Wicked Forest (DeBeers 2)

"Oh, I don't know. Just a manner of speaking. I guess." He stared at his canvas.

"I hope you will do some traveling, too. Linden. There is so much more to see and learn out there, and that's especially important for someone who wants to be an artist."

"Right, right "

"I am curious as to why you moved into another bedroom." I said. "Especially that bedroom." He turned, stared a moment, then shrugged.

"It's a bigger, brighter room. How foolish it is to waste it just because it was once the scene of some unpleasantness. It's not the room's fault, is it? There's no evil power living in it. right?"

"Of course not."

"And you were the one who convinced me that we could move back into this house and do away with all the old, troubling memories, the old ghosts, so to speak. I would think you would be very happy about it."

"I am. I was just curious."

"Worried, you mean." he said, with eyes so narrow and dark they looked like slits for a moment. Then he smiled, "Worry no more about me. I'm fine. I feel like I am getting stronger and stronger every day."

"Good. That's wonderful, Linden. How was Mother while I was gone?" I asked, checking to see how aware of her reactions he was, "She seems tired to me."

"Well, if there is anyone who is putting on an act about being back here, it's Grace. I find her sitting and staring at nothing a good deal of the time. and I know what that means-- she's reliving the past. I'm doing my best to get her to put it behind her. Now that you are back." he said. smiling. "we'll work on it together."

"Yes," I said.

"We'll take care of her. It will be our little project, okay?" he asked. "Just you and me."

I smiled, but the way he said it made it sound as if he and I would have some secret mission, secret even from Thatcher.

I had to admit that in the days and weeks that followed. however. Linden was the dutiful son, actually more like the doting son, rushing ahead to do anything and everything he could for Mother. If she headed toward a door, he was there before her to open it for her. If she started to clear a table, he leaped up to take the dishes or cups out of her hands. The roles they had been playing were reversed. Now he was the one chiding her for not eating enough or not eating the right things. He was the one making sure she took her vitamins, the one who would rush off to fetch some ibuprofen for her arthritic aches.

Usually, I was included in any activity designed to assist Mother. If he suggested she go for a walk with him to get fresh air, it was always a walk with us.

"Willow wants to go, too," he would say, and throw me a glance to be sure I nodded or seconded his suggestion quickly.

On the nights Thatcher was tied up with a business dinner, Linden recommended we all go out to eat.

Thatcher's not coming home. Let's not have dinner made just for ourselves," he would say. "Willow will drive us to some restaurant we haven't been to. Mother. Won't you, Willow?"

At first Mother was amused by all this, just as I was, but the intensity and the insistence with which Linden made his suggestions began to ring small alarm bells inside us both. He had changed from someone who was so introverted he would rarely laugh aloud, especially in front of strangers, to someone who was starving for activity, for attention, for society-- only, however, as long as I would include myself. That wasn't always easy to do, and every time I had to decline one of his invitations, even as insignificant a suggestion as having coffee on the rear loggia with Mother and him. I felt deep pangs of guilt. I certainly didn't want to be the one to send him reeling back into his maelstrom of depression and suicidal rage.

I had returned to college and on a few occasions, during lunch. I had an opportunity to speak with Professor Fuentes. By now he had enough of an outline of my family problems to appreciate some of my concerns. He was always willing and eager to give me his time and expertise.

"What is he like when Thatcher is there?" he asked after I had related our latest episode.

I had already described how Linden seemed to hear Thatcher's every word whenever he explained or revealed that he would be late for dinner or tied up with clients. Mo

st recently. without my knowledge, after hearing Thatcher say he was going to be down in Miami and home late. Linden went out and bought three tickets for Mother, himself. and me to attend a performance of the Palm Beach Philharmonic.

Never before enjoying getting dressed up and being with crowds of people, he was obviously very excited about it, so excited he got Mother laughing, agreeing to dress up and attend.

"See," he told me afterward. "we're having a good influence on her. We're getting her to forget the past and enjoy her life now. We're a team."

I couldn't say it wasn't true, yet it bothered me. Why? I hoped Professor Fuentes could help me answer that.

"What happens when you go somewhere with Thatcher and Linden is not included?" Professor Fuentes asked me.

"He doesn't sulk like he used to. but he looks..." "Angry?"

"Upset. I don't know if it's out-and-out anger."