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Guilt, in fact, hovered in every corner of Whitefern, our family home, like invisible spiderwebs trapping every happy thought to make sure that unhappiness dominated our lives. I had wanted to run from this mansion and never set foot in it again when I learned the horrible truths that had been whirling around me all my life. The grave for the so-called “first Audrina” was in the Whitefern Cemetery nearby, a grave I was taken to often to visit and hear about this mythical sister. The grave was, in fact, empty. What an elaborate ruse. Who wouldn’t want to get as far away from it all as fast as she could?
I had to find a deep well of forgiveness from which to draw the understanding and tolerance that would enable me to continue to live here, to accept Arden again, to pity my father and even my ruthless, jealous cousin Vera, who, I discover
ed, really was what she claimed to be: my half sister. She became one of the fatal victims in this house, along with Aunt Ellsbeth and Billie, Arden’s mother. They’d all fallen down the stairway to their death, every one of them ruled an accident. It was as if Whitefern wanted to dole out justice or attack deception and had the power to do so. Maybe such a thought had flashed through Papa’s mind when he stumbled backward on the stairway.
It wasn’t difficult to accept the idea that my family home was alive and conscious of all the intrigue and pain that went on within it. It was and remained right up to today an impressive gingerbread Victorian house. Arden had organized some restoration, having it repainted white, all the blinds redone, in addition to the outside steps. Recently, a house not unlike ours in the Tidewater region of Virginia had suffered a tragedy when two women were out on a balcony that gave way without warning. They’d fallen three flights, and both had died. This had prompted Arden to get to work immediately on ours, firming things up but adhering to Papa’s orders to keep the style.
Years ago, Papa had repaired the roof. He would do what was necessary, especially when he had made more money. But there were areas now that needed refurbishing and remodeling, and Papa wouldn’t give permission to do it. It wasn’t all about money. Arden had insisted that much of the structure was now an embarrassment, especially because we entertained so many wealthy clients, but Papa had said he saw some of the wear and tear as contributing to the house’s vintage and its character.
He had especially never wanted to change anything about the cupola, which had windows of stained leaded glass with scenes that represented the angels of life and death. It had held too much history for him. I remembered how pleased he’d been to see the sunlight thread through the stained-glass windows and fall in swirls like bright peacock feathers. There was even a long rectangle of painted glass in the roof. Chinese wind chimes hung from scarlet silken cords. It was still true to every detail. This had been precious to Papa.
Actually, he had fought against changing any of Whitefern’s decor, no matter what reasons Arden presented. When my husband would turn to me to support him in these debates, I’d always try to remain neutral. Despite all that Papa had done to me, I couldn’t hurt him, even in the smallest way. Consequently, not a single lamp was removed, nor were stronger bulbs put in any of them, even if they didn’t provide enough light. It was as if Papa had been too comfortable with the shadows and would not drive one away.
At one point, Arden had wanted to replace our art, to sell some of the older pictures to take advantage of their escalating values and invest the money in stocks. But regardless of the financial reasons, Papa had resisted that, too. Some of the paintings were startling in their depictions of women. Papa had been particularly fascinated by the picture of a naked woman lying on a chaise and dropping grapes into her mouth. It reeked of sex, I thought, and certainly intrigued every dinner guest or visitor. I saw the lust in the eyes of the men who stood before it, smiling licentiously.
Some of the furniture had been replaced simply because it fell apart, but most of it was considered antique. Whatever was fake Papa had replaced with the real thing. I remembered my mother proudly describing the bed in her room as being five hundred years old. Perhaps it was an exaggeration, but it certainly looked like a bed for a queen. I could never imagine selling it, and whenever Arden talked about refurbishing one room or another, I felt a pang of sadness and regret. It was like giving up old friends. When I told Arden as much, he laughed and called me a hopeless romantic. However, Papa had been happy I felt this way, which pleased me even though it was a great disappointment to Arden when his wife was unsupportive.
Once I’d told him, “You can’t change the past by changing wallpaper or furniture, Arden. You’ve got to stop trying. We have to live with it as best we can. It’s not easy for me especially, but we must.”
And that was what we did, both of us avoiding memories stirred by any references to my mother, to the piano she played, to Aunt Ellsbeth, and also to Billie, Arden’s mother, whom my father had eventually married. Vera’s name was almost a curse word now. If there was the slightest allusion to her, Arden would blush with guilt. His eyes would flee from mine, and he would find a way to quickly change the subject.
Oh, how did this house and the people living in it bear up under the weight of such pain and horror? Surely that proved it had the foundation to continue eternally, strong enough to hold up the world, like Atlas. It was a magnet of the soul, holding us within its radius. There was always a sense of relief now whenever I returned from a trip or even a simple shopping expedition. It loomed before me, its doors and windows beckoning, urging me to get inside and feel the power of its protection against a cold and heartless world.
Sylvia was twenty the year Papa died. She was still like a child, even though she had a more than ample bosom and her body had developed into a figure most women would envy. Her hair was as pretty as mine, and we had the same eyes. We both had our mother’s eyes. I often thought Sylvia had a healthier, richer complexion. She looked as if she might stay young forever, as if her mind not maturing meant her body would stay frozen in its beauty.
Not socially mature, Sylvia had been kept at home rather than being sent to school, where we’d thought she would suffer at the hands of other students and also some of her teachers, who would be intolerant and impatient with her. Instead, Papa and I had decided she should be tutored at home, as I had been for my first years. Maybe because of what had happened to me, Papa had wanted her to be kept close, protected.
Sometimes when I would watch her with Papa and see the delight in his eyes, I would admit to myself that Arden was right. I was jealous of how much more Papa loved her than he loved me, even when he thought of me as the first Audrina. If I ever dared mention such a thought, he surely would deny it, of course, but anyone would have to be blind not to see the way his face lit up when Sylvia entered the room after I had.
“You must always look after your sister,” he had told me often. “Promise you’ll never put her into one of those homes for mentally deficient children.”
I’d promised. Of course, I’d promised.
But the day would come when I would question the wisdom of that, when I would blame myself for what happened.
If anyone should have known it would happen, it should have been I, the best and only sweet Audrina.
Darkness before the Light
Papa would rest beside our mother, both just a few feet from the false grave that was supposedly mine. Because Sylvia was taking Papa’s death worse than any of us, I spent most of my time with her during the days that immediately followed, and Arden handled the arrangements for the funeral. It was in the course of doing that when he suffered a big shock. He met with Papa’s attorney, Mr. Johnson, and learned that Papa had recently changed his will; he had left everything to us and to Sylvia, as expected, but he had given me fifty-one percent ownership of the brokerage.
Arden returned home in a rage after the meeting. I hadn’t attended, because I thought, as he did, that it was not going to be anything special.
“Why did he do this?” he ranted, marching up and down in front of Sylvia and me and waving his arms as violently as if he wanted to throw off his hands. He clutched a copy of the paperwork in his right hand. “Why? Why? I’ll tell you why. He knew how much I knew about his earlier dealings, the graft and corruption.”
He paused as he thought more about it.
“Sure, that’s it. Of course. He did this to punish me for confronting him with his dishonesty years ago. How stupid to use you for his revenge.”
“It wasn’t revenge,” I said. “He was worried about the way you were spending money and not concentrating on the work. All those nights you were out drinking while he went to bed early so he could greet the opening stock market.”
“That’s . . . an exaggeration. I was at work doing what had to be done when it had to be done. You’re getting me off the point. You don’t really know anything
about our business.”
“Papa always told me I was very smart. I knew enough to help you start, remember?”
“That was the basics that anyone would know. How can you vote on major decisions? You could count on your fingers how many times you’ve been there these past few years. You don’t even know my secretary’s name.”
