Could I?
Only time would tell, but I had faith, not in myself as much as in the land, in every tree and blade of grass, and especially in the brook. I would touch it all and be sure it was all aware I was here again.
I sat for hours in the old cemetery and thought about the prayer vigils we had held in the darkness, with only a candle sometimes to provide illumination under a fully overcast sky. What are graveyards really, but doorways to memories?
Brice and Pru saw me wandering about or sitting quietly and staring out at the forest.
Occasionally, Pru asked if I were okay, and I assured her I was.
And then, one morning, a Saturday morning, I announced at breakfast that I would like to go to the institution where my mother still lived so I could visit her. Pru immediately volunteered to take me.
"I'll just take a taxicab," I said.
"You will not. I'll drive you there, and I'll wait for you in the parking lot," she insisted.
I agreed finally, and we set out. It was a partly cloudy day, the sort of day when the sun teases us by peering around clouds or piercing through some of the thinner ones. I felt carried along in the wind as we traveled. What I was doing was not something I could fight or resist.
When I entered the building, I went directly to reception and asked to see Celeste Atwell. It was strange asking to see someone with my exact name, and when I gave my name, the receptionist looked puzzled. She asked me to wait while she went to see someone about it, and a short time thereafter a tall, dark-haired woman with ebony eyes and what I would call a professional smile appeared. She introduced herself as Dr. Morton and told me my mother was under her care.
"Aside from her attorney, you're the first real visitor she's ever had," she told me.
I explained as much as I could about myself, as quickly as I could.
"Yes, I knew you existed and you had been placed in the care of child protection agencies, but that's all I knew."
"This is my first time back here," I said. "Back home."
She nodded.
"Has your attorney or anyone told you anything about her?" she asked.
I shook my head.
"Um. Well, the best way I can describe her to you is, she is frozen in time."
She saw I didn't understand.
"Her way of dealing with the trauma of what I would call her imposed schizophrenia has been to lock herself back in the age she was before it all began."
"You mean she has the mind of a child?"
"She behaves that way, and I suppose for all practical purposes you can say that. It's been very difficult to get her to age in a sense, because when she does, when she crosses over, she has to confront it all again, you see. It's very complicated. Actually, she has been the subject of a number of studies and many different papers published in psychology magazines," she added, as if I should be proud of the fact.
I just stared coldly at her, and she cleared her throat and stood up.
"Yes, well, I can take you to see her. She's in the recreational room. She spends most of her time there." "Doing what?"
"Coloring books, painting with watercolors, reading children's books, playing children's games. The children we have here like her. She's actually a good influence on them."
"I'm glad you find her situation of some benefit to the clinic," I said sharply.
She
bit her lower lip and nodded.
"This way," she said.
She led me down the corridor to the