Part 22 (2/2)
”Maybe there are sections of this house that are no longer safe . . . weak floorboards or something. How would I know? He told me what he wanted. It was simple enough. Who would have thought you would do this? Oh dear.” She turned into my suite quickly.
”I'll ask him when he comes in.”
”Don't you dare mention it. Maybe he won't find out and it won't matter.”
She stopped at my bed and stepped back, looking at me and shaking her head.
”There's someone else living here, isn't there? Who is it?”
”Someone else?”
”Beside Tony and the servants, you and me. That room's being used.”
”There's no one I've seen. See, you're starting to imagine things, make up stories. Mr. Tatterton will be furious. Don't say any more about this,” she warned, her eyes narrow and cold. ”If I get in trouble because of this . . . both of us will suffer,” she added, the tone of threat quite clear. ”I'm not losing this job because a crippled girl violates rules.”
Crippled girl! No one had ever put the label on me. Rage filled me until it spilled out my eyes in tears. The way she had p.r.o.nounced ”crippled,” she had made it sound less than human.
I was not a crippled girl!
”I called for you,” I a.s.serted. ”I was hungry, but there was no one here. Even after I got into the wheelchair, I called.”
”I just took a short break. I was coming right back. If only you would be a little more patient.”
”Patient!” I exclaimed. This time when my eyes met hers, I didn't s.h.i.+ft them away. My rebellion rose like a giant fire. I glued my gaze to hers, the rage pouring out. She stepped back as if slapped. Her face became horribly animated, her mouth working as if to find the right shape to phrase words, her eyes growing large and then small. The veins in her temple became prominent in the light, the outline of their weblike shape pressing up against her thin, scaly skin. She took a few steps toward me.
”Yes, patient,” she repeated disdainfully. ”You've been brought up spoiled. I've had patients like you before--rich young girls who have been pampered and given everything they've ever wanted whenever they've wanted it. They don't know what it is to sacrifice and struggle, to do without, to live through pain and hards.h.i.+p.
”But Ill tell you something,” she continued, her face distorted in a mad smile, ”rich, pampered, spoiled people are weak and they don't have the strength to fight adversity when it strikes, so they remain crippled . . . they're invalids, trapped by their own wealth and luxury, stupid blobs.” She pressed her hands together and rubbed them vigorously, as vigorously as she would if she were out in the cold. ”Clay to be molded, no longer able to mold themselves into anything. Oh, they're still soft and pretty, but they're like. . .” She looked over at the dresser. ”Like silk lingerie, delightful to touch and wear and then put away.”
”I'm not like that. I'm not!” I cried.
She smiled again, this time as if she were speaking to a complete idiot.
”You're not? Then why can't you listen to my orders and do what I tell you when I tell you to do it, instead of fighting me every inch of the way?”
”I do listen. I'm just . . .” The words caught in my throat. I thought I would choke on them.
”Yes?”
”Lonely. I've lost my parents, I've lost my friends, and I'm . . . I'm . . .” She nodded, encouraging me to say it. I didn't want to say it. I wouldn't.
”Crippled?”
”NO!”.
”Yes, you are! And you'll remain crippled unless you listen to what I tell you. Is that what you want?”
”You're not G.o.d!” I snapped. I couldn't help my frustration.
”No, I never said I was G.o.d.” Her calm, professional tone only infuriated me more. ”But I am a trained nurse, trained to treat people like yourself, and what good will all this training be if the patient is stubborn and spoiled and refuses to follow orders?
”You think I'm being cruel? Perhaps it seems that way, but if I am, I'm being cruel only to be kind. You didn't listen to what I told you . . rich, pampered young girls, such as yourself, are weak; they have no grit when it comes to hards.h.i.+p. You have to toughen up, deal with your loneliness, form a crust around yourself . . a scab over your wounds so you can fight, otherwise you'll remain soft and the ugly thing that has made you an invalid will maintain its grip on you. Is that what you want to happen?” she asked. My heart was pounding because she sounded so right. I wasn't trapped by my physical problems; I was trapped by her words.
”I told you,” I said, lowering my head in defeat, ”I was hungry and felt deserted. I heard no one and no one answered my calls . . . not Tony, not Drake, and not you.”
”All right, go down and see if your meal is ready yet.”
”If Drake is still here, send him up,” I pleaded. ”He's not; he had to return to Boston.”
”Where is Tony, then?”
”I don't know. I have enough trouble looking after you,” she muttered, and left the suite.
I sat there for a few moments staring into empty s.p.a.ce, into the wake of her cold presence. She might be a good nurse, even a great nurse, I thought, but I didn't like her. Despite all that Tony had done for me--the doctors, the machinery and the private care, I wished I could leave here. Maybe my aunt f.a.n.n.y was right; maybe I was better off recuperating among people I loved, people who loved me.
I had to admit that I jumped at the opportunity to come to Farthy not only because I had always had a secret desire to come here, but for the same reason Drake told me he wasn't anxious to return to Hasbrouck House and Winnerrow. I didn't have the courage to go back there and look at my parents' room, see their clothing and their possessions, awaken every morning expecting to hear Daddy's footsteps and warm ”Good morning, princess.” I knew I would continually look up in antic.i.p.ation of Mommy coming in to talk to me about this or that.
No, coming to Farthy had postponed the inevitable reality I would have to face. But now I wondered if I had made the right decision. Perhaps with Aunt f.a.n.n.y there, keeping me amused in her inimitable way--gossiping about the rich people of Winnerrow, laughing about the way they treated her--I might be better off, even without all the special equipment and private nursing care.
I wished Luke would have come to see me by now so he and I could have discussed it. It was no use talking to Drake about it. He was so infatuated with Tony and the business that he was blind to any of the failings and problems in Farthy. Now he was almost as blind as Tony was even when it came to the rundown sections of Farthinggale.
I had to contact Luke, I thought. I must see him. I must!
I wheeled myself to the desk and found some more stationery. Then I wrote Luke another letter, and this time allowed myself to sound desperate.
Dear Luke, It seems one confusing thing after another has happened to keep you from paying me a visit here at Farthy. Messages are not delivered or perhaps left confusing.
I need to see you immediately. A great deal has happened since my arrival at Farthy. I think I am somewhat stronger, but I haven't made any dramatic progress with my legs yet, despite the therapy.
The truth is I'm not sure I should remain here much longer and I want to talk with you about it. Please come now. You don't need special permission. Come the day you receive this.
Love, Annie .
I put it into an envelope, sealing it immediately. Then I addressed it the same way I had addressed the first letter I wrote him, the one Millie Thomas never gave Tony.
”Do you want to remain in your wheelchair to eat or return to bed?” Mrs. Broadfield asked as soon as she returned with my tray of food.
”I'll remain in the wheelchair.”
She put the tray down to fetch the small table that went over the arms, fit it into place, and brought me the tray. I lifted the silver cover and looked at a breast of plain boiled chicken, a portion of green peas and carrots, and a slice of b.u.t.tered white bread. It looked like hospital food.
”Rye Whiskey prepared this?”
”I had his helper prepare it, following my specific instructions.”
”It looks . . . blah.”
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