DeBeers 01 Willow

by V. C. Andrews

"It wasn't just sex. It was a real love affair," I said.

  He grimaced. "I never would have thought that about him. He was pretty well known and respected."

  "It wasn't what you're making it sound like. Allan. He didn't take advantage of a patient. They fell in love. It was not a onetime thing."

  He looked skeptical.

  "I'm telling you the truth." His truth." he muttered.

  "The truth!" I cried. "My father couldn't stomach a lie. He was incapable of it."

  "He lied to your adoptive mother, didn't he? Or did he tell her what he had done, too?" he asked.

  I felt the heat rising into my face. "That was different. That wasn't a lie. exactly."

  "Well, what do you call it? Did he have some fancy psychological term for it?"

  "You don't understand." I said. "They had a different sort of relationship after a few years."

  He shrugged. "I'm not judging anyone. I'm just surprised to hear it, that's all." He thought a moment and then looked at me strangely.

  "What?"

  "What was wrong with your real mother? Was she a schizophrenic or something?"

  "No. She suffered from acute depression." I said. "but she was cured enough to leave and return to her family, and that's why I'm taking a leave from my studies."

  "I don't understand."

  "I've decided to go to her, to find her, to get to know her," I explained.

  "Well, why can't you do that later, after the school year ends?" he asked.

  "I would just think about it all the time. It would be hard to concentrate on my work," I told him.

  "So take a weekend or something and go introduce yourself to her."

  "You don't get to know your real mother and her family over a weekend. Allan."

  "It's a start."

  "I feel it's something I've got to do. I was hoping you would be understanding and even supportive," I said.

  His eves grew small. dark. "Maybe you shouldn't give in to these impulses, Willow. Maybe it's not healthy."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Mental illness can be inherited. right? You could have inclinations, chemical imbalances like your real mother has. Maybe you should go see a psychiatrist now yourself."

  I stared at him. Was he serious?

  "Who else would decide on the spur of the moment to stop pursuing her career and go searching for a disturbed woman?" he continued.

  "I'm not starching for a disturbed woman. I'm searching for my mother, the woman my father loved with all his heart. The man who wrote that diary was almost another man. I wish I could have known him that way, and I want to spend time with my mother because, through her. I think I can."

  "He's dead. gone. What difference can it make now?"

  "All the difference in the world to me," I said, the tears now burning under my lids.

  This is sick." He shook his head. "What am I supposed to do, wait around here while vou go playing psychological detective all over the country? I thought we had a relationship," he moaned. How small he suddenly sounded to me, the man I once thought resembled my father, the man of strength and confidence and intelligence.

  "I can't believe you don't understand." I said. I ground away the tears with my small fist. "I'm disappointed in you."

  "You're disappointed in me? That's a laugh." He stood up and paced for a moment, glanced at me, and then stopped. "You'll feel differently in the morning," he decided, "It's all too traumatic at the moment."

  "I don't think so. Allan."

  "We'll see." I recognized the little smirk that invaded his face whenever he was becoming sexy. He stepped closer and reached out for me.

  "I'm really very tired. Allan,"

  "So? Let me help you revive yourself." "I just need a good night's sleep, I think."

  "You always sleep better after we make love, Willow," he reminded me.

  I started to shake my head when he seized my hand and pulled me up and into his arms.

  "Allan, please," I said. He gagged my next words with a kiss and kept his lips hard against mine to drive down any resistance.

  "C'mon," he urged, tugging me toward my bedroom. "Let the doctor take over. Dr. Love Machine."

  That was his nickname for himself.

  He pulled me along.

  "I don't feel right doing this now. Allan. It's too soon."

  "Nonsense. The only way to get back with the living is to live."

  "My heart won't be in it. Allan."

  "That's all right. There are other parts of you that will," he said smugly.

  "Stop it. Allan. I don't like you when you act like this."

  "Like what? Loving you? Wanting you? What is wrong with you?"

  He paused. and I pulled my hand from his.

  "Nothing is wrong with me except I just lost my father and I'm feeling terrible about it. It takes time to get over a great sorrow. Fortunately for you, you haven't experienced anything like this yet. Your family is intact."

  "Practicing your amateur psychology on me already, huh?" he said with a cold grin. "Just practice it on yourself. Tell yourself how much you need this, need me, want me, and let go." he urged.

  He embraced me again, kissing me on the neck and lifting my sweater at the same time until his hands were over my breasts. He moaned and then dropped his arm under me and lifted me, holding me like a child.

  "Allan. don't..."

  He placed me on my bed, and before I could turn away, he was beside me, kissing me and fumbling with the zipper of my skirt. I seized his wrist.

  "I don't want to do this now. Allan." I insisted.

  He ignored me and tried to kiss me. but I turned away, and he froze.

  "All right." he said suddenly, and backed away. He stood up and brushed down his shirt and his pants. "Fine. Soak in your misery and your sadness if you like, and don't let me try to help you."

  "I appreciate your helping me. Allan, but let's just sit with each other and talk and--"

  "Fight. Sit and talk about adoptive mothers and real mothers and mentally ill mothers."

  "Allan!"

  "You know. Willow, it just might be that you really have inherited some of your mother's problems, that your terrible fears are justified. Maybe you even like being like this. I would certainly worry about having children with you." he added.

  It was as if he had slashed me with a razor. I felt the blood rise to the surface all over my body and especially up my neck and into my face. I sat up and stared at him hard.

  "Don't worry about it. Allan. You'll never have that concern. You and I will never have a child together."

  He nodded. "Right," he said. "Okay. Go on Quit school, and chase your madness all over the country."

  He turned and stormed out of my bedroom. A moment later. I heard the door to my apartment open and slam closed behind him. Then there was a deep, heavy silence.

  How many other doors would be slammed on me in the days, months, and years to come? I wondered.

  I fell back onto my pillow and stared up at the ceiling. Allan had made me feel terrible, but I was doing what I had to do. I thought, and besides. what I feared would happen once he had learned the truth about me had happened. Maybe it was for the best Maybe I was lucky to learn what he was really like now before it was too late.

  That seemed reasonable, but it didn't help me to feel better. I cried as if another person I loved in my life had died, and then I got myself ready for bed.

  I was up most of the night, tossing and turning over my decision and then planning how I would go about this search for my real mother. I looked wild and exhausted in the morning. Even a shower didn't help. Nevertheless. I had made up my mind and drove to school to see the dean of students. Anthony Thorne. Mrs. Schwartz made sure he made time for me.

  Dean Thorne was a tall, dark-haired man with a great deal of charm and personality, the sort of man who seemed created for his position: smooth, politically astute, and as comfortable in his suit and tie behind his desk as he would be in a warm bath. I remembered thi
nking no one smiled with his eyes as well as he did-- nor flirted with the coeds. either.

  "Willow," he said, rising and extending his hand to me. 'Please accept my sincere condolences. I read your father's obituary in the paper the other day. What an impressive man he must have been. I'm sure a great many people will be missing him."

  "'Thank you."

  "How can I help you. Willow?" he said, and indicated I should take the seat in front of his desk.

  "I want to take a leave of absence. Dean Thorne."

  He nodded as he went back to his chair. He confronted so many student problems and complaints that he looked as if he wore the desk between him and the student like a suit of armor.

  "At the end of the semester?"

  "No, right now. I need to get excused from my classes without any penalty." I said.

  "I see. You're not quite halfway through with the semester. but I suppose if you have a great deal of family business, family affairs to look after..."

  "Yes," I said quickly.

  "Well, I'm sorry about this. You're doing so well. I hate to see that interrupted for any reason. Isn't there any other way?"

  "No,' I said firmly.

  He held his gaze on me a long moment and then leaned back in his chair, flashing that soft smile that showed a set of perfect white teeth, a mouth made for television toothpaste commercials.

  "If it's a matter of some counseling. Willow, I can arrange for something."

  "I don't think I'd have trouble finding

  psychological counseling if I needed it. Dean Thorne," I said, perhaps too bluntly. He actually winced.

  "Of course. That's logical. Well, then, if it's a firm decision on your part. I'll write it up for your teachers and expect to see you here at the beginning of the next semester."

  "Thank you," I said. rising.

  He stood up and reached over the desk for my hand. He held it tightly. "Is it truly a firm decision? I have to be a little persistent," he explained with that famous smile, "or I'm not doing the job I was hired to do."

  "It is.'"

  I looked at his hand over mine, and he released it and stepped back, his head nodding and bobbing like those puppets people sometimes keep in the rear window of their automobiles. Ile held the smile until I walked out and closed the door softly behind me.

  It was over and done.

  I was on my way to meet my mother for the first time in my life. Even thinking it seemed weird.

  And frightening.

  I wondered if it would be just as frightening for her.

  5

  Welcome to Palm Beach

  .

  All I knew was that she had lived in Palm

  Beach, Florida. I didn't know if she was still there. If she was. I didn't think I could just knock on her door and announce. "Here I am, your long-lost daughter." This was something I had to do slowly, gradually, sensibly. It would be too much of a shock for both of us to do it any other way.

  I didn't know anyone in Palm Beach and certainly no one I could trust to help me, I did know the name of the psychiatrist who had recommended my mother to Daddy. Dr. Anderson. whom I intended to see as soon as I arrived. I had concocted a cover story, and now I wondered if I was capable of carrying it off. I was going to pretend that I was on a work-research project for my studies. That way, I thought I might get him to help me without my having to tell him the truth and Daddy's secret. I would soon discover how good an actress I could be. I supposed, how much I had learned from my adoptive mother.

  Despite not living all that far away. I had never been to Palm Beach, My adoptive mother had visited with some friends. She often took vacations by herself, complaining that Daddy worked too hard and wouldn't take the time off. and she wasn't going to suffer because of him. Aside from the occasional shopping spree, I never traveled with her anywhere. The few times we took vacations when I was younger, we usually went to one of the Caribbean islands and once all the way to Hawaii. but Amou always came along to look after me. It was almost as if we were on a separate holiday, eating our meals apart from my parents and visiting sites children would appreciate.

  To book my plane tickets and a hotel. I called my father's travel agent back in South Carolina. Every time I spoke with people who had known my father and, of course, knew what had happened to him. I heard the underlying tone of surprise in their voices at hearing mine and the underlying curiosity about what I was doing. My father had just passed away, and here I was asking his travel agent to make arrangements for me to visit one of the world's most famous luxury playgrounds. All of the travel agent's questions were attempts to solve the puzzle and satisfy her curiosity.

  "How long will you be staving? It's expensive. Do you have to be in Palm Beach itself? I can find you very nice lodging in West Palm Beach." she suggested. "unless you have to be close to people you're meeting or something."

  "No. I want to be in Palm Beach." I thought it was important to dive right into what was, or had been, my mother's world. Daddy always said you can learn about people by learning about their environment first. What were the forces that shaped and influenced them? He was a strong believer in the effects of the social and physical world on the character and personality of his patients: that was why he had spent so much time learning about the families and, if possible, actually visiting their homes. Many of his colleagues were moving toward an emphasis on genetic and chemical influences while he remained firm in his beliefs.

  "Well. I can find you a hotel that has apartment facilities, your own kitchen, if you like, and if you don't mind being a little distance from the beach and from Worth Avenue. I can save you a lot of money.

  If you want to be right in the Palm Beach world, I would probably look for a room at The Breakers or the Four Seasons, the Palm Beach Hilton. See what I mean? Upscale resorts like that. They're expensive." she warned. "That's why you have to tell me how long you intend on staying, what you want to do, et cetera."

  Her questions did set me back for a moment. Really, what was I doing? Was I falling under the hypnotic power of my fantasy, a dream in which I saw this beautiful woman who was so overwhelmed and excited by my appearance that she insisted I move in with her immediately and live in a plush Palm Beach estate? We would spend every day together, learning about each other. We would breakfast, lunch, and go to dinner at fine restaurants. In the afternoons, we would sit around her magnificent pool and talk and talk until we were both exhausted.

  In the evening, we would take long walks on the beach together. With the ocean, silvery and calm, in the background, she would knit one story about my father into another, creating a tapestry of their history. She would make me laugh and cry.

  We would drink wine and listen to music and reminisce about him in ways I never dreamed, and in the end, we would love each other just the way a mother and daughter should love each other, Miraculously, I would make up for all the lost time without her and compensate for the hard life my adoptive mother had inflicted upon me. My real mother would feel just terrible about all that and declare firmly that she and my father had made a mistake.

  "We should have taken them all on." she would say. "We should have defied everyone and remained together. He would have gotten a divorce and maybe moved down here to start his career all over We would have been a family, a real family."

  "We will be," I would tell her, and quickly plug up the leak in our dam of newfound happiness that kept out all the sorrow of the past. She would smile, and we would walk on, hand in hand, both of us wrapped in contentment, protected. saved. This was truly Daddy's greatest legacy to me, his gift of a new life and a new family.

  "No," I told the travel agent. "I'm not interested in any small apartment. Book me a room in The Breakers for a week." I said decisively. I remembered my adoptive mother had stayed there every time she had gone to Palm Beach. I wasn't going to treat myself any worse than she had treated herself. "I'll see what I need after that."

  "I'll try. Willow, but you have to remember it's th
e season down there. Even the three- and four-star hotels get filled up quickly."

  "You always managed to get what my father or my mother needed," I reminded her. "I'm sure if vou try hard, you'll do it for me as well." She was quiet a moment. "Of course." she said. "I thought you were in college." she finally had the courage to blurt, "Is there some sort of mid-semester break?"

  This is my telephone number." I replied instead of answering her question. "Please call me back within the hour."

  Was everyone's life so dull that they just had to poke their noses into mine, or anyone else's for that matter? People like her resembled pigs to me, pigs dipping their snouts in the trough of gossip.

  "I'll get right on it." she said, her voice smarting from the rebuff

  She called back in twenty minutes, sounding surprised herself that she had been able to get me into the hotel at such a late hour.

  "Someone must have canceled at the last moment. You're lucky."

  "Yes. I'm lucky," I said dryly. "Please arrange for a car for me as well."

  "Do you want a convertible?"

  She was offering me luxury now almost as a punishment for daring to be happy so quickly.

  "It's not important." I said.

  Right after I made my travel arrangements. I called and made an appointment with Dr. Anderson. He knew who I was, of course and, according to his secretary, had moved his schedule around to accommodate me.

  It occurred to me after I hung up that he probably thought I wanted to see him for sorrow counseling. He surely knew by now that my father had died. He was adjusting his workload as a professional courtesy. Who knows, I thought. Maybe I do need counseling,. Maybe Allan wasn't all wrong. I certainly had a right to question my own sanity after learning all the secrets buried in my home and my father's past. I was like someone in a boat rocked so hard I was still spinning even in calm waters.

  Not knowing how long I would actually be staving in Palm Beach. I didn't know how much to pack. but I ended up with two suitcases. It was only when I turned to leave my small college apartment that the enormity of what I was attempting to do weighed on me. Would I make a total fool of myself and come running back, too late to be reinstated in my classes? How could I ask for that. anyway? I'm in: I'm out: I'm in. Would everyone think I had gone mad? Dean Thorne looked as if he had thought so. Allan certainly did.