Wicked Forest (DeBeers 2)

Driving far more slowly and carefully now. I found a place where I could pull to the side and walk down to the beach. I sat in the sunshine and let my hair dry.

Sometimes, we're so eager for people to love us, we become so vulnerable, we're actually victims of our own hunger for affection, I thought, then vowed, I am not going to play the wounded one and mope and cry. Maybe I was out of my league here. Maybe Thatcher was truly no better than the man his mother claimed was his real father, but I wouldn't permit him to belittle and exploit me like this.

I rose, my thoughts and feelings more collected, and returned to my car where I brushed out my hair the best I could. I was ashamed of myself, ashamed of my emotional deluge. I should be stronger if I -Kant to be a therapist and help other people, I told myself Daddy was always stronger.

Or was he simply better at hiding his pain?

5

A Secret Ring

.

I think I've always hated secrets between people

who really care about each other. They are like blemishes on a beautiful oace, dark spats. Your eyes are drawn to them like magnets and for a while, if not most of the time, that is all you can see. But what I didn't want to do was let my mother know how upset I was and how betrayed I felt because of what Thatcher had done. Hiding that secret seemed to be the proper thing to do.

I felt I had gotten myself together enough to keep it all well concealed. We really had not spent enough time with each other for her to recognize when I was very upset. I thought-- or I hoped. But I was soon to learn that there is something about a mother and a daughter, some mystical bonding that even time and distance cannot prevent. It is an insight that a mother has simply by being a mother. I imagine, for she took one look at me as soon as I entered the house and, despite my carefully

constructed mask of happiness, immediately asked me what was wrong.

"Nothing," I said a little too quickly. Her eyebrows went up and her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"Your hair doesn't look very different, Willow." "I wasn't happy with the beautician after all that big deal getting us appointments. I didn't like anything he suggested. Why fix it if it isn't broken? Right?" I

asked, trying to smile and joke my way out of the moment. She kept her eyes dark and narrow. I wasn't doing a good job of concealing my feelings. I didn't want her to think I didn't want to trust her, to confide in her. I was in turmoil, being pulled every which way. Oh, what was the right thing to do, I wondered, keep my heartache a secret or fall into her arms, bemoaning Thatcher's betrayal?

"Thatcher Eaton has been calling for you," she said as if she knew anyway. "He's

called three times during the last two hours. He asked me to tell you to call him at his office as soon as you got the message."

"I got the message, loud and clear. If he calls again, tell him I'm not here," I blurted.

She gave me that motherly, knowing look now and nodded. "What's happened between you?" she asked.

I bit down on my lip and shook my head.

How horrible this was. I had come to help her, to help Linden, and here I was, barely living with them and I already had more sorrow draped over my shoulders. I felt like a doctor who had come to minister to the sick only to discover she was sick herself. "Let's just say I've been disappointed and leave it at that for now, Mother," I begged.

"Whatever you wish, Willow. I don't have big shoulders, Maybe I never had, but I'm here for you if and when you need me."

"Thank you, Mother. Is Linden here or is he still on the beach?"

"He's still on the beach. I wanted to go see how he was doing. but I was afraid he would think I was spying on him. He's been complaining about my being too much of a mother hen." she said, and smiled. He declared he wasn't an egg. He said he's already been hatched and that was that. It's difficult. Sometimes he doesn't hear a word I say, and then suddenly he is so sensitive, even catching my glances and accusing me of studying him like something under a microscope."

"He's going in and out of awareness at the moment. I'm sure he'll settle down soon. His doctor will arrive at the best doses of his medicines," I predicted.

"I hope so," she said.

I went into my room and changed quickly into a pair of j tans and a University of North Carolina sweatshirt. It brought back memories of my boyfriend, Allan Simpson, and how, like Thatcher, he had disappointed me in the end, pulling away from me as soon as he learned the truth about my father and mother and not supporting my effort to get to know my real mother, He was so selfish and so selfabsorbed.

How confusing men could be. Either they were so shallow and obvious, they hit you over the head with their intentions, or they were so smooth and deceitful, they broke your heart with the truth.

Maybe we should create our husbands. I mused, pluck them out of a herd of boys and nurture them and cultivate them until they were perfect crops, then harvest them as husbands. The idea brought a smile to my lips and lifted the layers of gray from my brow.

While I was changing, I heard the telephone ring and went to the doorway to listen as my mother answered. It was Thatcher. I heard her tell him I wasn't here. Eavesdropping. I could tell Mother wasn't a very good liar. Her voice betrayed the untruth. and Thatcher must have sensed it as well and kept talking. Finally. I heard her say, "I'm sorry. All I can do is let her know you've called again."

She hung up. I slipped an my sneakers and joined her in the kitchen.