Storms 01 - Family Storms

here just as I am sitting now, and we would think of ways the dream story could continue or how it might lead to another dream. Sometimes Donald would stop in and participate. Who’d ever think that something so terrible would happen to such a lovely little girl?”
    She continued after a little pause of sadness, “It seems I keep apologizing to you for what goes on here. It will get better. I promise.” She patted my hand and started to get up, but then stopped and looked at me. “You didn’t have any storylike dreams last night, did you?”
    “No,” I said.
    “Well, if you ever feel like talking about a dream you’ve had, don’t hesitate to tell me, okay? Good. Sweet dreams, then.” She leaned over to kiss me on the forehead. She put the chair back, smiled at me, and put out the lights on her way out, closing the door softly behind her. The house was quiet, but when I adjusted myself to get a little more comfortable, I heard the music start in Kiera’s room. It was so loud that I was sure Mr. and Mrs. March had to hear it, as well, but it continued.
    She’s doing that deliberately,
I thought. Why couldn’t she use earphones? Perhaps her friend Deidre was still there and in the room with her. Maybe she was showing off, showing her how she could annoy me. I imagined her bragging about how she would drive me out of there soon. Finally, the music was turned down or turned off, and the silence returned.
    It was still difficult for me to fall asleep. I anticipated Kiera bursting in on me again to make more threats, butshe didn’t. I also thought about what Mrs. March had said about Alena’s dreams. I wondered if her dreams would somehow become mine if I remained there. Maybe dreams lingered like cobwebs. They were floating about looking to settle in another young girl’s mind.
    I half wished they would. My interest in knowing more about Alena seemed to grow stronger with every minute I was in the suite. Whether it was wishful thinking or not, I half expected that someday, she would reach out to me to tell me that she would help me.
    “Don’t worry,” she would whisper, “I’m here.”
    I so needed a friend.
    Even one who had died.

14
Unchained
    S oon my days became more ordinary, or at least as ordinary as days living in such an enormous estate with servants could be. For the time being, Kiera seemed to lose interest in me and didn’t come bursting into my room again. Often, she wasn’t at dinner, and if she was, she acted as if I weren’t even there. Perhaps she was convinced that my being sent away was only a matter of time and didn’t require her interference or involvement. Mr. March was often gone on business or very involved in some project he was developing. I had seen little of him since our first dinner together. There was much to keep me busy, however.
    Mrs. Kepler came to tutor me five days a week and always stayed the same amount of time. Dr. Milan came once more, and then I was taken to get the X-rays he wanted. He told Mrs. March and me that it was too soon to see if my right leg would continue to grow as normally as my left. I was instructed in how to use the crutch he promised, so the wheelchair was put away. The doctorwanted me to get more exercise and move about as much as possible, and I did feel myself getting stronger every day. As Mrs. Duval was fond of saying, there was light at the end of the tunnel.
    Toward the end of the summer, Dr. Milan finally took off the cast, and I felt like a prisoner who had been unchained. But I was walking with a limp. The doctor said I would for a while, if not forever. Still, I was so happy not to have something attached to my body that I almost didn’t care. Suddenly, the world seemed bright again, and hope dared show its face on my horizon. How I wished Mama would have lived to see my recuperation.
    On the way back from Dr. Milan’s office, I told Mrs. March that I had finally decided what to have written on my mother’s tombstone. From the way she reacted, I had the feeling she thought I had completely forgotten about it.
    “Oh, you have? Why, that’s very nice, Sasha. What have you decided?”
    “Under her name and the dates of her birth and death, I want to write ‘who showed her daughter a little bit of heaven.’”
    I could see she didn’t fully understand. How could I want to write something like that after being on the streets for nearly a year before her death?
    “I don’t know if it can be done,” I added, “but