did you see me?” She sprang to her toes and began to bounce.
    Tugging Alice by the sleeve, Elsa hurried down the steps until they flanked him. “Father,” said Elsa. “Please . . . Father.”
    He did not stop; he did not even look at them.
    “I’m sorry, Father.”
    “Hmmnn? What is it?”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Elsa’s sorry!” shouted Alice.
    He seemed disoriented. “You must catch your breath, Elsa. Calm yourself. Why have you let yourself get flustered?”
    “Elsa’s sorry!”
    “Elsa? Sorry? What on earth for?” He glanced up at the sky and sighed, a long, tired sound that seemed to have taken years to work its way out of him. “No. No one needs to be sorry. No one. Let’s get home before dark.”
    And together they walked down the sidewalk in silence, as though nothing had happened.
    On the boat’s rain-washed promenade, Elsa hears the rumble of the engine, the sharp voice of a mother forbidding her child to run, the murmurs of a couple leaning on the railing to watch the sun break through the clouds. The rain has stopped, but a cold wind sweeps the deck. She trails her fingertips along the chilly rail and surveys the horizon. No England; no Europe. Is it really possible to leave the past behind? To begin anew? But Elsa knows all too well this yearning in herself. When leaving home for her first governess post, she had imagined she could start afresh, could unhinge her former frame of solemnity and let herself curl into a new, carefree girl, the kind she had always envied. But the frame was too old, and, despite her hopes, despite her efforts, it held firm.
    Seating herself on a dry bench, Elsa opens
On the Origin of Species.
She’s read some of this before—her father, of course, had a copy; and often it could be found in the libraries of her employers. But this is
her
volume. Burgundy leather, beautiful. She smiles at the thought that she can crease the pages. She can mark the margins. She can drip tea across the pristine ivory pages. “First edition” means little; what matters is that the book is her own, and as such should bear traces of her use. With this in mind, Elsa turns to the introduction and with her thumb and forefinger nicks the page’s upper corner. There. She looks up, hoping, perhaps, that someone has seen her. A silly gesture, she knows, but it fills her with a sudden satisfaction, as if this small act of destruction, of rebellion, has for a moment offset the prudence of all her other choices.
    Elsa begins reading, and with her pencil underlines passages of interest. This, too, gives her great pleasure, and she wonders if some primitive instinct is at work.