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I looked to Dr. Prescott. He was frustrated because he had come too late, and he sat on the other side of the bed, his hands pressed against his cheeks, his shock of graying brown hair as wild as weeds from running his thick fingers through it with frustration. He was only a year younger than Papa, but lately, he’d looked ten years younger and was far sprier. He wasn’t as tall as Papa; few men were. But these last months, he had looked taller.
The kind doctor raised his head to look at us, his eyes swimming in sorrow far beyond what any doctor would experience after losing a patient. Physicians, probably more than anyone, lived with the inevitability of
death. It was like dogs barking at their heels. He leaned over and closed Papa’s eyes. Then he gently took Papa’s hand from Sylvia’s and put it over Papa’s now-still chest and then his other hand over that.
“I told him he needed a stent. I finally had him convinced to go into the hospital . . . this Monday,” Dr. Prescott said, shaking his head and looking down at Papa. “But I knew he would put it off again and again. Stubborn man.”
He had rushed over after I called to tell him Papa wasn’t feeling well and was weak and pale. I’d mentioned he was having trouble breathing. Dr. Prescott had thought we should send for an ambulance, but Papa had gotten so upset about it I had to call back and tell him that I was afraid Papa’s anger would just make him sicker and that Sylvia and I had helped him to bed.
“Okay, I’m on my way,” he’d replied. He was more than just Papa’s doctor. He and Papa were good friends and lately had spent at least one night a week playing chess, drinking brandy, and talking about their youth. On more than one occasion, I had overheard Papa’s conversation drift into a sea of guilt, on which floated many regrettable actions and decisions. Maybe it was the effect of the brandy or maybe because he was getting older, but he’d sought opportunities to confess his sins.
His biggest one, as far as he and I were concerned, was his elaborate plan to convince me when I was a child that I was the older sister of my dead sister, Audrina, the perfect little girl after whom I was supposedly named.
Back then, Papa would often have me close my eyes and rock in the first Audrina’s rocking chair, supposedly to capture some of her gifts and memories, the most horrid of which was her being raped at the age of nine. He knew all the memories would return, for they were really my memories. Whether or not I wanted to believe that there were good intentions behind this deception, the result was that it gave birth to more sadness and tragedy than any family should have to bear.
Papa had known that, and the knowledge had weighed on him so heavily as he grew older that his once strong and perfect manly body began to crumble, his shoulders turning in, his back bent more and more, his walk slower and unsteady, his six-foot-five frame looking so much shorter and fragile. Gray had devastated his unique black hair, which used to appear blue in the sunlight but no longer did, and his lively, sexy, almond-shaped dark brown eyes had dulled and begun to look sleepy and forlorn.
He had started to go to work less often at the brokerage firm, finally acquiescing to letting Arden take on more and more responsibility there. Occasionally, he would argue with and discuss some of the decisions Arden had made, decisions that would drive him to return to work more frequently, often to correct them. However, during the past few weeks, it had seemed to me that my father had lost interest in almost everything. Lately, he’d spent more of his time sitting on our front porch, even when it was raining or there was a thick fog, bitterly staring out at the world as though it had deceived him. I would try to cheer him up, bring him his favorite freshly baked cookies or a cup of tea, even a brandy, but he would show little enthusiasm. Only Sylvia could bring a smile to his face during those last days. He’d pet her and stroke her, and I was sure he would be thinking of our mother. Despite how angry he could get at her from time to time, he had surely loved our mother more than he’d loved—or could love—any woman.
As Sylvia had grown, she did look more like our mother than I did. I’d spent as much time as I could helping her develop into someone who could care for herself. She was so dependent on the kindness of others, even to this day. Whenever any of Papa and Arden’s clients came to dinner with their wives, the wives always brought Sylvia something pretty, whether it was costume jewelry, ribbons, or delicious boxes of candy. On those nights, there was laughter and music, and no one dared mention a single sad moment from our past. Good things still could happen in our house, but that was never enough to drown out the bad completely. Those memories refused to be forgotten or buried.
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 the 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 discovered, 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 deaths, 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 thoughts 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 Victorian gingerbread house. Arden had organized some restoration, having it repainted white and 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 stories, 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 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 original 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 for support 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. Even as a young girl, I saw the lust in the eyes of the men who stood before it, smiling licentiously. I couldn’t imagine the wall without that painting.
Some of the furniture had been replaced simply because it fell apart, but most of it was considered antique. Papa had replaced whatever was fake with the real thing. I remembered my m
other proudly describing the bed in her room as 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. 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 for 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 carved into a figure most women would envy. Her hair was as pretty as mine. 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 that her body would stay frozen in its beauty.
Not socially mature enough, Sylvia had been kept at home during her school years rather than being sent to a place where we’d thought she would suffer at the hands of other students and also some teachers, who would be impatient with and intolerant of 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, it should have been I, the best and only sweet Audrina.
