Once the seeds of doubt had been planted, they grew, weedlike, choking out what little faith I had left in myself and in my memories. I turned often to Stephen Ward's book and the painting of David that I had loved since my childhood. A famous artist, a famous subject, and a lonely little girl with the same last name. Could I have created the whole thing just to escape from a life that had no meaning for me? And had my life been any less empty when I found my father's letter?
But it was so real. How could I have imagined something so complicated, so lifelike, when I had no experiences to draw from?
David's books gave me no answers; their verbosity only confused me more.
John's suggestion that I see the psychologist kept creeping into my thoughts. Perhaps I should. Perhaps someone trained could say, "Oh, yes. That's . . ." and give me a Latin name for some sort of phobia or delusion that would explain away what had become a major part of my life, and weaken the hold it had on me.
No. I would not do that. Eliza was real. As long as I believed in her, she was real. Soon now, something would give me proof of her existence. Soon now, something would give me proof of my reason for being here.
Joannie's visits were welcome intrusions. When she was with me, I couldn't stay lost in my confusion. I worried about her, though. I didn't want her doing anything to jeopardize her baby.
"It's only a couple of miles across the top of the hill," she told me. "Mack filled in the bad spots so the road is all right. It's an easy ride in the truck, and I don't do anything here that I wouldn't do at home. Besides," she added, smiling wistfully, "I've never had a friend, except Mack. He's my best friend, and I love him dearly, but sometimes I need to talk to another woman, someone my own age who I can share things with—things that he doesn't understand, or isn't interested in." She glanced at me and asked hesitantly, "Will you be my friend?"
"Oh, Joannie." She looked so defenseless, so open to hurt, I had to hug her. "I am your friend."
I had never had the luxury of a close friend, either, and even though there were things I couldn't share with her, I treasured her understanding of the things I did share. It was as though once we started talking, we couldn't stop. By the end of the week, we knew as much about each other's childhood as we did our own. We found a common bond in our early loneliness and isolation, in the way we had had to be careful at home in what we said and how we acted—for completely different reasons, yes, but the underlying fears and uncertainties were the same. But even though I knew that Mack and probably Martha had told her of my delirium the night I was so ill, Joannie never mentioned it. Something warned me not to tell her of my memories, not to tell her about the confusion that tormented me to the point that I no longer slept more than two or three hours at a time or ate more than a few bites of food at each meal.
John's visits were intrusions, too. Disturbing ones. He visited every day. He was always gentle with Joannie when she was there. Surprisingly, he was equally gentle with Martha, when she let him be.
At some point during his visit John would excuse himself and go upstairs. I knew he went to check on the painting, but I didn't understand why. Nor did I understand his attitude toward me. It was as though the day on the river had never happened. Or perhaps, I told myself, it was because he wished that were the case.
He was always polite, always considerate, but there was a wariness about him that I had not seen before. At times I found him watching me, studying me, and I could tell that he had questions to ask, but he didn't ask them.
Gone were the days when he teased me until I snapped at him with an angry retort. Gone were the days when he laughed at my anger until I had to laugh at it, too. Gone were the times when he draped his arm over my shoulder, giving me a quick hug as he did so. And I missed them. I missed them almost as much as I missed the closeness I had felt with him that day on the river.
I haven't changed, I wanted to say to him. I'm still the same person I was before you made me tell you. You made me tell you! But he hadn't. He had only given me the opportunity.
Would I never again hear him call me cousin in that slow, mocking drawl? Would I never again feel his arms around me? Would I never again . . .
"You ought to do something about that," Joannie said as I stood on the terrace one morning and watched John drive away.
"Do something about what?" I asked, recalled abruptly from my musings.
"John Richards," she said. "Or more particularly the way you feel about him. Have you tried telling him?"
What was she saying? "Joannie, he's my cousin. That's all. What should I tell him?"
"Oh, flip," she said. "You have to go back at least five generations to find a common ancestor. That doesn't exactly classify you as close kin. Besides, if the way you act around him is any indication of the way you feel about him, you'd better be real glad he's not your cousin."
She was mistaken. She had to be. By now I had almost convinced myself that I just wanted things to be the way they had been. Nothing more. And surely, even that couldn't be seen in what I did.
I tried to hide behind a laugh. "What happened to the shy, soft-spoken girl I didn't even get to meet for three months?"
Joannie's smile faded. "I learned that I don't have to be afraid of you. That you aren't going to hurt me, or laugh at me, or tell me that I must have really done something bad for God to punish me so."
"Oh, Joannie, no! No one would do that." Her twisted little smile silenced me. "Would they?"
"Not many."
What could I say? I wanted to lash out against anyone who would do that to her, but I had no words for her. Instead, I knelt by her chair, reached for her hand, and held it as tightly as I could until her eyes lost their hurt look.
She smiled down at me. "We're avoiding the issue," she said. "What are you going to do about John?"
"Nothing." I dropped her hand. "There isn't anything to do."
"You might try being a little friendlier toward him. Smiling at him occasionally wouldn't hurt, either. You'd do that for a stranger; why not for someone you care about?"
"You're reading more into this than you should, Joannie," I told her slowly. "John and I . . ." There was no way I could explain. "John and I . . ."
"Got off to a wrong start," she finished for me. "I don't know who said the first harsh word—I'm not sure it's important. I do know that you are two nice people, and there is no reason why you can't back up and start over. No. Let me finish," she said as I tried to interrupt. "Have you ever asked him to spend time with you, or have you just let him think that you put up with his visits because you have no choice?"
"I—"
"He's an awfully busy man. Haven't you ever wondered why he spends so much time with you? I have. Maybe . . . maybe he can't see what I can. Maybe you need to do something to let him know he is welcome here."
"I wish it were that simple."
"It might be. I'll bet you've never even asked him to stay for lunch, have you?"
"Now you remind me of Martha," I said, laughing. "She would solve all the world's problems with a good home-cooked meal." I felt my laughter die. "But would she want to solve John's problems?"
"I don't know," Joannie said simply. "But speaking of lunch, Mack will be here for me any minute." She struggled to her feet and together we walked to the terrace gate.
"It's almost perfect up here," she said softly as she looked across the lawn.
"Umm," I agreed wordlessly. As always the beauty of the hilltop filled me with a curious combination of emotions: awe, the rightness of my being here, and a vague, bittersweet longing.
"It's a shame about the elm, though," Joannie said, looking toward the gates. "It was a magnificent tree."
I looked at the tree silhouetted brown and bare against the green of the forest behind it. "I keep hoping I'll look out one morning and see leaves on it," I said.
"I don't think you will, Elizabeth. Would you like Mack to take it out for you?"
"No. That's too much to ask of friendship," I told her. "And," I added, giving her a hug, "I'm not ready to deal with that yet."
I slept fitfully that night, turning restlessly in my bed until that became unbearable, sitting for hours in the dark in my chair. What did I want from John? The answer had to be that I could want nothing from him. But if Eliza wasn't real, then neither was Owen. And that brought me back to . . . what did I want from John?
"Oh, God," I cried into the dark, "why don't I know?"
There was no obvious sunrise. The sky changed from black to gray, matching the gloom within me. When Martha brought my coffee, a light drizzle had started falling. Martha glanced at the bed and at me, still in the chair, but she no longer lectured me.
"I'm making biscuits this morning," she said. "Do you want me to bring your breakfast up here?"
I succumbed to her gentle pressure. It took so little to please her. "No. I'll be down in a few minutes."
After she left, I stared into the rain. Perhaps Joannie was right. If I could do it for Martha, why not for John? A voice within me whispered Because you can only deal with emotions you feel are Eliza's, but I pushed that thought away as I began searching my wardrobe. Blue. You ought to wear that shade of blue more often, John had said. No. Not the dress. That would be too obvious.
I found a soft cotton blouse of dusky blue with long, full sleeves and ties at the throat and wrists with narrow cording of the same fabric. Jeans and boots were inevitable; they were now my daytime costume. But I took the sash from the skirt that matched the blouse and tied back my hair. I wasn't pleased with my appearance. Dark circles shadowed my eyes, and my face was too thin, too pale. But I had never worn makeup around the house and I wouldn't start now. The blue blouse was enough, I told myself as I started downstairs, fumbling with the ties at my wrists.
I tied the bow on the left but was still trying to fasten the one on the right, now convinced that wearing the blue blouse was a mistake, as I entered the kitchen.
"Good morning," John said.
He leaned against the counter, dressed in a dark blue suit and tie, and he looked . . . devastatingly handsome, infinitely appealing.
"Good . . . good morning."
"Here. Let me help you with that."
Automatically I held out my arm and he tied the bow at my wrist.
"You look very nice this morning," he said.
I hadn't seen him in a suit since Marie's funeral. "So do you."
Perhaps it was only because he was out of his familiar uniform, but he seemed more distant than usual. "You're not counting cows this morning, are you?"
"No. Not this morning,"
How could my voice sound so calm? "I didn't expect you this early," I said as I took a cup from the cabinet. My hand shook—there was no reason for it, but it did—as I reached for the coffeepot. I had made up my mind that this was the thing to do, and I would do it. "I was going to ask you to stay for lunch."
John took the cup and filled it.
"But perhaps breakfast would be more in order," I added lamely.
He was so close, too close, almost touching me as he stood in front of me. "I can't stay," he said. "I have appointments in Fort Smith until the middle of the afternoon."
Our eyes met then, and I didn't care what he saw in mine, I only wanted to be able to understand what was in his, and I couldn't.
"Maybe tomorrow?" he asked as he handed me the cup.
I tried to smile. "Maybe."
Joannie didn't arrive until after lunch, and when she came she literally brought the sunshine with her. We sat on the terrace, enjoying the just-washed freshness of the plants around us.
"It turned out to be a pretty day after all," she said idly.
I nodded in silent agreement.
"We were worried for a while this morning, though. The sky had that funny green cast to it."
"How could you see it through the gray and the rain?" I asked.
"It's easy," she told me, "once you've lived through a few tornado seasons."
"I keep hearing about those storms," I said, "but I can't imagine anything that destructive. Do you suppose that was what caused the damage here? The broken windows and the log in the upstairs room?"
"I don't think so. That had to have happened after the house was locked up, and we'd have known about it if another tornado had come through. Besides, the damage wasn't bad enough."
We lapsed into silence, neither saying what was uppermost in our thoughts.
"All right," Joannie said finally. "I stayed away as long as I could, and I've kept my mouth shut as long as I can. Did it work?"
I knew what she was asking but not how to answer her. I looked around the terrace for some diversion until I found one, a perfect yellow rosebud on a long stem. I stepped over to it and broke it from the bush and as I did so the bow at my wrist snagged on a thorn and came untied.
"I was going to give you this," I said, "but now you'll have to earn it. I'm tired of tying these bows."
"All right." She laughed as she retied the bow and held out her hand for the rose. "Did it work?"
"I don't think so."
"Did you ask him to stay for lunch?"
"Or breakfast. I gave him a choice."
"And?"
"And he said he had appointments until this afternoon.
I heard the car engine at the same time Joannie did. She looked at me inquisitively. "Probably not," I told her, answering her unspoken question. "I suspect that one of his appointments is a very attractive blonde."
We both turned to look for the car. My curiosity only deepened as I saw the sheriff's cruiser come through the gates and along the drive. I walked to the edge of the terrace and Joannie joined me as the car pulled up to the front door.
A tall, gaunt deputy with sunken eyes and almost skeletal features, obviously not wanting to be where he was, looked anxiously at Joannie as he walked to where we stood. "Miz Wilson," he said with the remnants of a southern drawl, "I didn't expect to find you here. Are you doing all right?"
"I think so, Wade," she said a little breathlessly, "Is anyone hurt?"
"No, ma'am," he said, and then he looked toward me, but he didn't really look at me. "Are you Elizabeth Richards?"
"Yes."
"I'm going to have to ask you to come with me, ma'am."
The air was suddenly cold on my skin. "Where?"
"To the courthouse.
My first thought was that McCollum had somehow found out about the smudge pots, but that was too ridiculous even to consider "Am I under arrest for something?"
"Not exactly," he said.
I looked to Joannie for an answer, but she was as puzzled as I.
"And if I choose not to go with you?" I asked.
His hand gripped my arm before I finished the question
"I'm real sorry, ma'am, but I have an order that says I have to bring you before the judge whether you want to come with me or not. The doctors are waiting for the hearing now."
Joannie's voice cut through my panic. "Let me see that order," she demanded.
The deputy didn't release me. He reached into his shirt pocket with his free hand and pulled out a folded document. Joannie took it from him impatiently, shook it open, and scanned it. Her mouth opened, but she made no sound. She turned to me with stricken eyes.
"What is it?" I asked, afraid to, afraid not to.
"Elizabeth, it's a . . . it's a sanity hearing."
I was beyond thought or feeling, completely numb as the deputy led me to the car. Some instinct made me pause and turn back to Joannie as he opened the door to the caged backseat. "Find John," I begged her.
It wasn't happening. I kept telling myself that throughout the drive. It was a nightmare. In a minute I'd wake up and realize that it was just a dream. It was a mistake. They had the wrong person. Just as soon as we got to the courthouse, they'd apologize for the silly error they'd made.
This was McCollum's work, I thought. He was trying to frighten me away. He didn't mean to go through with this. He just wanted to scare me so that I wouldn't stay to inherit.
John won't let this happen, I told myself over and over. John will not let it happen.
The panic had lessened by the time we reached the courthouse in Fairview, but I was still very much afraid. My heart threatened to beat through my chest as we rode the tiny elevator to the second floor and as the deputy guided me down the hallway and into an office.
"Are they ready for us?" the deputy asked a woman seated behind a typewriter.
"Not yet."
We stood and waited, the deputy still gripping my arm. I held my shoulders back and my head high, desperately trying to give the appearance of being calm. The door to an inner room opened and Stanley McCollum came out. As I noticed the gleam of triumph in his eyes, I felt a little of my fear turning into anger. How dare he do this? How dare he put me through this?
The inner office was crowded with men. The deputy guided me to the desk and then stepped back. The man behind the desk spoke.
"Miss Richards, I'm Judge Tomlin. Do you know why you are here?"
After seeing McCollum I was pretty sure that I did know, but that was not the answer the judge wanted. "I have been told that this is a sanity hearing," I said as calmly as I could, "but no, I don't know why I'm here."
"Would you like to sit down?" He indicated a steel straight chair in front of his desk, and I took it hesitantly.
"The man on your right is Mr. Beams," the judge continued in an even tone. "He's the lawyer who has been appointed to represent you. To his right is the district attorney. These men over here," he said, indicating two men seated near the wall, "are Dr. Whitaker, and Dr. Carouthers."
"I know Dr. Carouthers," I said.
"Good. They're here to examine you." He cleared his throat and picked up the file in front of him. He didn't read, but he spoke in the same monotone one uses when reading aloud. "It has been brought to the court's attention through the office of the district attorney that you exercise poor judgment and that you are dangerous, or may be dangerous, to yourself or others."
He put down the file. I found that I was holding my breath. I couldn't release it as he went on.
"The purpose of this hearing is to determine whether you should be committed, immediately, to an institution for treatment and protection."
The breath squeezed out of me in a moan.
"Dr. Carouthers, will you go first?" the judge asked.
Dr. Carouthers nodded and walked over to me. He spoke softly. "Do you know your name?"
I looked up at him in amazement, but something in his face warned me to be careful of what I said. "This is serious, isn't it?" I asked.
"Yes, dear," he said as he leaned against the desk near me.
I answered his questions, terrifying in their simplicity. My name, my age, the day of the week, the name of the President, my mother's name, my birthday, my address.
"Elizabeth," the doctor said, sighing. "I treated you at your home one night when you were quite ill. Do you remember that?"
No. He couldn't ask me about that.
I swallowed, and nodded. "Vaguely."
"You said something that night, I can't remember the exact words, but you said something about having to die to be with David again. Do you remember that?"
My hands seemed to have a life of their own. I clasped them together to keep them still. "I was told you attributed that to delirium."
"I did at the time," he said. "That was before I was made aware of some other facts."
"I thought anything I said to you as a patient was confidential," I said, my voice fading as I spoke.
He looked at the ceiling for a long while before he looked back at me. "I'm in an unusual position," he said finally. "I have to be fair with the court, I have to be fair with you, and I have personal knowledge of importance to this examination." He spoke carefully. "Do you think that you were guided to Richards Spur by some supernatural force to die, to free your spirit to join that of David Richards?"
I shook my head. That wasn't why I was here. That couldn't be why I was here.
"Do you believe you are or were a woman David Richards loved and that the house you now occupy was built by him for you?"
John. The realization stabbed through me like physical pain. I had been calling out to him for help, and he was the one who had done this. Maybe tomorrow, he had said, when all the time he knew that by tomorrow I would be locked in an institution. Well, I wouldn't give him that satisfaction. I was fighting for my life now, and I couldn't be concerned with being fair or truthful. Later I could sort through being disloyal.
I held my head up and said distinctly, "I believe the house was built by David for a woman he loved. Whoever she was, she has been dead for a long time. I came to Richards Spur to claim a sizable inheritance. I didn't make the rules, but in order to claim that inheritance I have to meet certain requirements. Dying is not one of them."
He smiled at me. "You've lost a lot of weight. How is your appetite?"
"It's better. Every day it gets a little better."
"Are you sleeping well?"
I knew he could tell from my appearance that I wasn't. "Not very."
"Why is that?"
One more disloyalty. "Dr. Carouthers, you've been in my house at night. Do you really have to ask that question?"
He shook his head and stood up. "That's all I have, Your Honor."
I wanted to sigh and sink back onto the chair, but I couldn't. Not yet.
"Dr. Whitaker, do you have any questions?" the judge asked.
"No, Your Honor, I believe most of the points have been covered."
"Have you reached any conclusion?"
Dr. Whitaker didn't even look up from his notebook. "Yes, Your Honor. I believe, based on what we've heard today, that a commitment, at least for evaluation, is in order."
With a sharp burst of insight, I realized Whitaker's recommendation had little to do with what I'd just said—he'd been determined to commit me all along. I looked to Dr. Carouthers for help. Surely he wasn't in on this . . . this conspiracy as well?
"Dr. Carouthers?" the judge asked.
He looked at me as he spoke. "I might go along with a psychiatric evaluation, Your Honor. Miss Richards may have a mild form of depression, and she probably does have an active imagination, but I see nothing in either of those factors to justify institutionalizing her."
"Mr. District Attorney?"
The man spoke for the first time. "We considered this matter carefully before bringing it to the court's attention. The petition was not prepared frivolously but was based on reliable information brought to us by a concerned, reputable citizen. I have heard nothing here today that would warrant withdrawal or amendment of that petition."
"Mr. Beams?"
"I have nothing to add, Your Honor."
It was like a roll call, and it was over so fast I couldn't assimilate what one had said before the other was through speaking. But one thing was clear; with the exception of Dr. Carouthers, the men in this room were acting together. For McCollum? For John?
"Very well," the judge said. "Miss Richards, it is the ruling of this court, based on evidence presented and the examination held in my chambers today, that you be committed for evaluation—"
"Wait!" I cried. "Please, wait!"
The judge stopped speaking and leaned forward.
I looked to Dr. Carouthers, the only one who had even seemed to care, for help. He shook his head ever so slightly and glanced over my shoulder. I turned to see what he indicated.
My lawyer stood there. My lawyer—if I hadn't been so near tears, I would have laughed.
"Mr. Beams," I asked through clenched jaws, "are you here because there must be a lawyer present, or are you here to actually represent me?"
He studied me for a moment. "I'm here to see that your rights are not violated."
"My rights? Do I have any rights? I was torn from my home. I was brought here with no notice, no time to prepare for this . . . examination, no time to get help, and now it looks very much as though I am going to be sent to a mental hospital because I might hurt myself. My God, even someone accused of murder gets a trial. Have I been completely disenfranchised?"
He smiled at me with a picture-perfect copy of McCollum's smile. "You don't really want to go through the embarrassment of dragging this in front of a jury."
"Oh, you bet I do," I said. "You bet I do. If that's an option open to me, I insist on it."
"I think that's an excellent idea," Dr. Carouthers said. "I'm glad you remembered it, Beams."
The look that ran between the two men spoke of long and bitter disagreements. Beams broke the glare and turned to the judge. "Your Honor, in view of my client's insistence, and the mixed findings of the examining physicians, I move that the court refrain from ruling at this time and that the matter be submitted to a jury for determination."
The judge looked at him and sighed. "Motion sustained. Miss Richards, I remind you that you are still under the jurisdiction of this court. Do not leave the county without the court's permission. Thank you very much, Doctors, for your assistance today. This matter is continued until the next jury docket."
They all stood up, but I was too stunned to move.
Dr. Carouthers came to my side when the others left the room. "Is it over?" I asked.
"For now. I'm sorry, Elizabeth. I didn't want to have any part of this."
"At this moment," I told him, "I'm glad you were here. What do I do next?"
"You'll need a good lawyer, a good psychiatrist, and some money, but not for a while. Right now what you need it dinner and a full night's sleep. Do you want something to help you rest?"
The room grew smaller by the minute. "No. I just want to get out of here before they change their minds about letting me go."
Joannie, Mack, and Martha waited in the outer office Each of them embraced me, but even their love and concern couldn't push back the feeling of confinement creeping around me
Mack had the sheriff's folded order in his hand. "I can't believe something like this can happen."
I took the order from him,. "Not now, Mack. Please."
If it hadn't been for Joannie, I wouldn't have waited for the elevator. I would have run down the stairs and into the fresh air outside. Instead, I endured the confinement of the small cage as it jolted us to the first floor, and I paced my steps to Joannie's slower movement. When we at last pushed open the door to the parking lot and I felt sunshine on my skin, I filled my lungs with untainted air and raised my face to the sky. "Thank you."
"I couldn't find John," Joannie said, "but I got in touch with Mack at the feed store and he came on over. John's supposed to be home by now, but he doesn't answer the telephone."
"He wouldn't have helped anyway," I told her.
"But he could have done something. You shouldn't have had to go through that, especially alone."
I still clutched the order. "Where does he live?"
She pointed to a house on the hill above us. I could barely see the roofline through the trees.
"I need a car. Martha, can I use your car? Would you mind riding home with Mack?"
"Why, child, if you need something done I'll do it for you.'
"No. I have to see John. If it means waiting in his driveway half the night. I have to see him before I go home.
"Of course you do," Joannie said, and I knew she had no idea of the real reason I did. Oh, Joannie, I thought, how can you still be so innocent?