Wicked Forest (10 page)

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 the 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 off-campus 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."

He smiled and nodded as if he had expected that exact answer,

"Thank you," he said. "I feel certain you will like it here. We're all very new, the school being relatively an embryo compared to other universities and colleges in the state, much less the country, so you will find much less pretension. We're all students here."

"I was happy to find a school with a program for me so close to Palm Beach."

"Yes. Well, then," he said, nodding at the card he had given me, "how do you like your schedule?"

I read it, feeling his eyes on me.

"It's fine." I said "Everything I wanted."

"Very good. I can ask Norman to give you a tour of the campus, if you like."

"No, that's all right," I said. "I have plenty of time before I begin. I'll be back."

"Please don't hesitate to call my office if you have any questions or if there is something I can help you with or explain farther," he offered,

"Thank you."

"I have a similar commute. I come from Palm Beach Gardens." he said. parents have a rather well known restaurant in West Palm Beach. It's called
Havana Molena
." He smiled. "Molena is my mother's name. My sister and her husband, when he is not fishing, actually run the restaurant these days, but my father is never too far away and my mother is still the kitchen general."