Dollenganger 02 Petals On the Wind Read Online Free PDF

me--unless you have some objections."
Oh, I had objections! I wasn't keen about taking off my clothes and having him go over me, even if a nurse was there. Chris told me I was silly to think a doctor of forty would get any erotic pleasure from looking at a girl of my age. But when he said it, he was looking the other way, so how could I tell what he was really thinking? Maybe Chris was right, for when I was on that examination table, naked and covered by a paper robe, Dr. Paul didn't seem the same man whose eyes followed me around when we were in the "home" side of his house. He did to me the same things he'd done to Carrie, but asked even more questions. Embarrassing questions.
"You haven't menstruated in more than two months?"
"I've never been regular, really! I started when I was twelve, and twice I skipped from three to six months. I used to worry about it, but Chris read up on the subject in one of the medical books Momma brought him, and he told me too many anxieties and too much stress can make a girl miss. You don't think . . I mean . . . there isn't anything wrong with me, is there?"
"Not that I can tell. You seem normal enough. Too thin, too pale, and you're slightly anemic. Chris is too, but because of his sex not as much as you are. I'm going to prescribe special vitamins for all three of you."
I was glad when it was over and I could put on my clothes and escape that office where the women who worked for Dr. Paul looked at me so funny.
I raced back to the kitchen. Mrs. Beech was preparing dinner. Her smile shone big and wide when I came in, lighting up a moon face with skin as slick as oiled rubber. The teeth she displayed were the whitest, most perfect teeth I'd ever seen. "Golly, am I happy that's over!" I said, falling into a chair and picking up a knife to peel potatoes. "I don't like doctors poking me over. I like Dr. Paul better when he's just a man. When he puts on that long white jacket, he also puts a shade over his eyes. Then I can't see what he's thinking. And I'm very good at reading eyes, Mrs. Beech."
She grinned at me with teasing devilry, then whipped out a pink notepad from the huge square pocket of her starched white apron. With the apron tied about her middle she resembled nothing more than a rolled-up goosedown comforter, waddling about speechless. By now I knew she had a congenital speech defect. Though she was trying to teach Chris, Carrie and me to understand her sign language, as yet none of us had caught on enough to carry on a quick conversation. I think I enjoyed her notes too much-- notes she could write lightning-fast in a very abbreviated style. Doctor says, she'd written, young people need lots of good fresh fruit and vegetables, plenty of lean meat, but go easy on starches and desserts. He wants to put on you muscle not fat.
Already we'd gained some weight in the two weeks of eating Mrs. Beech's delicious cooking, even Carrie who was so darn finicky. Now she ate with enthusiasm, and for her that was remarkable. So, as I peeled the red potatoes, Mrs. Beech wrote another note when her signals failed to communicate. FairyChild, from now on call me only Henny. No Mrs. Beech.
She was the first black person I'd known, and though at first I'd felt ill-at-ease with her and a little afraid of her, two weeks of intimacy had taught me much. She was just another human being of another race and color, with the same sensitivities, hopes and fears we all had.
I loved Henny, her broad smiles, her loose, flowing gowns with flowers blooming riotously, and most of all I loved the wisdom that came from her small pastel paper sheets. Eventually, I did learn to understand her sign language, though I was never as good at it as her "doctor-son."
Paul Scott Sheffield was a strange man. So often he looked sad when there was no apparent reason for him to be sad. Then he'd smile and say, "Yes, God favored Henny and me that day he pit you three on that bus. I lost one family, and grieved for them, and fate was