Danielle Steel - The long road home

“Where's Meredith?” he asked, as he glanced around the room, aware for the first time that the doll wasn't there. She was always close at hand in Gabriella's room, and this time he didn't see her.

“She went away,” Gabriella said with lowered eyes, trying not to cry again, thinking of the sound it had made when her mother battered her against the wall and destroyed her. It was a sound she knew she would never forget, a sight she would never forgive her for. Meredith had been her baby.

“What does that mean?” he asked innocently, and then, backing off almost instantly, he decided not to pursue the matter further. “Come on downstairs and have something to eat, sweetheart. We have an hour before we have to go to church, we've got plenty of time for breakfast,” he said pleasantly, and then hurried back downstairs, relieved to escape the intensity of her eyes, the depths of her sorrow. He knew now that something had happened in his absence, but he didn't want to ask, and didn't want to know the details. Today was no different from any other. He never wanted to know what had happened, if he wasn't forced to see it. And even then, he did nothing about it.

Gabriella crept down the stairs quietly, taking one step at a time, gasping for air, and clutching the banister. Her ankle hurt, her arms, her head, and not just two but all of her ribs felt as though they had been broken. She felt sick from the pain as she slipped quietly into her seat at the breakfast table. She had put her sheets in the laundry bag after rinsing parts of them carefully, her bed had been changed, and she thought there was a chance her mother might never discover her “accident” of the night before. She hoped not, with her entire being.

“You're late,” her mother said without ever taking her eyes off the paper.

“I'm sorry, Mommy,” Gabriella whispered. Talking hurt incredibly, but she knew what would happen if she didn't answer.

“If you're hungry, pour yourself a glass of milk and make a piece of toast.” She paused, not wanting to get up again, but without saying a word, her father did it for her, and as soon as her mother became aware of it, she looked up and stared at him in annoyance. “You're always spoiling her. Why do you do that?” She looked at him pointedly, angry about crimes that had nothing to do with making Gabriella's breakfast. But she hated it when he made any effort for her, or offered any kind gesture.

“It's Sunday.” As though that answered her question. “Would you like another cup of coffee?”

“No, thank you,” she said curtly. “I have to get dressed for church in a minute. And so do you.” She looked angrily at Gabriella. But the thought of changing again, having to get in and out of her sweater and her clothes almost made the child weep at the thought of what it would cost her. “I want you in your pink smocked dress with the matching sweater.” The directions were clear, as was the penalty if she did not wear them. “And stay in your room until we're ready to leave. Try not to get filthy dirty, as usual in the meantime.” Gabriella nodded, and silently left the table a moment later without breakfast. She knew that today it would take her longer than usual to follow her mother's orders. And her father watched her go without saying a word. It was a complicity of silence between them.

She walked slowly up the stairs again, with more difficulty than she had come down them, but she made it to her room finally, and looked for the dress her mother had requested in her closet. She found it easily, but putting it on was another story. It took her nearly the full hour to change her clothes, and get into the dress as she winced in agony, and wiped away the tears that fell copiously as she did it. The sweater was the final blow in an already wretched morning. But she was dressed and waiting when her father came to tell her it was time to go, and she followed him down the stairs in her black patent leather shoes, and little white socks, and the pink smocked dress and matching sweater. She looked, as she always did, like a little angel.

“My God, did you comb your hair with a knife and fork?” her mother asked angrily the moment she saw her. She had been unable to raise her arms to comb her hair that morning, and foolishly hoped her mother wouldn't notice.

“I forgot” was the only thing she could think of to say, and at least her mother couldn't say that she was lying. At least she hadn't pretended that she'd done it.

“Go back up and do it now, and wear the pink satin ribbon.” Gabriella's eyes filled with tears at the command, and for once her father came to the rescue. He took a comb out of his jacket pocket for her, and instead of handing it to her, he ran it through the silky curls himself, and she looked presentable in less than a minute. The blood had dried in her hair by then and he pretended not to see it.

“She doesn't need the ribbon,” was all he said to his wife as Gabriella looked up at him gratefully. In his dark suit, white shirt, and blue-and-red tie, he looked more handsome than ever. Her mother was wearing a gray wool suit with a fur around her neck, a small elegant black hat with a veil, and white kid gloves that, as usual, were spotless. She had on beautiful black suede shoes as well, and carried a black alligator handbag. She looked like a model in a magazine, Gabriella knew, except that, as she always did, she looked so angry. But for once Eloise decided not to argue with John about the ribbon. It simply wasn't worth it.

They were very nearly late for church, but arrived right on time, by cab, and slipped into a pew, with Gabriella seated between her parents. She knew instantly what that meant. Every time her mother didn't like the way she behaved, or if she moved even a millimeter in her seat, her mother would squeeze a leg or an arm until it bruised, or grab her beneath her dress and pinch her.

Gabriella sat as still as she could, she barely moved today, and she could hardly breathe from the pain in her ribs. She sat in a daze of agony through most of the service. Her mother sat with her eyes closed most of the time, seemingly praying with total concentration. And now and then, she would open her eyes again and glance at Gabriella. But fortunately today, each time she did, Gabriella was sitting completely still, holding her breath so her ribs wouldn't be even more painful.

She followed her parents outside afterward, while they mingled with people they knew, and chatted with friends. Several people commented on how pretty Gabriella looked and her mother ignored both their compliments and the child. And each time Gabriella was introduced to someone new, or met someone she had seen before, she had to shake their hand and curtsy. It was no small feat for her in light of the damage of the night before, but knowing that she had no choice, she did it.

“What a perfect child!” someone said to John, and he agreed, while Eloise appeared not to hear them. Perfection was exactly what she expected of her. And Gabriella did her best to deliver it, though today it was anything but easy.

It seemed hours before they left the church, and went to the Plaza for lunch. There was music, and elegant silver trays being passed with tea sandwiches on them. And her father ordered her a hot chocolate. It arrived with a whole bowl of whipped cream, and Gabriella's eyes grew wide with delight, just as Eloise reached for it, and set it down on the far side of the table.

“You don't need that, Gabriella. It's not healthy. There's nothing more unattractive in the world than fat children.” She was in no danger of becoming fat, as all three of them knew. If anything, she looked like one of the starving children in Hungary she had heard so much about when she didn't finish her dinner. But nonetheless the whipped cream never came her way again. And she knew better than anyone that it was because she didn't deserve it. She had driven her mother to a frenzy the night before. There was no doubt in her mind that the ravages of the night before were probably her own fault, no matter how little she understood it.