Chapter 25

PARANOIA

"I will seek that which was lost, and will bring back that which was driven away, and will bind up that which was broken, and will strengthen that which was sick." - Ezekiel 34:16

The oppression of Foxworth Hall lifted, once I was away, only to be replaced by travel fatigue. The forty-five mile drive between the airport in Providence and New London seemed interminable. Passing the vacant summer houses and Ocean Beach, I was finally approaching home. The cold night air surrounded me, welcoming me back, and the familiar sound of the fog signal from the lighthouse guided the way to what I must do next. I must be as steady and dependable as that light, as always I tried to be.

I did not know exactly what had happened, or if Malcolm's status had changed in the time it took me to get home, so I asked to be taken to the hospital directly. I went at once to the floor to which I was directed.

"I need information about a patient. He was brought in yesterday. The name is Foxworth." I said to the head nurse.

"Are you a relative?"

"I'm Mrs. Foxworth, his wife. What can you tell me?"

"He's been asking for you. Are you Lydia?"

"Olivia."

"He's rather upset, and we had to sedate him."

"The person I spoke to last night said he wasn't conscious, or some such. Why was I misled? Or has there been a mistake?"

"You'll need to talk to Dr. Sedgwick when she comes in later. Your husband will be fine, Mrs. Foxworth. He'll be in pain, and he is on medication to manage it. He'll need to see a psychiatrist, but the doctor will speak to you about that."

It was an appalling suggestion.

"Where is he?"

"Just a moment, please." She produced a thick folder of paperwork. "If you could take a few moments-"

"I haven't the time for that now." I said.

"It says here that you are also the next of kin to another patient, a Mr. Jackson. That must be the reason for the confusion."

"There is no confusion. He is not a relation of mine."

She tried once more to give me the paperwork, but I refused it.

"Not now! Tell me where my husband is." I said sharply, staring her down.

"I understand they had quite a time locating you," she said, a hint of reproach in the voice of a woman who was a good fifteen years younger than myself.

"I was out of the state. I really don't have time for this."

"Very well." she pointed the way to Malcolm's room.

I had never missed Malcolm when he was away on business trips-not after the first year of living with him-but the last few months had shown me that I was not yet ready to be without him. I should be sending up prayers of gratitude that Malcolm was alive, I supposed, but when I saw him bandaged and bruised, I felt a violent hatred for John Amos that pushed aside all else but the fervent wish that John would not survive his injuries.

I sat in an uncomfortable wooden chair and waited for Malcolm to wake, or for the doctor to come in. I hoped the doctor would arrive first, so I'd know what or what not to say to Malcolm when he did surface from the sedation. I didn't have long to wait. The doctor, an auburn-haired, graceful woman of about forty opened the door, and beckoned me to the hall.

"We can speak freely, here. she said. "He should sleep as much as he can; I'll check on him later. I'm Julia Sedgwick."

She extended her ringless hand. She had a direct gaze, and her eyes were a stunning, hazel-green. Her professional, detached demeanor was a soothing influence. She listed Malcolm's injuries and what had been done.

"We'll take the stitches out of his eyebrow in a few days." she concluded. "Now, I'd like to suggest that your husband see someone. He's been through a traumatic experience, and from what I've observed, he isn't coping well."

"He won't."

"Won't what, Mrs. Foxworth? Won't cope well, or won't see the doctor?"

"Neither." I said.

"Then you must encourage him that to do so would be in his best interest; persuade him." she stated, tapping her clipboard with each emphatic word, as if it was a simple matter of will. She talked on until she was paged. She hurried away, promising to stop in later. Once the doctor was out of sight, my assurance that all would be well vanished right along with her.

I looked out the window and saw that it would be another gray day. Emerging from beneath an awning below was a bereaved family, I guessed, consisting of a mother and her grown daughter and a child. The younger woman was crying, and the little boy broke free and ran, unnoticed, across the parking area and toward the street. I grasped the windowsill for a second, and then closed the blinds and went back to my chair, wishing I had a book to pass the time.

An hour later, Malcolm stirred, and his eyes opened. His voice sounded hoarse, the drug still having its effects.

"It's about time you arrived."

His voice lacked its usual force.

"I'm glad you're awake." I said, moving a chair close to the bed to sit next to him.

He reached out, and, recalling what the doctor had said about trauma, I gave him my hand. He grasped it as if he were drowning.

"I kept looking for you. I thought you wouldn't come."

"Don't talk nonsense. You ought to know better."

"I thought you wouldn't come back." he said again, as if he hadn't heard. The medication made him say these things, I told myself.

"I'm not going anywhere." I said as gently as I could manage. "I was just going to pour a glass of water for you."

I held the glass as he drank, slowly.

"Are you in much pain? How do you feel?"

"How would you expect I'd feel? With all this commotion, I can't sleep."

"You were sleeping, just now."

"They've punctured several veins trying to take blood." he complained. This was familiar ground. "They leave me lying here for hours in the worst possible position for a man subject to back aches. You're here now; ask for the release papers."

"You're staying right here until a doctor says you're not."

I put the glass aside.

"Do you want to tell me what happened? I was informed only that you were here... and John Amos."

"Olivia, he meant to kill both of us."

"Really, Malcolm, I know John's angry, but-"

"He tried to set the house on fire."

I was alarmed, but struggled not to show it.

"He realizes now that he has nothing." I said. "He can't bear knowing that."

When it appeared Malcolm would say no more, I struggled to find anything that might take his mind from this-any sort of meaningless, anodyne conversation.

"Corinne's already made changes at the Hall."

"Don't tell me about the changes, Olivia. Some other time, perhaps."

What he was really saying was that he did not want to talk about Corinne. Corinne, her children, what I had done and what Malcolm had done by way of the terms of his will and that codicil-the mention of any of these was rife with the potential for blame, for accusation, and so they did not need to be discussed.

"Well then, you may like to know that they plan to make their home in South Carolina, so they won't often be at Foxworth."

I stayed with Malcolm until he slept, then went down the hall for a few minutes to speak to a nurse, and to get something resembling breakfast from the cafeteria. I wasn't ready to go home, though I, too, needed rest.

"John did a lot of damage." Malcolm said suddenly. I'd thought he was asleep.

"I haven't been home yet to see it, but it doesn't matter." I said truthfully. I was getting used to seeing remnants of my past disappearing, even as I tried to hold on to them. "All that matters is that you are still here, and you will soon recover."

"Thank you, Olivia."

"It'll be all right." I said.

If I'd thought returning home would help Malcolm, I soon knew I was mistaken. He did not need reminders of the ordeal.

The house had been burgled several times during the decades it had stood vacant, but this was much worse. Everything that was breakable had been mercilessly smashed. My first sight of the sitting-room left me heartsick. I couldn't face such an egregious violation, knowing the damage had been done by the hands of a once-valued member of my own family.

The prized oldest object in the room, an antique white and gold glass vase, was reduced to a pile of rubbish. After relocating the remaining curios to a shelf in the entryway, I simply closed the door so as not to have to see the destruction each time I passed by. Eventually, I found someone to clean and rearrange the room, and a few months later, I redecorated.

Building my color scheme around dove-gray carpeting, I added pale rose-colored draperies, and a settee of a darker shade, and two chairs upholstered in the same heavy silk of a muted floral print. Our old upright piano with its red stained-glass insets on the front, and lamps with silk shades completed the furnishings. The effect was pleasing to the eye, and less cluttered than the room had previously been.

I spoke to Corinne but once, and briefly.

"I haven't had further news of the children." she said. "They're settled in South Carolina."

"That's rather a strange coincidence, isn't it?"

"It's no coincidence. I must have told Cathy that Bart's family home is there. She must know we plan to live there, don't you see? She's done this on purpose."

"Corinne, you would save yourself a lot of worry if you would meet with them, just once."

"How can you be so calm about this? Are you saying I should bring them here? I can't, Mother."

She could-assuming they would want to live with her-but I knew she would never do something so rash.

If she lost her inheritance, Bartholomew's income could support them in a modest way. Foxworth Hall was mine now, as the Foxworth fortune would be, if Corinne forfeited it, and whether or not they resided at the Hall was my decision. But money wasn't her only concern, for if she chose that path, then she would lose the independence from me which the inheritance now afforded her, and she would probably lose Bartholomew, whose lawyer's conscience may not countenance absolving her of her crimes.

"I have no opinion about that." I said, and for the time being, it was true. I felt nothing.

Malcolm was brought home. His bruises faded, his wounds healed, but he wasn't the same. Nervously, he checked windows and doorways. At least half a dozen times each day, he asked if the doors were locked. He peered out the front windows to be sure the gate was closed. Now that disease had killed off the lovely old elm trees, the house was more visible from the street, and this made him edgy.

I am not one who feels a compulsion to answer ringing telephones and doorbells, and this suited Malcolm. In this specious way, we lived for a while. Trouble could not reach us if we shut it outside, but if trouble lurked outside, I could not go out. Malcolm did not want to be alone. He was obsessive about that,
and the worst argument we'd had in a long time ensued when I insisted upon going out one afternoon, months later, to search out a baby gift for Millicent's daughter.

"I don't know what I can find that she'll need. A woman who has had four already, three of them sons, must have everything." I said, knowing he wasn't the least bit interested, but trying to fill the cold, tense silence.

Silence was somehow harder to bear than some of his more vituperative outbursts, and he must have realized this. His churlish silence continued into the evening, when I told him about my day and how I'd enjoyed getting out of the house, about the staggering array of items available for infants now, and about the strangely dressed people I'd seen in a coffee shop. Malcolm sat slumped in the corner armchair, and his eyes remained focused on the television.

As expected, when I broached the subject of the psychiatrist, Malcolm wouldn't hear of it, nor would he take the medicine Dr. Sedgwick had prescribed to help him sleep. His distrust of the doctor was complete.

I picked up the telephone several times to call Millicent, but she was so far away, and there was little she could do to help; she had her own worries. I sent her a belated Christmas card and gift.

Time dragged by in this fashion. In us both lurked the underlying fear that Malcolm would never get beyond this paranoia, and paranoia is contagious.

"We're a pair." I said, and we exchanged a wry look.

So much togetherness, and living with this tension made us quarrelsome. I lashed out often in frustration, then felt immediate guilt for my outbursts.

On one such morning, Malcolm, seated before the octagonal kitchen table, was reading the newspaper aloud, elucidating his opinions on world happenings. I stirred raspberries into a saucepan of cereal I was making, and refrained from offering any comment.

Morning light was just coming through the window over the sink, running a sharp angle across door and table and the stainless steel of Malcolm's wheelchair, where he sat, dressed in pale blue shirt and gray trousers, appearing deceptively calm and well.

"You haven't called the hospital to see what John's condition is, have you?" asked Malcolm, abruptly.

I hadn't, and I would not.

"Why do you ask, Malcolm? I am certain we will not see John again."

"I'd like to forget the things he said. He's twisted everything he knows about us into an extraordinary pack of lies."

I added honey and cinnamon to the saucepan, then put down my spoon and turned to him.

"That's hardly surprising. It isn't important now. Let's not analyze it, shall we?"

"I know how unreasonable it is, but I think-"

"Julia called yesterday, Malcolm." I interrupted, referring to the doctor who was also a psychiatrist. "I think you ought to make an appointment, and speak to her."

"Julia, Julia!" he waved at the air as if to rid himself of an unseen nuisance. "I don't like that woman. Who ever heard of a woman doctor? And since when are you and she on a first name basis?"

"I like her, and she is very professional."

"Professional," he muttered, sneering. "at what?"

"Malcolm-"

"Sit down, have your coffee and listen to this." he said as he picked up the newspaper once more.

"Malcolm, I really think-"

"I will not discuss the subject anymore."

I pressed my lips together and turned back to the stove. But after a few minutes, I could not hold my tongue; this simply had to be resolved.

"For heaven's sake, Malcolm! Why won't you see the doctor? Why can't you get over this pointless fear? John is not coming back." I sighed. "If I hadn't gone to Virginia, this would never have happened."

When he didn't speak, I took it to mean that he did hold me responsible, and I turned away, retreating into my silence-into myself.

If I'd been a different sort of person, I might have offered some gesture or words of reassurance, but my thoughts were crowded with my own fears. As winter and spring passed, I kept expecting to hear from Corinne, or to hear news of her children. I began to agree with Malcolm-though for different reasons-that this house was not a safe place.

"Riffraff," pronounced Malcolm, and he is correct. The street is shabby, the people living along it are shabbier. In the intervening years from the time my father died and now, the neighborhood fell into a decline. New London is more crowded than once it was, and it is home to people who I do not wish to call neighbors.

After the luxury and quiet comfort of Foxworth Hall, it was difficult to settle in New London. Frequently, the possibility was raised of finding someplace more suitable to live. Malcolm suggested relocating to California, where we still own property bought in the late 1920's, a time when Malcolm expected we would spend significant time there, so he could oversee the expansion of certain of his businesses.

I enjoy the changing of the seasons, and so I was reluctant to assent to such a drastic change, but the farther we were away from John Amos, the safer we would be. After further consideration, I acceded that it was a good solution. The house there is adequate; it is, in fact, a larger house than we need,
but it could be made ready in a matter of months, Malcolm guessed, and so we began making plans.