Pleasantly she nodded, and verbally agreed. "And
what would you like for yourself?" she asked. "Freedom! I want to be let out. I'm tired of being
in a locked room. I want the twins out; I want Chris
out. I want you to rent a house, buy a house, steal a
house--but get us out of this house!"
"Cathy," she began to plead, "I'm doing the best I
can. Don't I bring you gifts every time I come through
the door? What is it you lack besides bananas? Name
it!"
"You promised we'd stay up here but a short
while--and it's been months."
She spread her hands in a supplicating gesture.
"Do you expect me to kill my father?"
Numbly I shook my head.
"You leave her alone!" Chris exploded the
moment the door closed behind his goddess. "She
does try to do the best she can by us! Stop picking on
her! It's a wonder she comes to see us at all, what with
you riding her back, with your everlasting questions,
like you don't trust her. How do you know how much
she suffers? Do you believe she's happy knowing her
four children are locked in one room, and left to play
in an attic?"
It was hard to tell about someone like our mother,
just what she was thinking, and what she was feeling.
Her expression was always calm, unruffled, though
she often appeared tired. If her clothes were new, and
expensive, and we seldom saw her wear the same
thing twice, she brought us many new and expensive
clothes, too. Not that it mattered what we wore.