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Authors: V.C. Andrews
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Roxy pout and sulk, thinking she would have to share our parents’
attention and love? Share her throne? Was she worried that she would have to help
take care of me and that it would cut into her fun time? Although I didn’t know how
she felt about me for some time, from the little I remembered about her, I had the
impression that I was at least an inconvenience to her. Maybe my being born was the
real reason Roxy became so rebellious.
My mother told me that my father believed her complications in giving birth to Roxy
were God’s first warning about her. However, despite her difficult birth, there was
nothing physically wrong with Roxy. She began exceptionally beautiful and is to this
day, but according to Mama, even when Roxy was an infant, she was headstrong and rebellious.
She ate when she wanted to eat, no matter what my mother prepared for her or how she
tried to get her to eat, and she slept when she wanted to sleep. Rocking her or singing
to her didn’t work. My mother told me my father would get into a rage about it. Finally,
he insisted she take Roxy to the doctor. She did, but the doctor concluded that there
was absolutely nothing wrong with Roxy. My father ordered her to find another doctor.
The result was the same.
Roxy’s tantrums continued until my mother finally gave in and slept when Roxy wanted
to sleep. She even ate when Roxy wanted to eat, leaving my father to eat alone often.
“If I didn’t eat with her, she wouldn’t eat, or she’d take hours to do so,” my mother
said. “Your father thought she was being spiteful even when she was an infant.”
According to how my mother described all this to me, Roxy’s tantrums spread to everything
she did and everything that was done with her or for her. My father complained to
my mother that he couldn’t pick Roxy up or kiss her unless she wanted him to do so
at that moment. If he tried to do otherwise, she wailed and flailed about “like a
fish out of water.” My mother didn’t disagree with that description. She said Roxy
would even hold her breath and stiffen her body into stone until she got her way.
Her face would turn pink and then crimson.
“As red as a polished apple! I had no doubt that she would die before she would give
in or get what she wanted.”
I was always told that fathers and daughters could have a special relationship, because
daughters often see their fathers as perfect, and fathers see their daughters as little
princesses. My mother assured me that nothing was farther from the truth when it came
to Roxy and my father.
“ Mon Dieu. I swear sometimes your father would look at Roxy with such fire in his eyes that
I thought he’d burn down the house,” my mother said.
Although she was French, my mother was fluent in English as a child, and after years
and years of living in America, she usually reverted to French with my father and
me only when she became emotional or wanted to stress something. Of course, I learned
to speak French because of her. She knew that teaching it to me when I was young was
the best way to get me fluent in the language.
“Your sister would look right back at him defiantly and never flinch. He was always
the first to give up, to look away. And if he ever spanked her or slapped her, she
would never cry.
“Once, when she was fourteen and came home after two o’clock in the morning when she
wasn’t even supposed to go out, he took his belt to her,” my mother continued. “I
had to pull him off her, practically claw his arm to get him to stop. You know how
big your father’s hands are and how powerful he can be, especially when he’s very
angry. Roxy didn’t cry and never said a word. She simply went to her room as if she
had walked right through him.
“She defied him continually, breaking every rule he set down, until he gave up and
threw her out of the house. You were just eight and really the ideal child in
attention and love? Share her throne? Was she worried that she would have to help
take care of me and that it would cut into her fun time? Although I didn’t know how
she felt about me for some time, from the little I remembered about her, I had the
impression that I was at least an inconvenience to her. Maybe my being born was the
real reason Roxy became so rebellious.
My mother told me that my father believed her complications in giving birth to Roxy
were God’s first warning about her. However, despite her difficult birth, there was
nothing physically wrong with Roxy. She began exceptionally beautiful and is to this
day, but according to Mama, even when Roxy was an infant, she was headstrong and rebellious.
She ate when she wanted to eat, no matter what my mother prepared for her or how she
tried to get her to eat, and she slept when she wanted to sleep. Rocking her or singing
to her didn’t work. My mother told me my father would get into a rage about it. Finally,
he insisted she take Roxy to the doctor. She did, but the doctor concluded that there
was absolutely nothing wrong with Roxy. My father ordered her to find another doctor.
The result was the same.
Roxy’s tantrums continued until my mother finally gave in and slept when Roxy wanted
to sleep. She even ate when Roxy wanted to eat, leaving my father to eat alone often.
“If I didn’t eat with her, she wouldn’t eat, or she’d take hours to do so,” my mother
said. “Your father thought she was being spiteful even when she was an infant.”
According to how my mother described all this to me, Roxy’s tantrums spread to everything
she did and everything that was done with her or for her. My father complained to
my mother that he couldn’t pick Roxy up or kiss her unless she wanted him to do so
at that moment. If he tried to do otherwise, she wailed and flailed about “like a
fish out of water.” My mother didn’t disagree with that description. She said Roxy
would even hold her breath and stiffen her body into stone until she got her way.
Her face would turn pink and then crimson.
“As red as a polished apple! I had no doubt that she would die before she would give
in or get what she wanted.”
I was always told that fathers and daughters could have a special relationship, because
daughters often see their fathers as perfect, and fathers see their daughters as little
princesses. My mother assured me that nothing was farther from the truth when it came
to Roxy and my father.
“ Mon Dieu. I swear sometimes your father would look at Roxy with such fire in his eyes that
I thought he’d burn down the house,” my mother said.
Although she was French, my mother was fluent in English as a child, and after years
and years of living in America, she usually reverted to French with my father and
me only when she became emotional or wanted to stress something. Of course, I learned
to speak French because of her. She knew that teaching it to me when I was young was
the best way to get me fluent in the language.
“Your sister would look right back at him defiantly and never flinch. He was always
the first to give up, to look away. And if he ever spanked her or slapped her, she
would never cry.
“Once, when she was fourteen and came home after two o’clock in the morning when she
wasn’t even supposed to go out, he took his belt to her,” my mother continued. “I
had to pull him off her, practically claw his arm to get him to stop. You know how
big your father’s hands are and how powerful he can be, especially when he’s very
angry. Roxy didn’t cry and never said a word. She simply went to her room as if she
had walked right through him.
“She defied him continually, breaking every rule he set down, until he gave up and
threw her out of the house. You were just eight and really the ideal child in
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