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“I don’t need to go anywhere, Mama. Really, I’ll be fine, and if I’m not here, who will visit you in the hospital?”

“I won’t be there that long,” she said. “I do have some friends, you know,” she added with a smile.

“Not like me,” I told her. “I’m not going to leave you. Don’t worry about me. All I would do is worry about you and be too far away to see you every day. I don’t want to upset you, Mama, but . . .”

“Okay, let’s not talk about it now,” she said, obviously frustrated. “I just have to check on the chicken breasts I defrosted for us.”

I felt terrible being so difficult, but I knew I would feel worse running off to be comfortable and safe with my uncle and aunt who couldn’t even be at my father’s funeral. I didn’t want to continue talking about this, either. I knew that what I would say would only bring Mama more pain. Instead, I went up to my room and, to keep my mind off it all, began to do my homework.

At dinner, I prodded Mama as much as I could about her condition. I easily sensed that she was trying to make it seem less serious than it was, but I didn’t pursue it. After I cleaned up and watched some television with her, I retreated to my room.

The day of Papa’s death, I was shocked, of course, but I was more frightened than anything. He was truly a rock, our security and protection. Like any young girl, I looked to my father to shield us from danger and to come up with the solution to solve any serious problems. The analogies he used when he spoke about himself weren’t so far-fetched. Fathers, he said, were always on the front lines, like guards manning the walls that kept out our demons.

When I lost him that day, one of the first things that came to my mind was how terrified Roxy must have been the day she left our house and stepped into the streets of the city on her own. How naked and vulnerable she must have felt despite what face she had put on. For all practical purposes, as she seemed to insist, Papa had died for her then as much as he had died for me now. He was gone, unreachable, deaf to her cries for help, not that she was used to asking him for it. It simply gave her and all of us a sense of assurance to have such a father. In Papa, there was sanctuary.

Within his embrace, beside him, holding his hand, having his arm around our shoulders shielded us from what Hamlet called the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. Accidents, evil people, even our own foolishness wouldn’t destroy us as long as Papa was there.

Daddies were supposed to be harder, tougher, firmer. They were more capable of facing the gritty and rotten things in our world. Mothers could be strong, of course, and I did know mothers of some of my classmates who made their husbands look like wet noodles, but for the most part, daddies were built physically stronger and could be more intimidating when it came to facing something outright violent.

Now, as I sat there and thought about Mama, I realized selfishly that I could lose all of my protection in this world. I’d be as alone as Roxy, but she seemed to be far better equipped to handle that than I was. I hated being this afraid for myself and not being more afraid for Mama. I felt selfish, guilty, even sinfully so.

Get stronger, Emmie Wilcox, I told myself. Grow up overnight. Put away childish thoughts. Shove your dolls and teddy bears deeper into the closet. You have to step up and do for your mother what she has done all your life for you.

I looked at Papa’s picture on my dresser. I wasn’t telling myself all of these things; he was. If he were there, he would expect me to be more grown-up. I had heard it when he died, and I was hearing him say it again tonight: “If you have no choice but to grow up, you grow up.”

No, I wouldn’t run off to hide from fear at Uncle Orman and Aunt Lucy’s house. I would stay here. I would be alone at night, yes. I would have to take care of myself, yes. I would have to close my eyes and forget that there was no one else in the house, no one to call to if I had a nightmare or if I heard a strange noise, yes. But this was who and what I had to become.

As Papa might say, “Let’s get some steel in those veins.”

Over the next two days, Mama realized that I wasn’t going to give in and go to stay with Aunt Lucy. She accepted it and even complimented me on being strong enough to do it. We didn’t talk much more in detail about her condition, but I did my own research in the school library and realized how serious it could be and probably was. I didn’t want to show her how worried I was, so I tried to keep as busy as possible, telling her I had big tests to study for, while all the while I sat in my room feeling like someone tottering on a tightrope and on the verge of screaming.

The next day, I made a big decision while I sat half listening to Mrs. Summerton go on and on about our term papers in world history due shortly after our upcoming holiday. When the bell rang at the end of the school day, I practically leaped up from my desk and ran out of the building. I was that determined.

Probably in record time, I shot up the avenue and entered Roxy’s hotel. There was a different desk clerk, a much older man with a rust-colored mustache that looked painted above his lip. He obviously trimmed it under a microscope, I thought. He didn’t smile. He looked up from what I saw was a racetrack form and tucked in his thin, shrimp-pink lips. Then he sat back, pulling his shoulders so they tightened his jacket.

“And what can I do for you?” he asked.

“I have to speak to Roxy Wilcox.”

He pulled his head back and widened his grimace. “Who?”

“Don’t tell me she isn’t here. I’m her sister, and I have to speak to her now,” I said firmly, raising my voice.

“Now, just a minute, young lady . . .”

“I’m not leaving until you tell her I’m here. You can call the police if you want, but I don’t think that would please my sister or anyone else connected with this hotel.”

“I know all of our guests, and there is no Roxy Wilcox,” he said.

“Fleur du Coeur? Is that better?”

“What are you talking about?”

He looked genuinely confused. It occurred to me that the help there might not know all that much about the clients and that the escort service was separate.

“My sister might have a different name here,” I said, stepping closer and speaking more softly, reasonably. I then described her. I could see some recognition in his eyes. He might not know everything, but he knew enough, I thought.

“Just a moment,” he


Tags: V.C. Andrews The Forbidden Horror