Secret Brother by V.C. Andrews Page A

needs. He’s even hired a psychiatrist to work with him. The boy remains in serious condition, something to do with his motor skills.”
    â€œMotor skills?”
    â€œHis legs, mainly. Your grandpa says he’s improving, but he has a ways to go yet. I’m just telling you all this so that you’ll know he’s still deeply involved,” he added quickly. “As I said, I think it helps him to care about someone that helpless.”
    I wanted to say that I was helpless, too, and that Willie was beyond helpless, but I didn’t. I just nodded.
    â€œYou know your grandfather,” Uncle Bobby continued. “When he gets on something with any determination . . .”
    I nodded again. I remembered my grandmother saying that when Grandpa made his mind up about something, he looked like a bulldozer couldn’t move him. “I swear,” she had told me, “sometimes I believe he has tree roots growing out of his soles.” She would get angry about it and tell him he was as stubborn as a corpse, but I remembered that most of the time, she was proud of how determined he could be whenever he decided to do something he thought was right, especially something good for the family. She said he made her feel safer and more secure than anyone she had ever known, even her own father and mother.
    â€œWhatever strength this family has now,” Grandma Arnold had told me sometime after my parents had died, “comes from those roots coming out of his soles. Don’t tell him I said so,” she’d whispered afterward. “He doesn’t need to have his ego blown up any more, or he’ll be even more impossible to live with.”
    She had laughed just the way someone who declared she would swear off chocolate would, knowing in her heart that she would violate her own pledge. No one could brag about or compliment my grandpa as much as she did, and she knew it. Later she would confess, “You don’t stop eating chocolate, no matter what oath you swore.”
    â€œAnyway, don’t spend any time worrying about it, Clara Sue,” Uncle Bobby said now. “Everyone has his or her own way of grieving. Let it play itself out. I know I’m going to dance harder, work harder. What I mean is, don’t let the grieving overtake you and prevent you from being who you are. I know youtake pride in everything you accomplish in and out of school. Now you can tell yourself you’re doing it all for Willie, too.”
    â€œOkay.” Those all-too-familiar tears were returning. Would they always be there, just appearing willy-nilly? Who would want to be around me?
    Uncle Bobby came over to hug me and kiss my cheek. “Maybe you can come see me in one of my shows,” he said. “There’s a good chance I’ll be back on Broadway this coming year. You’ll be able to stay with me, and I’ll show you around New York. How’s that?”
    â€œIf Grandpa lets me. Sometimes I can even hear the chains rattling.”
    He laughed. “I know. We’ll get Myra to agree first, and if necessary, we’ll invite her along,” he said.
    He started out but stopped, thinking for a moment in the doorway. Then he turned back to me.
    â€œLook after him, Clara Sue. He’s more lost than you think,” he said, and left.
    Was he right? I could only think back to how my grandfather had acted after my parents were killed and then after Grandma Arnold’s passing. Both times, he was the one taking care of everyone and everything with such authority. I did feel safer. Was the loss of Willie greater to him than I thought it was? Perhaps he’d had high hopes for Willie and even envisioned the day when he would begin to work in the business, something Uncle Bobby never did. Now that was gone. What did he have left? Millions of dollars? A beautiful estate? A thriving big business?
    And memories captured and locked away in pictures. How often