Wicked Forest (DeBeers 2)

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.