Cathy Quotes

“Really, lies are so easy to tell when you don't care anymore, or when you have lost all shame. That is my truth.”
― Mia Asher, Arsen: A Broken Love Story

“I love my murderer--but yours? How can I?”
― Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

“His name is Julian Janus Marquet, but I’m going to call him Jory.”

Both Chris and Paul heard my thin whisper. I was so tired, so sleepy.

“Why would you call him Jory?” asked Paul, but it wasn’t me who had the strength to answer. It was Chris who understood my reasoning.

“If he had been blond, she would have named him Cory—but the J will stand for Julian, and the rest for Cory.”

Our eyes met and I smiled.

How wonderful to be understood, and never have to explain.”
― V.C. Andrews, Petals on the Wind

“It looks like a prisoner of war camp to me." Fiona threw her rucksack down in disgust. "I was expecting a five-star hotel at least.”
― Cathy MacPhail, Missing

“He caught my hand and drew me closer to his side.
“Well, should I begin to list them one by one, and by name? If I did it would take several hours. If there had been someone special, all I would do is name one—and I can’t do that. I liked them all . . . but I didn’t like any well enough to love, if that’s what you want to know.”

Yes, that was exactly what I wanted to know.

“I’m sure you didn’t live a celibate life, even though you didn’t fall in love . . . ?”

“That’s none of your business,” he said lightly.

“I think it is. It would give me peace to know you had a girl you loved.”

“I do have a girl I love,” he answered. “I’ve known her all my life. When I go to sleep at night, I dream of her, dancing overhead, calling my name, kissing my cheek, screaming when she has nightmares, and I wake up to take the tar from her hair. There are times when I wake up to ache all over, as she aches all over, and I dream I kiss the marks the whip made . . . and I dream of a certain night when she and I went out on the cold slate roof and stared up at the sky, and she said the moon was the eye of God looking down and condemning us for what we were. So there, Cathy, is the girl who haunts me and rules me, and fills me with frustrations, and darkens all the hours I spend with other girls who just can’t live up to the standards she set. And I hope to God you’re satisfied.”

I turned to move as in a dream, and in that dream I put my arms about him and stared up into his face, his beautiful face that haunted me too.
“Don’t love me, Chris. Forget about me. Do as I do, take whomever knocks first on your door, and let her in.”

He smiled ironically and put me quickly from him.

“I did exactly what you did, Catherine Doll, the first who knocked on my door was let in—and now I can’t drive her out. But that’s my problem—not yours.”

“I don’t deserve to be there. I’m not an angel, not a saint . . . you should know that.”

“Angel, saint, Devil’s spawn, good or evil, you’ve got me pinned to the wall and labeled as yours until the day I die. And if you die first, then it won’t be long before I follow.”
― V.C. Andrews, Petals on the Wind

“No. I wasn’t there. I was back in Gladstone, Pennsylvania, and I was twelve years old. Two state troopers were in the driveway, with a white car parked . . . and swiftly they were striding to interrupt a birthday party to tell us all that Daddy was dead. Killed in an accident on Greenfield Highway.

“Chris! Chris!” I screamed, terrified he might have gone.

“I’m here. I’m coming. I knew you’d need me.”
― V.C. Andrews, Petals on the Wind

“invariably to me, I know, and to any person who saw her, I should think--refuted more tangible proofs of convalescence, and stamped her as one doomed to decay.”
― Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

“I jumped then. It seemed I heard a child laugh. My imagination, of course. And then, when I should have known better, I headed for the closet and the high and narrow door at the very back end and the steep and narrow dark stairs. A million times I’d ascended these stairs. A million times in the dark, without a candle, or a flashlight. Up into the dark, eerie, gigantic attic, and only when I was there did I feel around for the place where Chris and I had hidden our candles and matches.

Still there. Time did stand still in this place. We’d had several candle holders, all of pewter with small handles to grasp. Holders we’d found in an old trunk along with boxes and boxes of short, stubby, clumsily made candles. We’d always presumed them to be homemade candles, for they had smelled so rank and old when they burned.

My breath caught! Oh! It was the same! The paper flowers still dangled down, mobiles to sway in the drafts, and the giant flowers were still on the walls. Only all the colors had faded to indistinct gray—ghost flowers. The sparkling gem centers we’d glued on had loosened, and now only a few daisies had sequins, or gleaming stones, for centers. Carrie’s purple worm was there only now he too was a nothing color. Cory’s epileptic snail didn’t appear a bright, lopsided beach ball now, it was more a tepid, half-rotten squashy orange. The BEWARE signs Chris and I had painted in red were still on the walls, and the swings still dangled down from the attic rafters. Over near the record player was the barre Chris had fashioned, then nailed to the wall so I could practice my ballet positions. Even my outgrown costumes hung limply from nails, dozens of them with matching leotards and worn out pointe shoes, all faded and dusty, rotten smelling.

As in an unhappy dream I was committed to, I drifted aimlessly toward the distant schoolroom, with the candelight flickering. Ghosts were unsettled, memories and specters followed me as things began to wake up, yawn and whisper. No, I told myself, it was only the floating panels of my long chiffon wings . . . that was all. The spotted rocking-horse loomed up, scary and threatening, and my hand rose to my throat as I held back a scream. The rusty red wagon seemed to move by unseen hands pushing it, so my eyes took flight to the blackboard where I’d printed my enigmatic farewell message to those who came in the future. How was I to know it would be me?

We lived in the attic,

Christopher, Cory, Carrie and me—

Now there are only three.

Behind the small desk that had been Cory’s I scrunched down, and tried to fit my legs under. I wanted to put myself into a deep reverie that would call up Cory’s spirit that would tell me where he lay.”
― V.C. Andrews, Petals on the Wind

“Are you possessed with a devil,' he pursued, savagely, 'to talk in that manner to me when you are dying? Do you reflect that all those words will be branded in my memory, and eating deeper eternally after you have left me?”
― Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

“Pragmatic, blithe, the eternal, cockeyed optimist, Chris sings when he works in the gardens. When he shaves in the mornings he hums some ballet tune, feeling no trepidations, no regrets, as if long, long ago he had been the man who danced in the shadows of the attic and had never, never let me see his face. Did he know all along that just as he had won over me in all other games it would be him in the end?

Why hadn’t I known?

Who had shut my eyes?

It must have been Momma who told me once, “Marry a man with dark, dark eyes, Cathy. Dark eyes feel so terribly intense about everything.”
What a laugh! As if blue eyes lacked some profound steadfastness; she should have known better.”
― V.C. Andrews, Petals on the Wind

“So, the dreams of perfection, of fame, of fortune, of undying, ever-abiding love without one single flaw, like the toys and games of yesteryears, and all other youthful fantasies I have outgrown, I have put away.

Often I look at Chris, and wonder just what it is he sees in me. What is it that binds him to me in such a permanent way? I wonder too why he isn’t afraid for his future and the length of it, since I am better at keeping pets alive than husbands. But he comes home jauntily, wearing a happy grin, as he strides into my welcoming arms that respond quickly to his greeting, “Come greet me with kisses if you love me.”
― V.C. Andrews, Petals on the Wind

“It was a marvelous effort of perspicacity to discover that I did not love her”
― Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

“and firstly, let me beware of the fascination that lurks in Catherine Heathcliff's brilliant eyes. I should be in a curious taking if I surrendered my heart to that young person, and the daughter turned out a second edition of the mother.”
― Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

“Candy. He spoke of candy. Was he still in the child's world where candy stood for something sweet enough to hold back tears? I had grown older, and had lost enthusiasm for childish delights. I wanted what every teenager wants -- freedom to develop into a woman, freedom to have full control over my life! Though I tried to tell him this, my voice had dried up along with my tears.”
― V.C. Andrews

“I threatened to gouge one of his eyes out." Cathy”
― Dennis Kelly, DNA

“There’s a garden in the sky, waiting there for me. It’s a garden that Chris and I imagined years ago, while we lay on a hard black slate roof and stared up at the sun and the stars.
He’s up there, whispering in the winds to tell me that’s where the purple grass grows. They’re all up there waiting for me.

So, forgive me for being tired, too tired to stay. I have lived long enough, and can say my life was full of happiness as well as sadness. Though some might not see it that way.

I love all of you, each equally. I love Darren and Deirdre and wish them good luck throughout their lives, as I wish the same for your child-to-be, Jory.

The Dollanganger Saga is over.

You’ll find my last manuscript in my private vault. Do with it what you will.

It was meant to be this way. I have no place to go but there. No one needs me more than Chris does.

But please don’t ever say I failed in reaching my most important goal. I may not have been the prima ballerina I set out to be. Nor was I the perfect wife or mother—but I did manage to convince one person, at last, that he did have the right father.

And it wasn’t too late, Bart.

It’s never too late.”
― V.C. Andrews

“I had heard the wind from the mountains calling me last night, telling me it was my time to go, and I woke up, knowing what to do.

Once I was in that cold dim room, without furniture or carpet or rugs, only a dollhouse that wasn’t as wonderful as the original, I opened the tall and narrow closet door and began my ascent up the steep and narrow stairs.

On my way to the attic.
On my way to where I’d find my Christopher, again . . .”
― V.C. Andrews, Seeds of Yesterday

“Please, God, you can’t do this to me, or to Chris! There’s not a better man alive than Chris . . . you must know that . . .” And then I was sobbing. For my father had been a wonderful man, and that hadn’t mattered. Fate didn’t choose the unloved, the derelicts, the unneeded or unwanted. Fate was a bodiless form with a cruel hand that reached out randomly, carelessly, and seized up with ruthlessness.”
― V.C. Andrews

“I stayed to spy on them. I heard my mother moaning, and crying out for Chris. Then she surprised me. “Momma, where has Momma gone, Chris? It’s been so long since she visited us, months, months, and the twins don’t grow.”
“Cathy, Cathy, my poor darling, stop thinking about the past,” said my grandmother. “Please hold on, eat and drink to keep up your strength. Chris will come to save us both.”
“Cory, stop playing that same tune over and over. I’m so tired of your lyrics. Why do you write such sad songs? The night will end, it will. Chris, tell Cory the day will begin soon.”
― V.C. Andrews

“I couldn’t go to sleep. I kept hearing him calling me, wanting me. I got up and drifted down the hall and again got in his bed, where he lay waiting.
“You’ll never be free of me, Cathy, never. As long as you live, it will be me and you.”
“No!”
“Yes!”
“No!”
But I kissed him, then jumped from his bed and raced back to my room, slamming and locking the door behind me.”
― V.C.Andrews,

“You look . . . so divine,” I said in a tight voice. “I see candy in your eyes and the crown jewels of England too.”

“No—that’s what I am seeing in your eyes, Cathy. You’re so very beautiful in that white nightgown. I love you in white nightgowns with blue satin ribbons. I love the way your hair spreads like a fan, and you turn your cheek so it rests on a satin pillow.”

He moved closer, so his head was on my hair too. Even closer he inclined his head until our foreheads met. His warm breath was on my face. I moved so my head tilted backward and my neck arched. I didn’t feel quite real when his warm lips kissed the hollow of my throat and stayed there. My breath caught. For long, long moments I waited for him to move away. I wanted to pull back myself, but somehow I couldn’t. A sweet peace stole over me, quivering my flesh with a tingling sensation.

“Don’t kiss me again,” I whispered, clinging harder to him and pressing his head to my throat.

“I love you,” he choked. “There will never be anyone for me but you. When I’m an old, old man, I’ll look back to this night with you under the Christmas tree, and remember how sweet it was of you to let me hold you like this.”
― V.C. Andrews

“Dear Mrs. Winslow,
How well I remember the summer of your honeymoon. It was a wonderful summer, so refreshingly pleasant in the mountains in a locked room with windows that were never opened.

Congratulations and my very best wishes, Mrs. Winslow, and I do hope all your future summers, winters, springs and falls will be haunted by the memory of the kind of summers, winters, springs and falls your Dresden dolls used to have.

Not yours anymore,
The doctor doll,
The ballerina doll,
The praying-to-grow-taller doll,
And the dead doll.”
― V.C. Andrews

“While I thought my vengeful thoughts and made my plans to ruin her life when I could, Chris was tenderly kissing me. I hadn’t even noticed.
“Stop!” I cried when I felt his lips pressing down on mine. “Leave me alone! You don’t love me like I want to be loved, for what I am. You love me because my face is like hers! Sometimes I hate my face!”
He looked terribly wounded as he backed toward the door.
“I was only trying to comfort you,” he said in a broken voice. “Don’t turn it into something ugly.”
― V.C. Andrews, Petals on the Wind

“Some toy you give,” he said, gritty-voiced, and now the two tears in the corners of his eyes began to slide down his cheeks.

“You remembered the day Daddy said he would give me this when I became a doctor.”

“How could I forget? That little catalog was the one thing you took of yours that wasn’t clothes, when we went to Foxworth Hall. And every time he swatted a fly, or killed a spider, Paul, Chris would long to have a John Cuff microscope. And once he said he wanted to be the Mouseman of the Attic, and discover for himself why mice die so young.”

“Do mice die young?” asked Paul seriously. “How did you know they were young? Did you capture baby ones, and mark them in some way?”

Chris and I met eyes.

Yeah, we’d lived in another world back when we were young and imprisoned, so that we could look at the mice who came to steal and nibble on our food, especially the one named Mickey.”
― V.C. Andrews, Petals on the Wind

“My heart jumped. “Yes. Yes I do. Chris, go on to the Mayo Clinic without me. I’ll make out fine, and I swear not to marry anyone until you are back and give your approval. Worry about finding someone yourself. After all, I’m not the only woman who resembles our mother.”

He flared. “Why the hell do you put it like that? It’s you, not her! It’s everything about you that’s not like her that makes me need and want you so!

“Chris, I want a man I can sleep with, who will hold me when I feel afraid, and kiss me, and make me believe I am not evil or unworthy.”
My voice broke as tears came. “I wanted to show Momma what I could do, and be the best prima ballerina, but now that Julian’s gone all I want to do is cry when I hear ballet music. I miss him so, Chris.”

I put my head on his chest and sobbed. “I could have been nicer to him—then he wouldn’t have struck out in anger. He needed me and I failed him. You don’t need me. You’re stronger than he was. Paul doesn’t really need me either, or he would insist on marrying me right away. . . .”

“We could live together, and, and . . .” And here he faltered as his face turned red.

I finished for him, “No! Can’t you see it just wouldn’t work?”

“No, I guess it wouldn’t work for you,” he said stiffly. “But I’m a fool; I’ve always been a fool, wanting the impossible. I’m even fool enough to want us locked up again, the way we were—with me the only male available to you!”

“You don’t mean that!”

He seized me in his arms. “Don’t I? God help me but I do mean it! You belonged to me then, and in its own peculiar way our life together made me better than I would have been . . . and you made me want you, Cathy. You could have made me hate you, instead you made me love you.”

I shook my head, denying this; I’d only done what came naturally from watching my mother with men. I stared at him, trembling as he released me. I stumbled as I turned to run toward the house. Before me Paul loomed up! Startled I faltered guiltily and stared at him as he turned abruptly and strode in the opposite direction. Oh! He’d been watching and listening! I pivoted about, then raced back to where Chris had his head resting against the trunk of the oldest oak.

“See what you’ve done!” I cried out. “Forget me, Chris! I’m not the one and only woman alive!”

He appeared blind as he turned his head and he said, “You are for me the only woman alive.”
― V.C. Andrews

“By living your life the way you do, there will soon be no room for anyone. Today it’s your little sister, and tomorrow it will be me or your father.”
― Deliverance Charities, The Scars of Abuse: A Tale of Tragedy and Hope