Free Secret Brother by V.C. Andrews Page A

either agreed or wanted to be sure she always pleased my mother, even now. She always made sure I didn’t leave the house with my hair disheveled, or wearing something torn or missing a button, or certainly wearing anything with a stain on it.
    I chose a prettier blouse than the one I was wearing, changed my shoes to a newer pair, and then brushed my hair, pinning it back with hair clips. I couldn’t throw off my sense of guilt for caring about my looks so soon after Willie’s funeral, but it wasn’t that easy to push aside what I knew had pleased my mother.
    Grandpa certainly looked pleased when he saw me.He smiled, put his hand on my shoulder, and then held my hand as we walked out to his car. Jimmy Wilson and two of the grounds workers paused to look our way. They were replacing bulbs in the driveway and landscape lights. Jimmy smiled and waved, obviously happy to see me out and about. I waved back and got into Grandpa’s sedan, immediately feeling funny about it.
    There hadn’t been all that many times in my life when I had gone somewhere with Grandpa and not had Willie along, too. Sometimes Grandpa took me to a friend’s home, but even if we went shopping for something I needed, Willie would be with us, because he knew that Grandpa would find something to buy for him, too. I usually sat in the front, and Willie sat in the rear. He would talk from the moment we drove out of the estate to wherever we were going. Grandpa called him “Motor Mouth” and said he could get more words to the mile than anyone he knew. He also said he would have been a good passenger for him to take along when he used to drive trucks long distances. “I wouldn’t ever fall asleep with Willie in the truck,” he’d say. That didn’t discourage Willie. If anything, it got him to say more.
    Perhaps it was the quiet. Maybe Grandpa was thinking about Willie talking a blue streak, too, but we rode for quite a while before either of us spoke.
    â€œThe poisoned boy really hasn’t spoken yet, Grandpa?” I began.
    â€œHe doesn’t even cry. He doesn’t call for his mother. First they thought he might be deaf, because he wouldn’t even turn toward the person speaking tohim, but they know he’s not. My guess is he doesn’t trust anyone.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œSomeone he should have trusted disappointed him. That’s one theory Dr. Patrick expressed. She hasn’t had any luck getting him to talk to her, either.”
    â€œWho is she?”
    â€œThe psychiatrist I asked to look in on him,” he said.
    I didn’t know anyone who went to a psychiatrist, much less a young person. It seemed so strange. Weren’t his physical injuries more important? “Uncle Bobby said he can’t move his legs.”
    Grandpa nodded. “Dr. Friedman, the neurologist, told me it’s like the boy’s neurological systems have shut down. He said he has seen similar cases. The arsenic did some damage to his nerves and affected his muscles. It could take a long time for him to recuperate. Some patients don’t. He’s stopping in tonight and will tell me more about it.”
    â€œWhat’s that all mean? He’ll die, too?”
    â€œNo, not now. He could have, almost did. They said another hour or so might have made all the difference. He’ll be in a wheelchair for a while . . . maybe forever.”
    â€œOh. Then he’ll have to go to a special place, right?” I said quickly. Even though I had agreed to go to see him and even to speak to him—mainly because of the things Myra had told me—I was still hoping he would be out of our lives soon and forever.
    â€œWe’ll see,” Grandpa said.
    When we arrived at the hospital, the police detective who had been looking for Grandpa earlier greeted us in the lobby. He introduced himself as Lieutenant Bronson. Grandpa wasn’t happy he was there and didn’t