Chapter 22

SHIFTING THE SHADOWS

"Thou to me,
Art all things under heaven, all places thou,
Who, for my willful crime, art banished hence." - John Milton

"So, it is over."

"Yes, it's over."

"What of John?"

"We had words. But he doesn't suspect a thing." I said.

I looked around the narrow room beyond the den; it had once been storage space. It held a new and sparse configuration of furniture. A floor lamp was placed next to a bed, a small, wheeled table, a bookcase which couldn't have held one volume more, a sofa and opposite the bed, an armoire whose single door stood open, displaying a television showing a sentimental war time film.

I did not advance beyond the doorway until Malcolm spoke, then I went over to his chair and, for a moment, put my arms about him. Only then did I know how much I needed that small bit of contact. Not until then did I realize that, on some level, I'd believed that my own life would be over before John's scheme-the children's imprisonment-ended.

"You look well." Malcolm said, as we each took note of the appearance of the other, though no changes were ever remarked.

"I am...better than I thought I'd be." I admitted. "Better, now that I am here."

"You should have been here since January." he chided, the only time he implied that the year apart hadn't been as he would have chosen.

I made no reply, and he said no more. I felt conflicted, and whether Malcolm guessed this, and it was a true understanding, or coincidence that kept him from questioning me , still I was glad he did not prod me to talk about what had kept me away.

Collapsing onto the bed, I slept for hours, without dreaming. I awoke in the morning silence of the four o'clock hour, and lay quietly, listening to the wind rattling the old windows. Bars of color of the test pattern flickered on the television. There was the sound of an early train in the distance, just as one heard the train passing near Foxworth Hall every morning at dawn.

Malcolm slept almost silently. I leaned over to see that his chest was rising and falling. Because I now could, I lightly touched his shoulder; I did not wish to wake him. Folding the goose down comforter aside, then tucking it around him once more, I rose slowly and left the room.

I had much to do, this first day, and fixing a bedroom for myself upstairs, setting the house in better order, and dismissing Malcolm's nurse (for I could perform those tasks just as efficiently) were among the priorities on my list of chores, but nothing needed to be done with any urgency.

I moved through the darkened front part of the house. Now that I was no longer embrangled in Corinne's life, I was aware of how very much lighter I felt. I had not slept as soundly in three years as I had in the past few hours. On my way to the kitchen, I stepped out onto the front porch, and breathed in the bracing icy air of a New England morning. The very clean sharpness of it lent me a new strength, and a much-needed sense of safety.

"How shall we sing the Lord's song in a strange land?"-In new ways, I told myself. Or maybe not at all.

If we are to be punished, it has not yet happened.

John was the wrong one-the lost one, I reminded myself. But in the months that followed, I found it nearly impossible to separate my confusion over John Amos from what little faith I retained. If it remained, it was a quiet faith that did not harm others. My faith had always stemmed from an element of hope and fear, and a need to believe that my sons were safe with God, if not with me. Perhaps it is this need to protect, eternally thwarted, that gave substance to the faith that became so dangerous.

Yet, how could I believe that God would forgive me, when in rare instances of unflinching clarity, I could not forgive myself? I still could not forgive Corinne, and didn't fully believe that we had been entirely wrong.

"Let his children be fatherless, and his wife a widow. Let his children wander about and beg; and let them seek sustenance far from their ruined homes. Let the creditor seize all that he has; and let strangers plunder the product of his labor. Let there be none to extend kindness to him, nor any to be gracious to his fatherless children."

I do not need to open the Bible to see that passage. In my mind, I still hear John Amos's strident voice quoting the words of the Psalm, shaping my beliefs, transforming love into hate. He kept Malcolm and I studying and talking about God, and I now see how he kept us from properly healing. But in that regard, John Amos hasn't been entirely successful.

In the early mornings, in the first half-wakeful minutes, I am at peace, I feel the stranglehold of John's teaching falling slowly away, but then comes a paralyzing fear of that loss, for what else have I to cling to? Only duty. Only remnants of the woman I once was, and sadness for losing that part of myself, and the unanswerable questions of just why and how I have changed, and continue to change.

How have I gone from being a caring mother to my own, to the kind of sadistic woman who is able to lift a little girl by her hair, an enforcer of strict rules, such as I never expected my own children to follow?

No one ever asked for my side of this shameful story; I am beyond thinking of it as a sad one. No one asked why I felt such a need to punish my daughter,my husband, indirectly, and myself so severely-for that is what it was, ultimately.

I have never attempted to write about myself. Where does one begin with such a daunting undertaking? Starting over, going home, and attempting to explain my life on paper-these things will probably save me.

Ordinary incidents take on great significance, when memory comes upon me unexpectedly, and I struggle to pull every shred of detail from the depths of the past, remembering the quiet joy of time spent with my children. Once, I lived in the false belief that those times would never end, but they ended long ago.

I cannot turn time back to long afternoons spent teaching Corinne to cook, or hearing the silvery lilt of her girlish voice gossiping on the telephone. I cannot regain the mingled pride and awe I knew when listening to Joel's music, or the particular sense of relief at a stolen moment of my own when the children were younger, and playing with neighbors' children. I can recall reading a particular book to Mal so often that we both had every line memorized. I hear my own voice; I hear the voice of my four-year-old son, declaring that he will "read to Mommy, this time." These things are so important to me, and so unimportant to the world that shall go on without us.

It seems unlikely that so much should happen now, when undoubtedly, I am in the last years of a life which has been largely uneventful. Days slip by, uncharacterized by any important discussion or action. I cannot account for how many of my hours are spent.

I see, in trying to account for the years, that I should have kept a journal all along. Memories recede over time, conversations are forgotten. Despair isn't a constant, any more than is love, and happiness and memory is elusive. I cannot recount each day, and much has to be omitted; it hardly matters whether the omission is intentional, or not.

One can hardly fault an old woman for shaving off a year or two, here and there. If by mistake I record a date incorrectly,or say that there was snow on the ground when Corinne brought her children home, when in truth it was summer, it is less important than what happened subsequently. I am old, and though no one ever believes they will feel comfortable admitting it to themselves, I do not avoid facing this truth. I have done all I can with my allotted time, and more than I should have done, in some cases.

Age chisels away all but our most prominent characteristics, and I fear mine will be my undoing. The abundant pride I never managed to excoriate, and which John Amos cautioned against is still part of me, as is the curse of tenderness that one so hardened as I am does not expect to feel.

One more piece of a complicated puzzle falls into place. At last I understand my husband somewhat better, for I know the appeal of not examining motive and emotion too closely. Tomorrow, perhaps, I will regain courage and finish my story. Now I am tired; I have too much to record and too little time to write. I must put down my pen, and turn to simpler tasks.

It is my intention to keep life simple, to forget the past as much as I can. I want nothing more than to be anonymous, to be left alone. I want to feel no regret, no self-loathing, no love and no anger. In the spring and summer, I will tend my garden, and be grateful if I am still here to enjoy its beauty. In the winter, I will let the snow pile up around the house and hide inside, pretending it isn't holiday season, a time for families to be together.

And it might have been that way, but for one telephone call.

I was in the dining-room, leafing through my many cookery books, deciding on a menu for our Christmas. I wanted everything-even dinner-to be as different from Christmas at Foxworth Hall as possible.

I heard the phone ring, and Malcolm called to me.

"Millicent," Malcolm said.

"Olivia, I wondered if you would give me your syllabub recipe." Millicent began. "Caroline wants to make it."

"The drink or the dessert?"

"Drink. And Corinne called me. She would like you to call her. I said I'd pass on the message"

"Yes. Thank you. Very careless of me to forget to give her the number, here." I said, though it had been deliberate.

It was the fifth of December, and Corinne's thirty-seventh birthday. Had she deliberately waited until that day to ask me to phone, thinking I'd be induced, out of sheer sentiment, to help her?

"How are you, Mother?" she started, but her voice was tense, as though her thoughts were already moving ahead to the true reason for her call.

"Quite well, Corinne."

"What are you doing in New London?"

"I keep busy." I prevaricated.

"With what, living there all alone, Mother?"

"At the moment," I said, leafing through a book, "I have begun doing all of the cooking myself."

"Why would you?" she asked, sounding baffled.

"It keeps me busy, and servants can be so temperamental. I'm finding I rather enjoy not having any about."

"You'll tire of it in a few weeks."

"No doubt." I agreed. "If I could find a girl as reliable as Livvie..."

"Livvie worked for you for ten years, didn't she? You can't expect someone new to be as well trained-not right away."

"True enough."

"And, Mother, Livvie quit, the day after you left."

"You'll be shorthanded."

"I interviewed a painfully shy woman today who has no references, but I liked her. She even said she'd be willing to live in, though I told her that none of the maids have done so, for several years now." said Corinne. "I wish you were here. I hardly know what to ask them."

"Just remember, never admit to servants that you don't know how to do what you want done."

"What do you think they're doing, Mother?" asked Corinne.

I knew without needing to ask that she referred to her children. Her voice had grown softer, hesitant.

"How should I know? Probably gorging themselves, and drinking all the soda pop they couldn't have upstairs. If you really wanted to know, you'd go claim them."

"What would I tell people?" There was a silence. "What would I tell Bart?"

"I don't know. He's YOUR husband."

"He won't understand." she said.

"You can't be sure of that."

She didn't answer, but I knew she wouldn't speak to Bartholomew.

"You won't be able to dispute the claim that they are your children, but you can discredit their story, perhaps. Corinne," I said firmly, "you'll have to clear that room, and right away. Everything must go, even the furniture."

"I thought you would have done it the day they left."

"I-I couldn't." I said, remembering how I had gone upstairs one final time, knowing they were gone, knowing that room would be empty. I had walked down to the very end of that hushed corridor, and had stopped on the threshold of the room.

The door was ajar, and I sensed the ghosts shift from within; those ghosts were still too much alive. I nudged the door open another inch, but I could not make myself step into the room; my claustrophobia would not allow it. Dread clutched at my throat, it made my heart hammer in my chest, as I turned, and almost ran through the shadowy hallway toward another door, toward the saving light of the sunny rotunda.

All of this was in those two words: I can't. And Corinne understood, because she knew her own body would rebel as well, should she be forced to enter that room. But one of us must attend to it.

"Will you be coming home, for Christmas?"

Her abrupt change of tone and subject made me wonder if someone was nearby-perhaps Bartholomew.

"Oh, no. I think not."

I had given little thought to the trappings of Christmas; a tree seemed out of the question. My parlor was so crowded, I couldn't imagine where I'd put a tree, nor did I have much interest in decorating one. But perhaps a small one with white lights and icicles...

"I thought for sure you would." she said, her voice, not her words, communicating panic. "Where else would you be, but at Foxworth, for Christmas?"

"She doesn't cope well, on her own." I said to Malcolm, after I'd hung up the phone.

I honestly could not have said whether my apprehension came from worry over how we might be affected, or because I could not stop being Corinne's mother. Some days the inclination to come to her aid was more acute.

Malcolm urged me to take a plane, but I had never flown anywhere, and wasn't about to do so, now. The following morning I boarded an early train to Virginia. Once there, a taxi delivered me to Foxworth Hall.

Picking up my train case, I made my way through the iron gates and up the semi-circular drive, around several parked cars before I had my first full view of the house. Foxworth Hall was unchanged, the single constant and permanent feature of the family it had sheltered for two centuries. It was, as ever, splendid, even without my hand attending to its upkeep.

Corinne was already using her inheritance to make the mansion hers. The addition of a stained-glass sunburst in the arch above the entrance was a nice touch-very striking.

I had not anticipated any form of cordial greeting, still, I was unprepared for the total lack of recognition on the part of the maid who opened the door to me.

"They're expecting me, I believe." I said, indicating the house.

"I wasn't told Mr. and Mrs. Winslow were expecting a guest."

"It's quite cold; I'd like to come in." I said, considerably annoyed at having to ask entrance to my own home.

Corinne had dismissed all of my servants and had hired new ones. This girl was one of them, and she did not know me. I walked past her and started to cross the foyer.

"You can't just..." she stammered, then looked less alarmed as a tall red-haired woman approached, her green eyes on the level with mine. I saw that she would not be an obstruction. This must be the new housekeeper Corinne had mentioned.

"Sarah, this lady asks for Mrs. Winslow."

"I am Mrs. Foxworth." I announced, bored with having to explain who I was. I was still the legal owner of this house, after all. "Please tell my daughter-Mrs.
Winslow-that I am here."

"Mrs. Winslow isn't in, Ma'am." said the housekeeper, carefully. "But Mr. Winslow will be home within the hour."

Corinne had requested my presence, and I'd come. Why couldn't a woman who filled her days with largely inconsequential activities-playing tennis, attending luncheon and bridge parties-manage to break away from these unimportant engagements, and meet me?

I noticed changes-minor alterations, all, but there were many of them. In the foyer, the color scheme had been changed slightly, and it was not an improvement. New paintings adorned the walls, the old portraits having been removed, relegated to where? The basement? An unused room of the east wing? The attic? Surely not. I doubted if Corinne had been up there. She was one for burying her head in the sand. Corinne was trying to remove all that would tether her to anyone she had once claimed to love-her father, her brothers and her children. By removing the portraits, she made it clear that she wanted no reminders of family, either present and living, or the images of the past, ancestors who, with their dour expressions, seemed to be privy to all, and to disapprove.

I retreated to the small parlor near the door to the east patio-a parlor which had always been considered mine-only to find that it had been divested of the clutter of my books, pictures and plants. The parquet floor was no longer covered by a rug. The old walnut mantel clock had been brought here from the library. The furniture had been rearranged, though I was glad to see that the central piece, the grand piano and matching stool, remained. The rosewood piano, belonging to the last century, had candle sconces bracketed to left and right of the music rack, hinged for easy adjustment. It was a piece too beautiful to be hidden away in the attic, even if it was never used for its intended purpose.

Presently, a shadow fell across the doorway. I looked up and smiled.

"Well, Mrs. Foxworth. Sarah told me you were here."

Bartholomew advanced into the room, and dropped into one of the blue velvet-upholstered armchairs.

"How have you been?" I asked.

"Very well, thank you. And yourself?"

"A winter without so much snow suits me." I said, glancing out at a scene of unmarred wintry, powder-soft whiteness, perfect enough for a holiday greeting card.

"Where is Corinne?" I asked, hoping to divert him from asking about where I had gone to live.

"Shopping with Amelia Bromley, I think, but she'll be home soon. You nearly missed us. Corinne has made plans to go abroad, again." he said, frowning slightly.

I could have guessed that.

"And John Amos?"

"I haven't seen him in weeks. He resigned from his position as butler, Corinne tells me. Honestly, I was rather surprised he hadn't gone to work for you, but he seemed not to know where you had gone. He asked me about it, repeatedly."

I tried to appear indifferent, as knots of tension formed in my stomach.

"Oh?"

"I told him I was not your attorney, therefore I had no details concerning your whereabouts."

"I see. Thank you."

Undoubtedly, if Bartholomew had been more curious, he could have found my address; he had access to information that John did not have, but he chose not to pry. I was grateful. He had unknowingly helped me. I could see why Corinne had been so taken with him from their first meeting.

In all of Corinne's words that bubbled over with happiness, there were more underneath that she left unspoken. Behind her glowing tales of her honeymoon and the many trips she took with Bartholomew, was the inevitable comparison, and the truth that her marriage to Christopher hadn't been so dreamlike and perfect, after all, that she had missed out on some of the things she'd wanted when she was young. Now, with Bartholomew, she had gained respectability in her own world, in the social class she'd been born into that-until she had found herself excluded from-she hadn't known mattered to her.

"There's a bundle of mail for you," he said, indicating the escritoire in the corner. "None of it appears to be important, but I thought it best to save it."

I searched the pigeonholes for my small paper-knife. As I busied myself with the mail-most of it proving to be Christmas cards and charities seeking donations-Bartholomew talked about the itinerary of their upcoming trip, saying that he was glad someone would be here to look after the house in their absence. I didn't tell him that I wouldn't be staying that long.

The library telephone rang. When Bartholomew excused himself to take the call, I went into the kitchen.

No one was about. I put the kettle on, poured the boiling water into the Chemex coffee-maker, and surveyed the surroundings.

The kitchen had been remodeled. The old checkerboard tile was gone. All the appliances had been replaced with modern ones, everything sleek and shiny-though why Corinne should care to extend her improvements to a room into which she never ventured, I did not know.

I went to the wall telephone-another recent addition. This might be the only chance I had for a while yet, and hurriedly I dialed the operator, and asked for long-distance.

"Two-oh-three," I said. "The number is Gibson 2-4099."

I waited, listening to the hollow clicks on the other end as the connections were made.

"Your party does not answer," said the operator. I began to worry.

"Please try again."

She put the call through a second time, before Malcolm finally answered. His brusque greeting reassured me that all was well. He always sounded as if he'd been pulled away from some vitally important business. He sounded so annoyed at having to answer the telephone, that the urge to apologize was great.

"It's about time you called." he grumbled.

"It's about time you answered, and I don't have much time." I said, keeping my voice low, though I doubted anyone could overhear. From somewhere down the hall came the sounds of television, the laughter of an audience, then the cheerful jingle of a coffee commercial. "I will return home by the Friday evening train."

"You should fly, to save time." he said.

"Don't harass me about that, now."

"Well? What does she want? What's going on there?"

Stretching the phone cord, I went to the far window, from which I could look out over the driveway.

Someone backed one of the cars out of the garage, and another man salted the ice-covered front steps. By morning, the snow would be solid ice, which might not melt for a week after, making even the briefest walk outside perilous.

"I haven't seen her, yet."

I peeled and sectioned an orange as I spoke, keeping an eye on the door.

"Listen, I think that John Amos has left here, for good."

"Really?"

"Yes, that's what Bartholomew says. He seemed to think that John would not be returning."

There was a silence as we contemplated what this would mean.

"Corinne never liked him. He would be forced to retire now." said Malcolm, and it reminded me of what he'd said when I'd first announced my plan to have my cousin work for us. "He will be your butler, not mine."

"It would be a mistake to rely on Winslow's word." Malcolm now said, decisively.

"I think we can. I am sure he's told me all he knows, and he had common sense enough not to tell John anything."

"What does he know?" Malcolm scoffed.

The inherent, arrogant belief of every generation, I thought-now that our own youth has passed, wisdom is only possessed by the aged.

"I thought you trusted him."

"To a limited degree. But he's no match for John Amos; Winslow is too honest." he said, as if honesty was a disadvantage. "Winslow knows nothing of this unfortunate situation. He knows none of Corinne's secrets. I'm afraid we'll have to dismiss anything he thinks he knows. John won't stay away for long. Corinne has no control over him. If there is the slightest chance that he can gain financially by being in close proximity, he wouldn't pass up such an opportunity. He is clever and dangerous."

"You hardly need remind me of that."

"Olivia," he said slowly, thoughtfully, "as long as you are there, keep your eyes open. I'd like to know if-"

"You're asking me to go through his private papers? I don't spy, Malcolm."

"Call it what you will, but use it to our advantage. Winslow knows the law, but he knows nothing of business and finance, Olivia. He probably mismanages money."

"Another of your infallible pronouncements, of course." I said. "Malcolm, I think you underestimate Bartholomew."

"How, I ask you, does a law degree qualify him to manage businesses? What has it to do with investments, with the efficient running and expansion of the hotel chain, with overseeing my mills?"

The mill operations were especially important to Malcolm, even now. They had been among his first major successful ventures, made independent of Garland's input.

"Apparently, he doesn't believe his presence is necessary!" he concluded.

I didn't bother to remind him that the Winslows' vacation had been a brief one. He had his mind set against Bartholomew.

"I'm sure I know what you're thinking, but even if they are mismanaging, it's out of our hands. We agreed on that, Malcolm." I reminded him sharply. "We agreed. And that's not why I'm here. It's too late for regrets. I think I should wait and see what Corinne says about John Amos; that is most important now."

"Very well," he said.

"Oh, Malcolm, I have other news. I received a short letter from Richmond, from Frances. Your aunt Adelaide has passed away."

I did not see Corinne until the second evening. Having little to do, I found myself moping about the house all the first day, supervising the servants, as preparations began for Christmas night. My presence wasn't wanted, and they didn't know whether to heed or disregard my instructions.

Nonetheless, once all was in place, Foxworth Hall looked splendidly festive, as ever. The mosaic marble and furniture in the foyer was impeccably polished. The tree, hung with dozens of hand-carved ornaments, was to be placed in a corner of the foyer. The banisters of the staircases were laced with ropes of greenery. Pots of poinsettias lined the foyer, holly decorated the mantelpieces, and the silver punch bowl with twenty-four matching cups stood on the refectory table.

I visited Millicent the next day, arriving in the late afternoon, in time to watch what Millicent termed "my stories,"-that day's installment of The Edge of Night. I never read fiction anymore, but I sometimes looked at soap operas.

"I know you'll love Victor Carlson." she predicted, and I did. She talked of the machinations of Edge's characters as though she knew them personally.

At sixty-three, due to failing eyesight, Millicent had retired and closed her shop. She now lived on the outskirts of Charlottesville, in a small cottage, filled with the same plain, mission-style furniture she'd owned ever since the 'thirties. Her sole concession to holiday decorating was a small Stone Pine on a corner table.

"I suppose it's a sign that I'm getting old." I told her. "It struck me today how infrequently I've gone anywhere-even into Charlottesville-in the last few years. It's so much busier than it used to be, and I scarcely know where to find any of the places I remember."

"So much expansion has taken place, since the war." she agreed. "I never go in now, except to visit Caroline."

"I remember when I first came here, most of the streets had those dusty board sidewalks, a few streets were brick-paved. To me, it seemed very rural."

"I've never been up north, but it must have been quite an adjustment for you, as a young bride." she said. "And you're so isolated out there where you live, too. I don't know how you stand it."

"I used to wish Malcolm would agree to move into town. There's a beautiful old house on Rugby Road I imagined we'd buy. I noticed today that it's been converted into apartments. I can't imagine anyone will want to live there; they're probably horrible little places."

"Possibly, Olivia, the people who live there can't afford anything else." she said.

"Oh, well... But all those beautiful old houses have been ruined."

"Shame." said Millicent. "But it's good business for the owners of those houses."

"How is Caroline?" I asked. Millicent's daughter was thoughtful enough to send us a card every Christmas, although I probably had not seen her in eight or ten years.

We talked about Millicent's grandchildren, now numbering four. Her daughter, Caroline, talked of having another child, even-as Millicent put it-at her "advanced age."

"I'd have thought her age would have freed her from such considerations, by now." said Millicent.

"Surely, she'll not have reached the change yet, at forty-three." I said. "I was fifty-five."

"I had an operation after Caroline's birth, so I don't know about that, but remembering what Mother went through, my escaping it all was a stroke of very good luck." Millicent chuckled, "Mother was more upset about my operation than I was. I think she believed I'd lose my looks then, at twenty."

"You were lucky." I told her. The cessation of my menses hadn't happened all at once, and one of the more troublesome symptoms, insomnia, had afflicted me for an entire year.

Our conversation turned back to Millicent's daughter.

"Caroline hated being an only child," said Millicent. "and she never got over losing that second baby to whooping cough, so she surrounds herself with as much family as she can. She searched out Frank's people a few years back; did I tell you? She visits them every summer."

"How nice for her." I said.

"You would think so, but she's all the more preoccupied with what doesn't concern her. She's grasping at straws, just to create connections and a history for herself." she sighed. "Olivia, I'm too old to carry on a feud with my daughter."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Every time we speak, lately, she's spitting wasps. Carrie wants ownership of that little house in Belmont, because it was her grandmother's. It's not in a nice area; she wouldn't want to live there, but suddenly, it's become all-important."

I nodded.

"It is necessary to sell it, Olivia, to pay for Isabel's medical care."

"Hasn't she family of her own who might help with that?" I asked, carefully.

Millicent shook her head.

"I don't want to have to use my own savings; I've always planned so carefully. The trouble is that I'm the only one who plans. There isn't a hint of frugality in any of them. It's up to me. Carrie's husband doesn't understand why we should be responsible for Isabel."

Surely, this would not long be an issue; Miss Bertram must be over ninety, and was very ill. I wished I knew how to offer help without causing offense, for I could easily cover the cost of nursing home expenses. I would give the matter some thought, and perhaps after all, Millicent would accept my assistance, with quiet grace-that would be like her.

The topic moved on to lighter matters. We talked of people we knew of in common. Millicent passed on the latest harmless gossip, as she fed her dog the breadcrusts from her sandwich.

At seven o'clock, realizing I was probably keeping Millicent from her dinner, I said my good-byes.

"I wish you weren't living so far away." she said, as she handed over my coat and walked with me to the door.

"I know." I said softly.

"Don't be away too long."

"I'll be here through the week." I said. "If you'd like to come to the Hall one afternoon, I'd like the company."

But that never happened. Corinne had returned while I was out, and she waylaid me as soon as I entered the foyer.

"Mother! Oh, thank God you're here!"