Wicked Forest

for you, Linden."

  He shrugged.

  "I don't know why exactly. but I feel like some

  great weight has been lifted from my shoulders. So.

  Grace tells me you have enrolled in school here," he

  said, pouring himself a cup of coffee, then bringing it

  to the table and sitting across from me.

  "Yes. I have found a program in a nearby

  college that will enable me to pursue my career." "That's terrific. I know Grace is veiy pleased,"

  he said, smiling at her.

  She, too, stared with eyes wide with disbelief.

  but eyes full of happiness, as well. If anything was

  unusual now, it was Linden's apparent obliviousness

  to our reactions,

  "Would you like some eggs today, Linden?"

  she asked him.

  "I think so. Mother. That omelette you do with

  a little cheese. I don't know why. but I woke up

  absolutely famished today."

  He smiled at me.

  "So," he continued. "Grace. tells me you two

  are thinking of going to a beauty parlor today." "Yes, we have afternoon appointments. I'll be

  back to pick her up after I visit the college I am going

  to attend. I thought it might be nice to go to lunch

  first. You're welcome to join us, Linden."

  "That sounds very nice. but I think I'm going to

  try to do some work today. Mother, pack me a lunch,

  if you will. I plan to stay out most of the day. It looks

  like a perfect day."

  "But are you strong enough for that. Linden?"

  she asked him cautiously.

  "Of course I am. Why shouldn't I be? Once I

  have one of your wonderful omelettes in my stomach,

  that is," he added, and laughed.

  I think both my mother and I were holding our

  breath. Both of us looked about ready to explode.

  Still, he didn't notice. He went right on talking and

  was even chattier than he had been before his sailing

  fiasco. He was absolutely gleeful about our moving

  into the main house and the Eatons moving out. "What a relief it will be to move about our

  property and not have them hovering above and

  around us," he said. "Do you know. Mother. I don't

  believe I have been back in that house since they

  moved into it. Have I?

  "No, Linden. Neither of us has, for that matter,"

  Mother said. He thought for a moment, then laughed. "I think I'll plant myself at the gate and smile at

  them as they drive away. When will they leave

  exactly?" he asked, turning to me.

  "May fifteenth is technically their last day here,

  according to what I understand," I said.

  "Excellent," he said, and began to gobble down

  his omelette.

  We both watched him in awe until I went to

  dress for my trip to the school, both of us afraid to say

  too much. It was like handling thin china, taking great

  care not to tap or bang anything too hard. A part of me

  worried that such a dramatic and radical turnaround

  could be the sign of something even more serious. I noticed that all the torn paintings were gone

  from the studio, and when I gazed out of my bedroom

  window, I saw that sometime during the night or very

  early this morning he had taken them to the refuse

  area to be carted off. I had a chilling thought that the

  weight Linden talked about being lifted from his

  shoulders was the weight of the guilt he expressed in

  his madness. Since he had ripped up all his works and

  put them in the garbage, he no longer felt pressured

  and depressed. How would this affect his work? What

  would he paint? Would it all start again? Not wanting to detract from my mother's joy at seeing Linden's recuperation. I didn't mention any of my thoughts or fears to her when I stepped back into the kitchen on

  my way out.

  She was preparing a lunch basket for him and

  he was talking about the studio he intended to set up

  in the main house when we were all finally living

  there. Her face was absolutely glowing. I was so

  happy for her, but as I stood there and listened. I

  noticed how Linden looked down at the table when he

  talked and how his talk was filled with such minute

  details, down to where he was going to keep his

  drawing pencils and how he would angle his table.

  How odd it was.

  Now that I studied him some more as he spoke.

  I realized he was driven by a frenetic neryous energy.

  His eyebrows were like Mexican jumping beans and

  his hands never stopped moving. Mother wasn't really

  listening to the content of what he was saving or

  looking at him when he spoke. She was simply too

  excited and happy about his talking to care about

  anything more than that.

  "I'm off." I declared, interrupting him. He

  hadn't taken note of my return. barely pausing to take

  breaths.

  Now he looked up at me. his eyes growing

  smaller. darker. He tilted his head as if confusion

  weighed too heavily on one side.

  "When did you get here?" he asked.

  Mother's hands froze. She looked at me, then at

  him. 'Get here? You mean. Joya del Mar?"

  "Yes, of course. That is exactly what I mean."

  he replied.

  "A few days ago," I said. He nodded, "Grace told me you were coming back. I

  understand you are going to attend a college here." "Yes, Linden. That's where I'm going now-- to

  meet with my assigned advisor and set up my

  schedule of classes. I thought you heard me say that

  before."

  "You know we're moving back into the main

  house," he said, ignoring me.

  Mother brought her hands to the base of her

  throat and released a small cry.

  "Yes, Linden. I know and I am very happy

  about it."

  "We never should have left it and rented it to

  those people," he said.

  "Well, we won't have to rent it again. ever."

  "Good," he said, and looked at the table.

  "Linden, didn't you take your pill this

  morning?" Mother asked him.

  "Pill? No What pill?"

  "Oh dear," she said, and went to get his

  medication. He watched her go.

  "And then," he began where I had interrupted

  him. "I will keep my supplies in the closet on the

  right. I want to stock up so I don't have to depend on

  anyone. There's plenty of room. The stock closet has a

  great set of shelves, you know. I remember that. I

  remember the three light fixtures, brass, and there was

  a place for a safe. I think. Maybe it was just a mistake

  and they said it was a place for a mistake. Jackie Lee

  thought that. too. She always wanted me to call her

  Jackie Lee. Did you know that? Yes, Jackie Lee, Call

  me Jackie Lee. Don't call me Grandma or Ma or any

  other name like that. Let's just use our names. okay?

  You're Linden. I'm Jackie Lee. Okay, all right. Even if

  you have a bad dream, don't scream. 'Grandma.' Don't

  scream. 'Ma.' Don't scream anything, but if you have

  to scream, scream for Jackie Lee. Jackie Lee..." His voice trailed off as Mother returned, and he

  sat back. After a moment he looked up at t
he two of

  us and smiled.

  "I think I'll take a short rest before going out to work. I got up too early this morning. I've been up for

  hours and hours, haven't I. Mother?"

  "Yes," she lied. But first, take your pill." She

  handed it to him and gave him a glass of water, and he

  downed the pill quickly.

  He looked at me. "Will you be here for dinner?"

  he asked. "Yes, Linden."

  "Good. We can get reacquainted then." He

  stopped smiling and pressed his lips together as he

  stared at inc. "Iran sorry," he said. "I've forgotten your

  name."

  "It's Willow. My name is Willow De Beers." "Yes, of course it is Sorry I've had a great deal

  on my mind these last few days. De Beers, De Beers...

  didn't we know a De Beers. Mother?"

  "Yes, Linden, we did," she said, the tears filling

  under her lids.

  "Of course. I'm sorry." he said. rising. "With all

  this talk about moving. I've got so much to do. You'll

  have to excuse me. I'm sorry"

  "It's all right." I said as he walked out of the

  kitchen and back toward his bedroom.

  The tears, now free to move at will, charged

  down my mother's cheeks. She blinked through them

  and took a deep breath.

  "For a while I actually thought... it seemed as if

  he was well again." she said, and moaned.

  "I'm sure the forgetting and the confusion are

  just a normal and expected part of his condition,

  Mother."

  "I don't know about on to lunch and then to a

  beauty parlor. Willow. I don't want to make a fool of

  myself and embarrass you, and with him like this." It will be fine, Mother. You've got to make an

  effort, too. Please try, Please." I pleaded.

  She wiped away her tears.

  "I don't want to disappoint you. Willow." "Then

  just do it," I said firmly.

  She nodded,

  "Okay. I'll try." she said. "I'll speak to Jennings

  and ask him to keep an eve on Linden."

  "Good. I'll be back in a few hours at the most,

  Mother," I said, and hugged her. "He's going to get

  better. This is some improvement, at least." I assured

  her, even though I had no idea if it really was

  anything but more confusion. "He has energy, an

  appetite. Be optimistic."

  "I haven't been optimistic for so long. I don't

  know if I can."

  "You can I'm here now. and I'm here for you,

  Mother. You can," I insisted.

  She smiled.

  "Yes," she said. "I'll let myself believe in a

  rainbow or 'two again."

  "Good. See you soon," I said, and hurried out. I was going to attend the branch of Florida

  Atlantic University located on the John D. MacArthur

  campus in the heart of Abacoa, a residential

  community in Jupiter. Florida. The commute was not

  very far for me, and they had what looked like a good

  undergraduate program in psychology. I had received

  a letter instructing me to meet with Professor Miguel

  Fuentes, who had been assigned to be my advisor. The

  campus was relatively new, its groundbreaking as

  recent as February 1998. There were only about three

  thousand students, which was fine with me. I was

  looking for as much personal attention as possible. This was a new beginning, I told myself. We're

  all going to be fine, I chanted insistently to myself.

  We're all going to be fine.

  I paused when I heard a door slam and turned to

  look back at the beach house.

  Linden was charging out and down the beach, a

  blank canvas under his arm, his case of paints

  clutched in his hand like a club. He looked like a man

  who was late for an appointment.

  How I hoped it wasn't with some haunting

  memory.

  4

  The Talk of the Town

  .

  Professor Fuentes's office was small but very

  tidy. His assistant, a tall, thin, and prematurely balding psychology graduate student with dull brown strands of hair as thin as dental floss, was aptly named Norman, I thought, because he reminded -me of Norman Bates in Psycho. He had similar vulnerable, lonely eyes and spoke with that same soft uncertainty as if he expected every syllable he uttered to be challenged for its accuracy or its appropriateness. He didn't shake my hand so much as simply touch my fingers and quickly pull his own back like someone who has committed a social violation,

  "Professor Fuentes asked me to make you comfortable, He's going to be a few minutes late. Some last-minute business with the department head," Norman muttered, flicking his hand close to his ear as if chasing off a fly. "Would you like anything to drink? I can get you a soda or even a cup of coffee from the coffee machine."

  His Adam's apple bobbed at the ends of his sentences, adding an extra period.

  "No, thank you."

  He looked completely lost as to what to do next. and I wondered what such an inarticulate, shy man could possibly do in the world of psychology.

  "Well, then." he said. His eyes moved every which way to avoid direct contact with mine.

  "I'm fine," I said. "I'll be all right.'

  He looked relieved and left me sitting in Professor Fuentes's office. Looking around. I saw a picture of an elderly couple on his desk and beside that a picture of a tall, dark-haired woman standing beside a man who held a fishing pole. They were on a dock with a boat in the background.

  Professor Fuentes's diplomas and awards were in gilded frames and placed on the wall directly behind his desk chair. There was a bookcase on the right, a table with papers neatly piled an the left, a standing lamp, a copy machine, and a computer printer beside it. A laptop stood open on the desk itself, but it wasn't on.

  On a small table beside my chair was a pile of Psychology Today magazines. I began to flip through them and came upon an article written about my father. It was entitled "Legacy of a True Analyst." There was a picture of Daddy in his office at his clinic. He looked about twenty years younger than when he died. My eyes immediately clouded over with tears. but I wiped them aside so I could begin to read the article. The author was lauding Daddy's many studies and articles, as well as his book on bipolar disorder,

  "You know, I thought that might be your father." I heard a deep, resonant voice say from behind me a short while later, and turned to see a handsome man about six feet tall with a coal-black beard trimmed neatly down the sides of his face and around his lips and chin. He wore a light gray sports jacket and dark gray slacks. His shirt was open at the collar, and I could see a thick gold necklace that glittered against his caramel complexion.

  "I didn't mean to startle you," he continued, a very friendly, gentle smile rippling up his lean cheeks to his ebony eyes. He had his hair swept to one side, but fall in the front and well trimmed down the sides and at the back of his neck, "Didn't Norman offer you something to drink?" he asked, putting his briefcase down on the table beside the pile of papers.

  "Yes. I'm fine."

  "So, was that your father?" he asked, nodding toward the copy of Psychology Today.

  "Yes," I said, and he widened his eyes.

  "I read the book mentioned in the article. What a brilliant man he was." he said, moving around to sit at his desk.

  "Thank you."

  "Well, it will be an honor for me to be the advisor to Dr. De Beers's daughter, Are you a chip off the old block, as they say?"

  "Let's call it a shaving," I replied, and he laughed. He had perfectly straight, bright white teeth. I saw that he wore a
Rolex and also a beautiful diamond pinky ring in a gold setting, but no wedding ring.

  "I have your transcripts, so you can't tell me you're an average student. You were doing so well there. What made you decide to transfer. if I may ask?"

  I smiled to myself, thinking, Imagine if I went into my story in detail.

  "My mother lives here with my half brother, and I've decided, since my father's passing, to live with them," I replied. It was a simple and true answer.

  He nodded,

  "Well, then. UNC's loss is our gain."

  "I hope so."

  He smiled at my modesty.

  "I have your schedule here. I took the liberty of making sure you were in one of my classes, psych social science. You will be surprised at just how many psychiatrists I create in the first three sessions," he joked. "Before the semester ends, the whole class is analyzing itself, and everyone develops one complex or another."

  I laughed and told him I was sure it was true.

  "Are there any extracurricular activities that interest you? I saw that you didn't do very much in that regard at North Carolina."

  "No."

  "All work and no play, then, eh?" he asked with what I thought was a flirtatious

  "Let's just say I leave my playing for offcampus life," I replied. He lifted his eyebrows and nodded.

  Bien. Sometimes. my Spanish inserts itself" he quickly explained. "My family is from Cuba. We came over right before Castro took the island. So I was born and raised here. These two are my parents," he added, turning the picture so I could get a better view, "and this is my sister and her husband the fisherman. He takes it very seriously. It's practically an art form. However, if I say anything about anyone in my family, they all pounce, accusing me of analyzing them. Did that go on in your home. too?"

  "Sometimes," I said, smiling now at what had often been bitter moments between my adoptive mother and my father. Eventually. I came to realize he was often analyzing her.

  "I assume you were born and raised in South Carolina. then?"

  "Yes."

  He nodded, a pregnant pause between us for a moment. The speed with which he had become personal at this first meeting impressed me and relaxed me.

  "I'm curious." he finally said. "how do you see yourself, say, ten years from now?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "It's a little game I play with all my students, but a game that has value. It gives me some insight about them, what they expect from their education, their career goals, that sort of thing,"

  "I hope only that I will be half the success my father was," I replied.I don't want to work in a clinic, however. I want to have a less structured practice. I am thinking more seriously now of working with young people, specializing in it."