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Authors: V.C. Andrews
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his
eyes, une enfant parfaite . Why waste his time on a hopeless cause, he would say, when he could spend his time
and energy on you instead? He was always afraid she’d be a bad influence on you, contaminate
you with her nasty and stubborn ways.
“Your sister didn’t cry or beg to stay. She packed her bags, took the little savings
she had, and went out into the world as if she had never expected to do anything different.
She didn’t even look to me to intercede on her behalf. I don’t think she ever respected
me as a woman or as her mother, because I wouldn’t stand up to your father the way
she would. Sometimes she wouldn’t even let me touch her. The moment I put my hand
out to stroke her hair or caress her face, she recoiled like a frightened bird.
“Maybe your father hoped she would finally learn a good lesson and return, begging
him to let her back into our home and family and promising to behave. But if he did
have that expectation, he was very good at keeping it secret. After she left, he avoided
mentioning her name to me, and if I talked about her, he would get up and leave the
room. If I did so at dinner, he would get up and go out to eat, and if I mentioned
her when we were in bed, he would go out to the living room to sleep.
“So I gave up trying to change his mind. Sometimes I went out looking for her, taking
you with me, but this is a very big city. Paris is a bigger city, but more people
live here in New York. It was probably as difficult as looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“Didn’t you call the police, try to get her face on milk cartons or something?”
“Your father wouldn’t hear of it for the first few months. Later, there were newspaper
stories and a magazine article about lost girls, and your sister was featured. Nothing
came of it. I used to go to other neighborhoods and walk and walk, hoping to come
upon her, especially on her birthday, but it wasn’t until five years later that your
father revealed that he had seen her. He told me only because he thought it proved
he was right to throw her out.
“He was at a dinner meeting with some of his associates at the investment bank. After
it had ended, one of them told him he had a special after-dinner date. They walked
out together, and a stretch limousine pulled up. The man winked at your father and
went to the limousine. The chauffeur opened the door, and your father saw a very attractive
and expensively dressed young woman inside the limousine. At first, he didn’t recognize
her, but after a few moments, he realized it was Roxy. He said she looked years older
than she was and that she glared out at him with the same defiance he had seen in
her face when she was only five.
“Later, he found out she was a high-priced call girl. She even had a fancy name, Fleur
du Coeur, which you know means ‘Flower of the Heart.’ That’s how rich men would ask
for her when they called the escort service.
“ Mon Dieu, mon Dieu! It broke my heart to hear all of that, but I didn’t cry in front of him.”
Even now, talking about it brought tears to her eyes, however.
My mother told me more about Roxy after my father had passed away. I was devastated
by my father’s death, but now that he was no longer there to stop it, I wanted to
hear as much as I could about my forbidden sister, the sister whose existence I could
never acknowledge.
I had no trouble pretending I was an only child. Since the day Roxy had left, I was
living that way anyway. My father had taken all of her pictures off the walls and
shelves and dressers. He had burned most of them. Mama was able to hide a few, but
anything else Roxy had left behind was dumped down the garbage chute. It was truly
as if he thought he could erase all traces of her existence. He never even acknowledged
her birthday. Looking at the calendar, he would do little more than blink.
He didn’t know it, but I still had a charm
eyes, une enfant parfaite . Why waste his time on a hopeless cause, he would say, when he could spend his time
and energy on you instead? He was always afraid she’d be a bad influence on you, contaminate
you with her nasty and stubborn ways.
“Your sister didn’t cry or beg to stay. She packed her bags, took the little savings
she had, and went out into the world as if she had never expected to do anything different.
She didn’t even look to me to intercede on her behalf. I don’t think she ever respected
me as a woman or as her mother, because I wouldn’t stand up to your father the way
she would. Sometimes she wouldn’t even let me touch her. The moment I put my hand
out to stroke her hair or caress her face, she recoiled like a frightened bird.
“Maybe your father hoped she would finally learn a good lesson and return, begging
him to let her back into our home and family and promising to behave. But if he did
have that expectation, he was very good at keeping it secret. After she left, he avoided
mentioning her name to me, and if I talked about her, he would get up and leave the
room. If I did so at dinner, he would get up and go out to eat, and if I mentioned
her when we were in bed, he would go out to the living room to sleep.
“So I gave up trying to change his mind. Sometimes I went out looking for her, taking
you with me, but this is a very big city. Paris is a bigger city, but more people
live here in New York. It was probably as difficult as looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“Didn’t you call the police, try to get her face on milk cartons or something?”
“Your father wouldn’t hear of it for the first few months. Later, there were newspaper
stories and a magazine article about lost girls, and your sister was featured. Nothing
came of it. I used to go to other neighborhoods and walk and walk, hoping to come
upon her, especially on her birthday, but it wasn’t until five years later that your
father revealed that he had seen her. He told me only because he thought it proved
he was right to throw her out.
“He was at a dinner meeting with some of his associates at the investment bank. After
it had ended, one of them told him he had a special after-dinner date. They walked
out together, and a stretch limousine pulled up. The man winked at your father and
went to the limousine. The chauffeur opened the door, and your father saw a very attractive
and expensively dressed young woman inside the limousine. At first, he didn’t recognize
her, but after a few moments, he realized it was Roxy. He said she looked years older
than she was and that she glared out at him with the same defiance he had seen in
her face when she was only five.
“Later, he found out she was a high-priced call girl. She even had a fancy name, Fleur
du Coeur, which you know means ‘Flower of the Heart.’ That’s how rich men would ask
for her when they called the escort service.
“ Mon Dieu, mon Dieu! It broke my heart to hear all of that, but I didn’t cry in front of him.”
Even now, talking about it brought tears to her eyes, however.
My mother told me more about Roxy after my father had passed away. I was devastated
by my father’s death, but now that he was no longer there to stop it, I wanted to
hear as much as I could about my forbidden sister, the sister whose existence I could
never acknowledge.
I had no trouble pretending I was an only child. Since the day Roxy had left, I was
living that way anyway. My father had taken all of her pictures off the walls and
shelves and dressers. He had burned most of them. Mama was able to hide a few, but
anything else Roxy had left behind was dumped down the garbage chute. It was truly
as if he thought he could erase all traces of her existence. He never even acknowledged
her birthday. Looking at the calendar, he would do little more than blink.
He didn’t know it, but I still had a charm
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