Family Storms Page 6
“Yes, she is,” Jackie said, smiling at me.
“We might only need you a few more days.”
“Of course,” Jackie said. She smiled at me. “In this case, I’ll be glad to lose my job. She’s been a delightful patient.”
Mrs. March smiled and looked at me. “Yes, she’s quite a wonderful young girl,” she said. “Continue to take good care of her,” she added, and left the room.
Jackie waited until she was sure she was gone and turned to me. “Well? What is she planning to buy you? What is she going to do for you now?”
“Have me take the place of her dead daughter,” I said.
5
A New Life
You mean she wants you to come live with her?”
“Yes. And if I like it, she and her husband would adopt me.”
Jackie sat, a look of amazement flowing over her face. “I have never seen her house, but when I was working for the plastic surgeon, there was always a lot of gossiping about some of the patients. Some were famous movie stars, but I remember hearing that the Marches’ house was bigger than any Hollywood movie star’s or producer’s and quite beautiful. In fact,” she said, getting more excited, “I remember someone said it cost about one hundred million dollars. It’s up in Pacific Palisades. Do you know where that is?”
“I think so.”
“Wow. Well, what are you going to do? Did you say yes?”
“I didn’t say anything,” I said. “She wants me to think about it.”
“Don’t you give it a second thought,” Jackie advised angrily. “Don’t you be bashful now. You take everything that woman is willing to give you. No matter what. You deserve more than they’re willing to give you, in fact. Take it gladly.”
I didn’t say that I would, but somehow, because Jackie had heard that I might live in the Marches’ house and even be adopted by them, she looked at me differently. I could feel the gap between us suddenly widen, and I didn’t like it.
Then, as if Jordan March had been listening in on our conversation, she sent more gifts. This time, it was clothes and shoes. Jackie unwrapped everything for me.
“This is all very expensive stuff. She wants to be sure you’re dressed properly when you leave here and enter her world,” she commented. Her voice didn’t have the same tone of joy and wonder. I sensed the bitterness and wondered if I should be feeling it as well. “I bet this all costs more than I make in a week,” Jackie added. “If this is any indication of what it’s going to be like, you’ll be fine.”
“None of that replaces my mother,” I said.
Instead of being upset, she smiled. “That’s right. You keep that in mind. Take whatever you can get, but as I said, never let her and her husband forget that they can never give you enough. Sasha, don’t ever feel like some charity case. Promise me that.”
“I won’t,” I said, but I wasn’t sure that I could keep such a promise. I wasn’t even sure that I was going to say yes. I tried to imagine what Mama would have said before the struggle. Back then, she had so much self-pride. She wouldn’t accept a nickel if she thought someone was giving it to her because he or she felt sorry for her. That’s why she had worked so hard on her calligraphy.
“One of the worst things in the world,” Mama had told me, “is being obligated to someone, especially someone who won’t let you forget why. So the best thing you can do for yourself is always earn what you get or deserve it, Sasha. That’s what it really means to be free.”
Mrs. March, however, had made it sound as if I was doing her more of a favor than she was doing for me. She was the one who was obligated. I wondered if her husband felt the same way. Would I be treated like some kind of princess? Should I ever be satisfied and happy when I was with them?
I knew Jackie gossiped a little with the other nurses about me and Mrs. March, because when they stopped by, they, too, looked at me differently. I imagined I was no longer just someone’s charity case. Was this how it would always be from now on? People would no longer look at me with disgust, disapproval, or disinterest? Should I be feeling good about it? Mama was dead and buried. Everything, all of the gifts, the clothes, the promise of a new life, was designed to make me forget what had happened. I won’t, I vowed. I never will.
With the cast on my leg, I always had a hard time falling and staying asleep, but this particular night was the worst. I dreamed that Mama was in the room with me, sitting beside my bed and looking at me. She wasn’t my mother before the struggle, either. She was just the way she was on the day of the accident.
She was staring at me and twisting her hands around each other. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry I did this to you.”
“You didn’t do it, Mama.”
“I did. I did. I can’t sleep in my grave, Sasha. You’re alone in the street.”
“No, I’m not. I won’t be, Mama.”
“You are. I did this. You are,” she insisted, and then she began to shrink in the chair. I reached out to stop it, but I couldn’t get to her. She kept dwindling.
“Mama!” I screamed, and woke up.
I apparently woke up my night nurse, too. She came quickly to the bed. “What’s wrong? Are you in pain? What?”
I looked up at her. Her face seemed as white as her uniform in the dim light, and she didn’t look sympathetic. She looked upset.
“No,” I said. “Nothing.” I lay back, closing my eyes.
“You’d think the ceiling had caved in,” I heard her say.
“It has,” I muttered. “For me.”
The next morning, I saw how nervous Jackie was. She didn’t say any more about Mrs. March’s offer to take me into her home, but it was clearly on her mind. The more she flitted about, trying to make me more comfortable, keeping the sun out of my eyes and the room cool enough, making sure I ate well, the more nervous I became, too.
Finally, just before lunch, Jordan March arrived. She was dressed in a bright blue pantsuit and had her hair pulled back so that her opal teardrop earrings in a gold setting were quite prominent. As usual, it looked as if a professional had done her makeup and she was ready to step onto the cover of some fashion magazine.
“How’s our patient doing today?” she asked Jackie.
“Fine, Mrs. March.”
“Take a break,” she told her.
Jackie nodded and left without glancing at me, keeping her head down.
“Well, now, Sasha, have you thought about our little discussion yesterday?”
“Yes,” I said.
“How do you feel about it? Do you want to come live with Donald and me? I’ll have the therapist come to our house, and when you’re able to get around, we’ll get you into school again. In the meantime, I’ll also arrange for a tutor to come to the house and get you caught up. We don’t want you entering class behind the others, do we?”
I shook my head.
“Of course, if you’re terribly unhappy, we’ll look for other arrangements for you. What do you say? Will you come?”
She was sitting where I had dreamed Mama sat. It was almost as if Mama’s spirit was there, too.
“Yes,” I said.
“Oh, that’s wonderful, Sasha. It really is.” She leaped to her feet. “I have lots to do, lots to arrange. You’ll be out of here the day after tomorrow. Dr. Milan will discharge you, and then he’ll follow up on your treatment. Now, tell me some important things. What are your favorite colors? I took a guess with some of the clothes I sent up. Do you like the baby pink, the metallic blues, and this green? I love this green,” she said, holding up a blouse I had not yet put on.
“Yes. Everything is beautiful,” I said. What else would I say? I hadn’t had anything new for more than a year. Every-thing Mama and I had managed to buy during the struggle when we were on the street was used, from some thrift store. Colors were faded and dull, and the clothes were often long out of style and never quite fit.
“I’m glad. Those were Alena’s favorite colors, too. Actually, she liked anything that
was bright and happy. She was a bright and happy girl, never depressed. You’ll be like that someday, too, Sasha, I just know you will. I can see that it’s not in your nature to be unhappy. You did such a good job of helping your mother, and I’m sure you weren’t crying and complaining all the time. You’ve got that same energy in you. We’ll go shopping to get you more, of course. For the time being, you’ll have plenty, however. You’re just about the same age Alena was and about her size. That’s how I figured out what to buy you, you know. I bet you were wondering how I knew.”
“No,” I said. “I thought you could just look at me and see.”
“That’s right, I could. Well, there’s a ton more to do, a ton. I’m going right over to Donald’s offices to tell him about your decision. I’ll try to stop by later, but don’t worry if I don’t. You can be sure that you’re all that’s on my mind.”
She moved toward me as if she were going to give me a kiss, but the look on my face slowed her down, and she paused and then smiled quickly, grabbed her purse, and left. For a moment, it was as if all the air had gone out of the room with her. I felt the blood rush to my face. Of course, I knew Mama was gone, but it still felt as if I were deserting her, leaving her to be alone on the street. My father had deserted her and now me. I couldn’t help it. I started to cry softly.
“What happened?” Jackie demanded as she stepped into the room. “Did she say she changed her mind, or her husband said no, or what?”
I shook my head. “No. I’m going,” I said.
“So why are you crying?”
“I’m not going home,” I said.
She froze and then nodded and moved to hug me.
“That’s where my mother said she was taking us when we left the beach that night—home.”
“You’ll find a place to call home someday, Sasha. You’ll make your own home when you’re old enough. You’ll marry someone wonderful and have your own children. You’ll see.”
I thanked her. Her words did give me hope. She was there the day I was discharged, and she followed Jordan March and me to the waiting limousine. I didn’t know I’d be leaving in a limousine. I had never ridden in one. At first, I thought she had rented it, but I quickly learned that it belonged to the Marches. The driver was very tall, easily six foot four or five. He was slim but with such perfect military posture Mama would have called him a flagpole. He had a thick, well-trimmed black mustache, a nose that looked as if it had been pinched by the doctor who had delivered him, and coal-black eyes. Mrs. March called him Grover, which I would learn was his first name. His full name was Grover Morrison. He had been the Marches’ limousine driver for nearly four years. I didn’t know it yet, but the Marches owned five other vehicles, and Kiera had an additional one, the one she had been driving the night of the accident.
“You take care,” Jackie told me after I had been transferred from the wheelchair into the limousine. She stood in the open doorway.
“I will,” I said. “Thank you, Jackie.”
She nodded and backed away as Grover closed the door. He opened the door on the other side for Mrs. March.
“Well, now,” Mrs. March said. “Are you comfortable?”
“Yes.”
“I could put a pillow under your leg.”
“It’s all right,” I said.
“Don’t worry,” she said, patting my hand. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
I wasn’t worried as much as I was afraid. Before Daddy had deserted us, I had slept over at a friend’s house. That was really the only time I had ever been overnight at the home of strangers, and now I was going to live with some.
“You’ll have to wear that cast for months yet, Sasha,” she said, nodding at it, “but Dr. Milan’s arranged for you to be up and about on a crutch soon. In the meantime, we have the wheelchair for you. I’ve already told Mrs. Caro that one of her duties now will be to wheel you out onto the patio in the afternoon. I want you to get some color and fresh air and not be shut up in a room like you were in the hospital.”
“Who’s Mrs. Caro?”
“Mrs. Caro is one of my housekeepers and also our cook. We have four housekeepers. The one in charge is Mrs. Duval. She’s been with us the longest and was actually Kiera and Alena’s nanny as well. Her husband, Alberto, is what Donald calls our house manager. He is in charge of the grounds people, house maintenance, that sort of thing.”
“Four housekeepers? How many people work at the house?” I asked as we started away from the hospital.
“Fourteen full-time,” she said. “There’s a lot to do. You’ll see.”
Neither of us had mentioned her yet, but I didn’t see how I could go much farther without bringing her up. “What about Kiera?”
“What about her?”
“Does she know about me?”
“She knows about you.”
“But does she know I’m coming to live in her house?”
“It’s not her house,” Mrs. March said quickly and sharply. Then she smiled and added, “Don’t worry about it.”
“But she knows?” I asked.
“Not yet,” Mrs. March said. “Right now, I’m not concerned about what she thinks or how she feels about anything.”
Her answer shocked me. How could such a thing be kept secret from her daughter? What sort of a family was this, anyway?
Maybe Mama and I, even during the struggle, had been more of a family after all.
It wouldn’t be long before I knew.
6
Castle
Nothing I had seen in magazines, on television, or in a movie had prepared me for what I was about to see. I had thought castles were only in Europe and only kings and queens lived like this. We turned off a main road, went down a side road, and began to climb a hill. As we climbed, I realized there were no houses along the way.
Mrs. March sensed my curiosity. “All this land is ours,” she said, “on both sides. That’s why there are no other houses on the road.”
Eventually, we reached what I could only describe as a hidden entrance to the road on which the Marches’ house was located. There were no signs, mailboxes, or anything, just tall, full pine trees on both sides, so that when anyone drove in, he or she couldn’t see the March house just yet.
“This isn’t a public road,” she said. “My husband built it, and we maintain it.”
They own their own road? How can anyone own his own road? I wondered.
We came to a tall, solid, light orange wall at least ten or twelve feet high. Now, just over the wall, I could see the top of the house and what looked like a tower. Just looking at the wall ahead of us wouldn’t tell anyone it opened, but when Grover pressed a button by the sun visor above him, the wall began to part. It revealed a beautiful cobblestone driveway that curved upward toward what I could only call a storybook house.
“Is it a castle?” I asked breathlessly.
Mrs. March laughed. “Donald thinks so. He was determined to build something different, so he built what’s called a Richardsonian Romanesque house. It has the round-topped arches over the windows and entryway and masonry walls with a pattern of ruby and white. And yes,” she said, laughing again, “that tower makes it look like a castle, but Donald will tell you a man’s home is supposed to be his castle.”
As we approached and we could see beyond the high bushes and trees, the house seemed to unfold to my right and to my left.
“It’s so big.”
“It might be the biggest house in Southern California, for all I know. I forget, but I think Donald said it’s ninety thousand square feet. There are three floors if we count the rooms in the tower. We’ve been here nearly twenty years, but I’m still furnishing it. I suppose it will never be finished, but that’s what makes it fun to go shopping here and in Europe. There’s furniture from all over the world. Persian and Turkish rugs, French chandeliers, cabinets from England, settees and chairs from Spain, tapestries from both France and Spain. You can understand why we need so many employees.”
“There are security cameras everywhere. Donald loves his toys. He has a movie theater in the house, with the most up-to-date equipment. There’s a full gym and a small indoor swimming pool, which will come in handy for your therapy, I bet. The house has an intercom system, of course. Just think of all the fun you’ll have discovering new things in it when you’re up and about.”
As we drew closer, I looked out at the beautiful gardens and fountains, the statues and benches, the rolling lawns and trees. No wonder so many people had to work there, I thought. There was so much to take care of. How could anyone be so rich?
As soon as we pulled up to the front, a short, stout, dark-brown-haired woman came rushing out. She wore a dark blue one-piece dress with a skirt that flapped about her ankles as she hurried down the stairs. Her hair was clipped into a tight bun. Right behind her was a tall, gray-haired man with a dark brown mustache sprinkled with gray hairs. He wore a plaid shirt and jeans.
“That’s Mrs. Duval and her husband, Alberto,” Mrs. March told me.
Grover got out quickly and opened Mrs. March’s door. He went around to get my wheelchair and my things, some of which he handed to Mrs. Duval. He and Alberto unfolded the wheelchair and brought it to my door.
“Careful with her,” Mrs. March told them.
Grover looked for a graceful way to get me out and then simply decided to put his right arm under me and embrace me with his left. He lifted me out easily and gently lowered me to the wheelchair that Alberto held.