Wicked Forest (34 page)

Linden had gone ahead and arranged for the hanging of my picture above our bed. He had also done what I thought was a strange thing— he had moved out of the room he was in and into the infamous room in which Kirby Scott had seduced Mather. It was closer to Thatcher's and my suite, actually right behind our bedroom, but with all the bad energy and memories associated with that room, it was curious that he had done so.

I had an opportunity to ask him about it that very day. We arrived fairly early, and Thatcher went off to his office. He had been on his cell phone almost the moment we entered the airport, and told me he had a list of problems an arm long to solve.

Mother. Linden. and I had lunch together. I thought Mother looked tired. but I didn't say anything about it until we had a chance to be alone. She was interested in hearing about our trip, and she loved the hand-painted silk skirt and blouse I had bought her, as well as the glass figurines. I had found some interesting hand-crafted and hand-painted leather masks for Linden. I thought they were unique, and so did he.

Despite moving into Mother's old room. Linden seemed chipper and more alert than before Thatcher and I had left for our honeymoon. He talked about new works he was contemplating and some more ideas he had for sprucing up Joya del Mar, always thinking about ways to restore its previous character and eliminate any trace of the Eatons.

After lunch Mother told me Linden was doing well and had shown no signs of the melancholy that had so worried her and threatened to drive him to the brink of some new disaster.

"I did try to stop him from moving into that room, but he was determined. He said we have got to eliminate all the old ghosts, confront the past and bury it once and for all. He claimed it was something you had once told him. I was surprised at his show of new strength, so I didn't put up any mare opposition and, as you can see, he's happy. Maybe he was right, but it did worry me for a while."

"I can see that. Mother. You're not getting enough rest. Are you sleeping enough?"

"Yes." She looked down and then up at me: her eyes had never been so full of fear and pain.

"What is it. Mother?"

"He's all right in that room. but I still can't go into it. It used to be such a warm and beautiful room. I had all my dolls, my precious gifts. Jackie Lee had that canopy bed custom-made for me. I felt so safe there, so cuddly safe and warm all the time." She paused, caught up in her memories, then went on.

The first time he came into that room alone, he sat on my bed and talked about himself as a young boy. He was a good raconteur, weaving stories like fairy tales. I was so innocent, he had little difficulty taking my hand and leading me down the primrose path. Whenever he touched me then. I thought it was the touch of a loving parent, a caress to soothe and comfort.

He began by holding my hand or putting his on my shoulder. Sometimes, when he told me a tale, he fingered my hair, and he always kissed me good night, starting on my forehead, then my cheeks, and one night a quick peck on my lips that came as such a surprise. I barely had time to react. I thought about it all night because it had left me feeling so different.

"It was a very slow, careful seduction, you see.

I trusted him. If he came upon me when I was still in my undergarments. I had no fears, no inhibitions about it. He didn't seem to have any reaction. He led me to believe he saw me as asexual, saw me the way a parent should see his daughter," she said.

"One night he came in while I was still in my bath, in fact. I had a sufficient blanket of bubbles and suds to feel okay about it, but he lingered, deciding to wash my back for me. I kept my hands over my breasts, but he talked about so many things while he did it. I relaxed, thinking he didn't see me as a naked young woman. But after he finished and I submerged myself, his hand managed to graze my breast. He smiled down at me and left.

"Two nights later he returned. Jackie Lee was out with some of her friends. I had just crawled into bed and was reading when he came in, telling me he was lonely, that my mother had left him again.

"He talked about how hard it was for a man, harder than for a woman, he claimed, to be lonely. He told me men have greater needs.

―Women find it easier to be nuns than men do being monks.' " he said. He had such a confident, assured way about him and was so worldly. I believed every-thing he told me.

"He asked me about my relationships with boys and if I had ever gotten excited in a female way. I knew what he meant, of course, but all I could do was blush. He took it from there, telling me how natural it was and how I shouldn't be afraid,

"Men, he said, get excited faster, easier, and for a longer period. He told me it was better that I understood it than be caught unaware; what sort of stepfather would he be if he didn't prepare me for all this? My mother, he claimed, was just too distracted and missed seeing how grown-up I had become.

"Then he flattered me so, talking about my looks, my body, and finally confessing that I aroused him. He made me see it was true.

"I was terrified, of course. I remember I could barely breathe, and then he crawled into the bed beside me and began to caress me and coax me until...

it happened.

"The moment after it had, my room changed for me. It was the setting for all that, you see. Like me, it had lost its innocence, its magic. I couldn't sleep. My heart would thump the moment I entered.

"It still does," she confessed. "And now Linden is in it, and I feel such trauma every time I go to him.

Maybe that's why I'm so tired.-

She looked at me and saw some of the shock in my face. Her story made me tremble to the bone.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have told you all that. I have never told anyone except your father when I was in the clinic."

"No. I'm glad you did. Mother. But I'm worried about you I'm taking you to the doctor first thing tomorrow. You need a goad physical."

"Na. no. There's nothing wrong with me, other than having these recurring memories and my getting older." she insisted. "I'll be fine. Time will heal. I'll get over it, you'll see. Besides, you're just starting a new and wonderful life here. Let's not put any new problems on the table. Are you still going to attend some summer-school classes?"

"Yes. I'm looking forward to that."

"Good. Then no more talk of doctors. I've had my fill of doctors, and so has Linden," she declared firmly.

"If you continue to be tired—"

"Then I'll go."

I wasn't happy with the compromise. but I let it be rather than see her disturbed any more. I left her. I was still trembling inside, thinking about Kirby Scott and how he had painstakingly worked on her until he had seduced her. But she was right. We had to put it all away, bury the past. It made me realize how wounded she was, however, and how wounded Linden had been. too.

No psychology student had as much work at home as I did, I thought, tying to put a little lightness into the dark.

I went to talk to Linden, who had returned to his studio. He was sitting before a canvas outlining some new idea.

"I'm sorry to disturb you." I said after knocking on his open door.

"No, no, please come in. I'm just doodling at the moment, tying to find the center of something.

You look tanned and rested. I guess you had a wonderful trip after all."

"Why shouldn't it have been wonderful.

Linden?"

"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. Most 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."

"You're still his whole life. Willow. It is so important he develop other relationships. Coming out of his depression. His difficulties. he resembles a young teenage boy doting on the first warm and pretty face he encounters. I suppose it's similar to a schoolboy's crush on his teacher. I don't think it's anything terribly serious. but I would do what I can to get him meeting other people."

"He's working hard again. He's done some new pictures. and Thatcher brought them to a friend of his who thinks he might sell them in Europe."

"Really? Well, there you go. Get him involved more in the art world. Maybe he'll meet people that way," Professor Fuentes suggested. "And encourage him to do what he said he would—take a course or two on art here."

I repeated Professor Fuentes's ideas to

Thatcher, who then asked Linden to go with him the next time he was invited to a gallery exhibition,

"You should see the work of other artists.

Linden. You'll get more inspiration."

"Thatcher's right. Linden," I said.

"Are you going. too?"

"I have to do some studying," I said. eyeing Thatcher, "but Thatcher is going."

"I've got work to do myself." Linden said.

"Oh, come on, old man, you can spare an hour or so. You'll see. It will give you encouragement because you'll see how much better an artist you are.‖

"I'm not an old man," Linden snapped.

"Just an expression. Linden. Nothing nasty intended. What do you say?"

"You should go. Linden." I urged.

All right," he relented. But I don't want to waste the whole day."