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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.
