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"I'm not very hungry this morning," he said,
still not looking my way.
I was beginning to wonder if he would speak to
me at all. Why wouldn't he at least say hello to me? I
guess he truly was angry at me simply for existing, for
dropping my mother and father's past in his lap like a
ball of cold lead. Perhaps it was the age-old fury that
required recipients of bad news to kill the messenger. He turned, his eyes brushing over me like a
passing feather, and walked out and down the
hallway.
As soon as I thought he was out of earshot. I
told my mother about being woken by footsteps in the
hallway.
"I came out because I thought it might be you
and something was wrong. I discovered it was Linden
and he was out there." I said, nodding toward the
beach, "walking in his sleep."
I described what I had done and how he had
remained asleep the whole time.
She pressed her lips together and closed her
eyelids as if to keep the tears contained. Then she
sighed so deeply, I thought she had cracked her heart. "It's been one thing after another like this since
he came home from the hospital. His therapist there
predicted his depression would deepen and suggested
a more intense therapy with medications. She wanted
me to have him admitted to a nearby psychiatric
hospital, but I could not do it, even though I have
always wondered if he has inherited my manicdepressive condition."
"No. Mother. Your condition wasn't anything genetic," I said firmly. I had read my father's reports
about her.
