Free Twisted Roots by V. C. Andrews Page B

them ever kissing each other passionately in my presence. It seemed to be true for all my friends-- parents kept their sexual relationships well locked behind closed doors. It was somehow different to hold hands as a husband and a wife, different from holding them as lovers.
Even Mommy's getting pregnant seemed to be something that happened immaculately. All of our mothers were Mother Marys, and to some of us, our fathers were like gods, worshiped and idealized. In my house and in my life that wasn't true. of course. My father was this Hollywood-handsome,
sophisticated lawyer whose kisses were birdlike pecks on my cheeks and whose love for me often felt more like something grown out of the soil of vengeance and spite. Nothing underscored that more than his refusal to permit Miguel to adopt me and change my name. However, it didn't appear to come from an overriding love for me as much as it did from an overriding indignation that someone, anyone, would dare even think to cast off the Eaton name.
Miguel was certainly a good-looking man, and no man was or could be sweeter to me than he was, but it was still easier for me to imagine Mommy in a loving, passionate embrace with Daddy than it was to imagine her with Miguel. I suppose I was never convinced of Mommy's distaste and dislike of Daddy because of that. Despite her self-deprecating talk, her continuous expressions of amazement at herself far ever being taken in by someone like Daddy, I had an easier time believing she would fall in love with him than I did believing she would find it one of the most stupid and foolish things she could have ever done.
Of course. I believed that was because I was still too young and still not smart enough to see. I had to accept an faith that she was right-- one should never fall in love with a man like my father. A girl had to be careful, smarter, more aware, and know when her own body was lusting and blinding her.
But how do you ever trust your heart? I wondered. When do you know it's right? When do you know that it's not just lust? If someone as brilliant as my mother could have been fooled, what hope did I have?
Maybe that was why she and Miguel were so concerned about my seeing someone. Suddenly, and maybe far the first time ever, I realized how hard it was to be a parent. It was like holding on to the string of a kite that was caught up in the wind. If you pulled too hard and too fast, it would snap and be gone forever, and if you let out more string and gave it more room, the wind might still have its way with it so that when it returned to earth, it was not what it had been.
I started out to see Claude. and Mommy seized my arm. She smiled.
"Don't blame me for wanting you to be my little girl forever. Hannah. I know it's wrong and it can't be, but don't hate me for it."
"I can't hate you. Mommy," I said.
She let go of my hand.
I felt like the kite in the wind and continued on.
.
It was like pulling a curtain of fury away from my eyes, a sheer curtain of red. The more I gazed through the window at little Claude, the more the curtain moved to the sideline. Today he looked more like a little person, his mouth and chin showing resemblances to Miguel. His tiny body twitched. Do infants dream yet? I wondered. How could they? Maybe he was hearing the cries of the other infants and he hated it. Now I wanted him to come home and came home immediately. He needed protection. He should have his own place. I could see myself hurrying home to be with him, to give him his bottle when he was finally on formula, to change his diaper, and to hold him and keep him from crying and being afraid. He made me recall my best childhood dolls. Here he was, a living, breathing toy. Wouldn't it be fun to see him recognize me, to see him looking forward to me?
"Amazing how much he has grown in twentyfour hours, isn't it?" Miguel said, coming up beside me after I had been there a while.
"Yes."
"I think he's going to look more like your mother, despite my inky