By V. C. Andrews
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Extra info for Cinnamon
Your mother could be here a while," he said. " "No, a clinic," he corrected sharply. I looked away. Tears didn't come into my eyes often, but when they did. I held them over my pupils tightly, battling to keep them locked behind my lids. I took deep breaths. "We've got to be strong," Daddy said. " I looked at him. He was checking the time and looking toward the doorway. "I haven't even learned about today's market results. I hopped on the train as quickly as I could," he muttered. "Where were you.
Mommy would often be Jonathan Demerest, speaking in a deep voice. That was when we came up with the story of Agatha Demerest having to take on the role of mother when her mother died of smallpox. But Mommy was talking about it now as if it were historical fact and we had no concrete information upon which to base our assumptions, except for the dates carved in a couple of tombstones. "Okay, Mammy," I said. I was thinking about washing the lipstick drawing off her stomach. but I was afraid even to mention it.
Oh," she said. "Yes. " I hung up just as Grandmother Beverly came up the stairs, looking more her age. "The doctor has called the ambulance," she said. She swallowed and continued. "It's no use. She has to return to the hospital. " "Of course. Look at her behavior. That's exactly where she belongs," she added with that damnable look of self-satisfaction I hated so much. She put her hands over her ears, but Mommy's heart-wrenching scream drove Grandmother Beverly back down the stairs to wait. I was hoping it would drive her out of our lives.
Cinnamon by V. C. Andrews