Roxy’s Story (12 page)

“No,” I said. What was left to ask? What they served for breakfast?

She flashed a smile, nodded, and left, closing the door behind her.

For a moment, I just stood there staring at the door. Then I looked around. I didn’t
know whether to feel like Cinderella or the Prisoner of Zenda. I knew all this should
make me feel very happy, but it also filled me with new fears, and I wasn’t one to
care or worry too much about fears. As a child, I rarely called out after a nightmare.
I didn’t want to see my father’s
disapproving face as he stood behind my mother, clearly revealing his displeasure
in my having woken them. I learned how to swallow back my childhood demons the way
we swallow down something that wants to come up out of our stomachs. Grin and bear
it, or as Papa would say to me even when I was four, “Soldier up.”

It didn’t take much soldiering up to tolerate this, I thought. The bed felt like a
large marshmallow when I sat on it and then tested it lying down. My head sank softly
and slowly into the oversize pillow. It was like sinking into a cloud. I hadn’t noticed
it before, but there was a perfume aroma in the room. It smelled like lavender. I
rose and went into the bathroom. That beautiful bathtub did look inviting, and I always
enjoyed bubbling jets. I saw bath oils and powders, perfumed soaps, and soft washcloths
and towels. First, I found the nightgown I’d wear, and then I started the water to
fill the tub.

After I got undressed and was soaking in ecstasy, I thought about the hovel of a room
in the hotel I had found when Papa had kicked me out of the house, where I would be
right now if Mr. Bob hadn’t been in that restaurant. I tried to convince myself that
from the way he and Mrs. Brittany had described what escorts do, I wasn’t really selling
my soul to the devil. It was more like acting. I would learn a great deal here, and
then I would go out on a stage, not into the field, as she had said. On this stage,
I would pretend to care for and appreciate whomever I was with. I would be so charming
and beautiful that my date—could I use
that word?—would ask for me repeatedly, and I’d make a fortune.

Maybe there would be a handsome, exciting young businessman or a movie star with whom
I would want to have sex. So what? I had made love with boys for relatively nothing.
As long as I was careful and made sure I didn’t get pregnant, I’d be fine. Why wouldn’t
I do it if I wasn’t unhappy about it and I could make a lot of money?

I glanced at myself in the mirror as I thought these thoughts and asked that question
of myself again. Mama would be devastated if she had any idea, not only of what I
might do here but of what I had done. Papa would be so self-satisfied. If he learned
where I was and what I was going to do, he would feel justified for the way he had
thrown me out of the house. I could hear him now: “I knew we had to get rid of her.
Imagine the sort of influence she would have been when Emmie was older.”

Mama would cry, but she would cry mostly when she was alone. If she shed any tears
in front of him, it would just elevate his rage and make him blame me more, blame
me for the pain and suffering my mother endured. I had caused it at birth and would
forever.

What could I do about it? Just as he could never change me, I could never change him.
Can you ever truly love someone who disappoints you? What was more painful, not loving
my father because he didn’t love me or not loving myself because I couldn’t get him
to love me?

I closed my eyes and lay back in the water. Then
I pressed the buttons and started the jets. Squealing with delight, I looked at myself
in the mirror.
Shut down any second thoughts, Roxy Wilcox,
I told myself.
You’re on your way to better things and places you never pictured even in your dreams.

The bath turned out to be just what I had needed. Mrs. Pratt was right to suggest
it. I had no idea how much tension I had been under and how tight every muscle in
my body had become. Wasn’t it wonderful to have all this now, to be hedonistic and
soak up all the pleasure I could? I always wanted to be spoiled, and Papa was always
accusing me of that because Mama did so much for me and I was terrible about fulfilling
my responsibilities and chores at home. She would always cover up for me, but he always
seemed to know that and bawl her out for it.

Yes, I felt guilty about it, but I didn’t improve very much. I wasn’t going to deny
it. I hated kitchen chores and housework. I wasn’t even very good about keeping my
own room in order, which was something I knew irritated my father a great deal. He
was practically brought up in a barracks. His room had to be neat and organized at
all times, and he had to make his own bed, he claimed, when he was only five, “and
make it perfectly.” He said his father actually used a bouncing coin to check how
tightly made his and his brother’s beds were. He knew his coins might disappear if
he tried that on my bed. If Mama didn’t get into my room quickly enough and he saw
it, he would go on and on about it, first attempting to take away things that were
out
of place. When that didn’t bother me, he stopped, but he still complained.

Emmie was already taking good care of her room. I used to look at her and wonder how
we could be born of the same parents. I looked enough like both of them never to doubt
that my father was my father, but the resemblances felt more like a shell in my mind.
I was so unlike Emmie when I was her age, and I couldn’t imagine her becoming more
like me as she grew older. Maybe if I had paid more attention in biology class, I
would understand how sisters could be so different. I thought she loved me, even looked
up to me in certain ways. But she couldn’t have been oblivious to all of Papa’s criticism
of me, and I felt certain that when I wasn’t around, he told her to be wary of me,
not to emulate me, and in fact, to think of me as someone not to be and the things
I did as things not to do. I was a good teaching tool for him, so good that he probably
shouldn’t have thrown me out. I was a living, breathing example of all that was wrong.
All he had to do was point his finger or nod in my direction and look at her, maybe
adding, “See? That is exactly what you don’t want to do or be when you’re your sister’s
age.”

I suppose I was simply a mystery to her. How could the same parents who loved and
cherished her so much be so critical of me? How did I get this way in the same house,
hearing the same things, eating the same food, and participating in family events,
holidays, and trips? Sometimes I would catch her staring at me across a room, or I
would feel her standing behind me, watching me. I knew she was struggling
to understand me. Maybe my being gone wasn’t a surprise for her at all. Maybe she
didn’t even look in my room anymore or glance at my empty seat at the dinner table.
Perhaps my sudden disappearance was as inevitable as death itself. You knew it was
waiting to happen. You just didn’t want to talk about it or think about it or even
prepare for it.

I knew that after I had crawled into the luxurious bed in the magnificent suite, I
should have been filled with renewed hope and happiness. Papa wasn’t going to win,
after all, and there was a very good chance I would enjoy things and see things I
would never have, even if he had tolerated me forever. I was surrounded by beauty
and opulence, all of it soon to be at my beck and call.

Maybe my high school English teacher, Mr. Wheeler, was right on target when he said
I hated myself, but you didn’t wake up one morning and decide you’d be totally different,
did you? And even if you could make that decision, could you change so radically,
or were you cursed forever to be who you were? Probably, that was what was most interesting
about being here, I thought. Mrs. Brittany and her people would turn me into a different
person, would re-create me, change me in ways I had never dreamed of, and give me
a new name and a new identity. I wouldn’t be someone Papa would love but probably
just the opposite, someone he would hate more. However, after my training, I might
very well love myself for real and not just out of some stubborn arrogance.

I knew how much I had failed back home and
in school. I knew I was heading for nowhere fast. I was Miss Persona Non Grata everywhere.
I never had a substantial relationship with either a girl or a boy. Perhaps in the
end, I had nothing to give either a girlfriend or a boyfriend—no friendship, no love,
and no concern or compassion. I was some dark shadow haunting everyone with whom I
came into contact, including my own parents and my little sister. I was a natural
for this, a perfect candidate to become Mrs. Brittany’s most successful girl.

Yes, I told myself, this was my chance to be reborn. My good looks and intellectual
potential had come through for me. Admittedly, it was based on a lucky moment, but
what difference did that make in the end? Didn’t Mama believe almost everything in
life was
bonne ou mauvaise chance
? I had some good luck, and I could make something of it. Mrs. Brittany wasn’t wrong.
It was up to me. I had to find the determination and the ambition. Those were two
things I had definitely lacked until now.

Yes, I should be very, very happy tonight,
I thought.
I should have no problem sleeping.
I didn’t have to worry about whether the lock on the door would hold. I didn’t have
to hear sobbing and screams from other rooms. I didn’t have to hold my nose to sleep
or curl up, hoping nothing would bite me or infect me. I was safe. I should be happy.
Be happy,
I kept telling myself. It became more like a chant in a church, except that the church
I was in now was the church of pleasure and wealth.

But I wasn’t happy yet. I didn’t even want to
think it, much less admit it aloud, but despite my bravado and defiance, I did miss
my mother and my sister. Hell, I even missed Papa, missed his fury and his disappointments.
There were also times when he was softer, even loving. He tried, but I didn’t respond
in the manner he had been hoping to see. There were many times when I caught him looking
at me with disdain, I had to confess, if only to myself, that there were also times
when I saw his lips soften and his eyes brighten, and I knew he was thinking,
She’s beautiful, and she is my daughter.

These thoughts made my heart ache, but I didn’t sob. I squeezed my eyes closed tighter
and took a breath.

Soldier on,
I told myself.
Soldier on. The morning will bring a whole new life, a whole new world, and you will
be a star in it. You’ll never want for anything. You heard Mr. Bob. You’ll find a
new family here.

But as if someone was listening to my thoughts, someone invisible, my second self,
whispered in the darkness,
You’ll find a new family, but you won’t find the same love.

I don’t care,
I chanted to myself, still in that church of pleasure and wealth.
I don’t.

What greater lies are there,
the other voice whispered,
than the lies you tell yourself?

I didn’t want to listen to that voice. I closed my ears and willed myself to sleep.

I heard the sound of the curtains being drawn open, then the click of the lamp beside
my bed. The light splashed on my face and popped open my eyes. When I focused, I realized
Mrs. Pratt was standing there, gazing down at me full of disappointment and pity like
someone looking at a body in a coffin. Her hair was the same, as was the modest makeup
she wore, but this morning, she was dressed in a light gray tweed business skirt suit
with a frilly white blouse. When I moaned, she clutched her hands against her chest
and pursed her lips, now projecting a look of annoyance. For a moment, I forgot where
I was. It had all happened so quickly yesterday that it seemed more like a dream.
I pushed myself up onto my elbows and looked around the beautiful suite.

“What’s wrong? What’s happening?”

I had forgotten she had said I’d be up at six-thirty.

“Morning is happening,” she said. “And I assure you that I won’t be doing this every
morning. Tomorrow and from now on, you’ll be woken by phone. You don’t have to do
anything but lift the receiver and put
it back, and the ringing will stop. I hope you will soon arrive at the maturity it
takes to get yourself up without anyone else’s assistance. Small but essential things
like that will help convince Mrs. Brittany that you have what it takes to bear adult
responsibility.”

I rubbed my eyes and looked at her again as if I wanted to be sure she was really
there and I wasn’t trapped in a dream. Because of the expression on her face and the
tone of her voice, I was tempted to salute her the way I used to salute my father
to annoy him.

“I take it you slept well,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I didn’t hear a thing.”

“Good.”

She gazed with obvious disapproval at how I had left my new dress draped over a chair,
my panties and bra on the chair, and my shoes beneath it.