Pearl in the Mist

12

Dark Clouds

Despite what Gisselle had heard and seen in the parlor the day before, she somehow blamed me, insisting I hadn't done enough to persuade Daphne to let us remain at home and return to school in New Orleans.

"At least you have something there you like," she moaned before we went to sleep the night before. "You have your precious Miss Stevens and your artwork to occupy yourself, and you can run up to the Clairborne mansion to tease Mrs. Clairborne's blind grandson, but all I have is this group of stupid, immature girls with which to amuse myself."

"I don't tease, Louis," I said. "I feel sorry for him. He's someone who's suffered great emotional pain."

"And what about me? Haven't I suffered great emotional pain? I nearly died; I'm crippled. We're sisters. Why don't you feel sorry for me?" she cried.

"I do," I said, but it was half a lie, Despite Gisselle's being confined to a wheelchair, I found it more and more difficult to sympathize with her plight. Most of the time, Gisselle managed to get what she wanted no matter what, and usually at someone else's expense.

"No you don't! And now I've got to go back to that . . . that hellhole," she groaned.

She threw a tantrum and wheeled herself about her room, knocking things off the dresser and scattering clothing everywhere. Poor Martha had to come in and straighten it all out before Daphne discovered what Gisselle had done.

In the morning she sat rigidly in her wheelchair, as stiff as she would be had she been calcified, not moving a limb and making the transference from chair to chair to car that much more difficult. She refused to eat a morsel of breakfast and kept her lips so tightly pressed together, they looked stitched closed. Although Gisselle was doing all this for our step-mother's benefit, Daphne witnessed none of her tantrum. She merely sent down orders for Edgar, Nina, and the chauffeur and reminders with warnings attached for us. Bruce Bristow arrived just before we were to leave to make sure our departure went smoothly and on schedule. It was the only time Gisselle uttered a word.

"Who are you now," she taunted, "Daphne's little gofer? Bruce, go for this; Bruce, go for that." She laughed at her own derisive comment. Bruce's face turned pink, but he simply smiled and then went to see to the luggage. Frustrated and furious, Gisselle gave up and sat back with her eyes closed, resembling one of the patients strapped in a straitjacket in Uncle Jean's institution.

The trip back to Greenwood was almost as depressing as our journey home to Daddy's funeral. It was far more bleak, the dark gray skies following us all the way, with some light sprinkles dotting the windshield and creating a need for the monotonous sweep of the wipers. Gisselle closed up as tightly as a clam in her corner of the rear seat, not so much as gazing out the window once we left New Orleans. Occasionally, she would throw me a hard look.

For my part I found myself looking forward to doing just what Gisselle had said: returning to work with Miss Stevens and throwing all my energies and attention into the development of my artistic talents. After spending days under Daphne's glaring eyes and oppressive thumb, I actually welcomed the sight of Greenwood when we pulled up the drive and saw the girls scurrying about the grounds after class, all of them laughing, giggling, talking with an animation I now envied. Even Gisselle permitted herself to brighten a bit. I knew she wouldn't show her defeat and disappointment to her disciples.

In fact, once she was back in our dorm, she immediately reverted to her previous demeanor and behavior, refusing to acknowledge anyone's expression of sympathy, acting as if Daddy's death and funeral had been just a terrible inconvenience. She wasn't in her room two minutes before she opened fire on her new whipping boy, her roommate Samantha, screaming at her for having the nerve to move some of her things while she was away. All of us heard the commotion and came out to see what was happening. Samantha was in tears in the doorway where Gisselle had driven her during her tirade.

"How dare you touch my cosmetics? You stole some of my perfume, didn't you? Didn't you?" she hammered. "I know there was more in the bottle."

"I didn't."

"Yes you did. And you tried on some of my clothes too." She spun around in her chair and glared at me. "Look at what I have to put up with since you forced me to move out of your room and share a room with her!" Gisselle screamed.

I nearly burst out laughing at the lie. "Me? I told you to move? You were the one who wanted to move, Gisselle. You were the one who insisted," I said. Vicki, Kate, and Jacki all looked at me sympathetically because they knew what I said was the truth. But none was willing to come to my defense and risk Gisselle's wrath.

"I did not!" Gisselle yelled, her face so red with anger and frustration, she looked like the top of her head would blow off. She pounded the arms of her wheelchair with her fists and shook her body from side to side so vigorously, I thought she would topple over. "You wanted to be with that quadroon so bad you drove me out." She pulled her eyes back under her trembling lids and foamed at the lips, gagging and choking. Everyone thought she was going into a convulsion, but I had seen her behave this way many times before.

"All right, Gisselle," I said with a tone of defeat, "calm down. What do you want?"

"I want her out of here!" she demanded, pointing her right forefinger at Samantha, who looked as confused and frightened as a baby bird driven out of its nest.

"Do you want to move back in with me, then? Is that what you want?" I asked, slowly closing and opening my eyes.

"No. I'll live by myself and take care of myself," she insisted, wrapping her arms around her body and sitting back firmly in her chair. "Just as long as she's out of here."

"You can't toss people in and out of your room like you would one of your stuffed animals, Gisselle," I chastised. She turned her head slowly and fixed her eyes on little Samantha, burning her gaze into the diminutive strawberry blonde, who stepped farther back.

"I'm not tossing her out. She wants to leave, don't you, Samantha?"

Samantha turned helplessly and gazed at me.

"You can move in with me, Samantha," I said, "if my sister is so positive she can be on her own."

Now that Daphne had forced us to return to Greenwood, I knew that all Gisselle was out to do was make everyone else's life as miserable as her own.

"Sure," she whined, "take someone else's side, just like you always do. We're twins, but do you ever act like we are? Do you?"

I closed my eyes and counted to ten.

"All right, what is it you want, Gisselle? Do you want Samantha to move out or don't you?"

"Of course I do! She's a pathetic little . . . virgin!" she thundered. Then she twisted her lips into a wry smile before adding, "Who dreams of sleeping with Jonathan Peck." She wheeled toward her. "Isn't that what you told me, Samantha? Don't you wonder what it would be like to have Jonathan touch your precious little breasts and kiss you below your belly button? And bring the tip of his tongue—"

"Stop it, Gisselle," I screamed. She smiled at Samantha, who now had large tears streaming down her cheeks. She didn't know how to react, how to deal with this violent betrayal.

"Get your things together, Samantha," I told her, "and bring them into my room."

"And I want any of my things that were left in there brought into MY room," Gisselle commanded. "Kate will help, won't you, Kate?" she asked, smiling at her.

"What? Oh, sure."

Gisselle widened her smile for me, glared at Samantha, and then twirled her wheelchair about to return to her room, mumbling loudly about having to check all her things now to see what else Samantha had stolen or used.

"I didn't take any of her things. Honest," Samantha exclaimed again.

"Just move out, Samantha, and don't try to explain or defend yourself," I advised.

I didn't mind having a new roommate and I thought it would serve Gisselle right to have to struggle on her own for a while. Maybe then she would appreciate the help everyone else gave her. But whether it was out of spite or out of defiance, she surprised me by unpacking her own things, changing her dress and shoes for dinner, and fixing her own hair. Kate was given the privilege of wheeling her about now that Samantha was persona non grata. At least for a while, it looked like things would calm down.

After dinner that night, while Vicki was helping me catch up with the work I had missed in the classes she and I shared, Jacki came to my doorway to tell me I had a phone call. I hurried out, assuming it was either Beau or Paul, but it turned out to be Louis.

"I found out from Mrs. Penny about your father," he began. "I wanted to call you in New Orleans, but my cousin wouldn't give me the telephone number. She said it was inappropriate. Anyway, I'm sorry."

"Thank you, Louis."

"I know what it means to lose a parent," he continued. He was silent for a moment and then he changed his tone of voice. "I've been making slow but definite progress with my eyesight," he said. "I can distinguish shapes even better and more clearly. There's still a gray haze over everything, but my doctors are very optimistic."

"I'm happy for you, Louis."

"Can I see you soon? That sounds so great to say, 'see you.' Can I?"

"Yes, of course."

"Come tomorrow. For dinner," he said excitedly. "I'll have the cook prepare a shrimp gumbo."

"No, I can't for dinner. I have serving duty, and it wouldn't be right to ask anyone to take my place."

"Then come after dinner."

"I'll probably have loads of schoolwork to catch up on," I said.

"Oh." Disappointment dripped through the phone. "Just give me a little while to catch up on everything," I pleaded.

"Sure. I'm just so anxious to show you my progress. Progress," he added softly, "that came after I met you."

"That's nice of you to say, Louis. But I don't know what I could have had to do with it."

"I do," he said cryptically. "I'm warning you. I'll drive you crazy until you visit me," he teased.

"All right," I said, laughing. "I'll come up on Sunday after dinner."

"Good. Maybe by then I'll make even more progress and surprise you by telling you the color of your hair and the color of your eyes."

"I hope so," I said, but after I hung up the phone, I felt a dark anxiety spiral its way up from the bottom of my stomach to my heart, where it settled like a dull ache. It was nice to have Louis feel that I was helping him, and it was flattering to think I could have such a dramatic impact on so serious a problem as blindness, but I knew he was putting too much importance on me and developing too much reliance on my company. I was afraid he would think he was falling in love with me and that he might even imagine that I was falling in love with him. Soon, I promised myself, soon I would tell him about Beau. Only now I was afraid it might shatter his delicate improvement; and his grandmother and his cousin, Mrs. Ironwood, would only have something else to blame on rue.

I returned to my room and to my work and buried myself in the reading, the notes, and the studies because it kept me from thinking about all the sad things that had occurred and the heavy burdens I had been left to bear. The next day all of my teachers were understanding and cooperative, the warmest being Miss Stevens, of course. Returning to her class was like coming out of a dark, summer storm into the brightness of sunlight again. I returned to my unfinished paintings and we made a tentative date to meet at the lake on the school grounds Saturday morning to start some new work.

Over the next few days, Gisselle continued to surprise me and the others with her new independence. Except for Kate's wheeling her about at times, she took care of her own needs. She kept the door to her room shut tight whenever she was in there. Samantha, on the other hand, looked sad and lost. Whenever Gisselle was with Kate and Jacki, the three ignored her. She trailed after them like a puppy dog who had been kicked and driven from its home but had nowhere else to go. Obviously under Gisselle's orders, Jacki and Kate joined her and refused to acknowledge or speak to Samantha. They acted as if she were invisible.

"Why don't you try to make new friends, Samantha," I told her. "Perhaps you should even go to Mrs. Penny and request to be moved to a new quad."

She shook her head vigorously. The thought of making such a dramatic break, even under these conditions, terrified the shy, insecure girl.

"No, it's all right. Everything will be all right," she said.

On Thursday night, however, I returned from the library with Vicki and found Samantha curled up in her bed, sobbing softly. I closed the door and hurried to her bedside.

"What is it, Samantha? What's my sister done now?" I asked in a tired voice.

"Nothing," she moaned. "Everything's fine. We're . . . friends again. She's forgiven me."

"What? What are you talking about? Forgiven you?"

She nodded, but kept her back to me, the covers tightly wrapped around her body. Something about her behavior triggered my darker suspicions. My heart began to beat quickly in anticipation when I put my hand on her shoulder and she jumped as if I had touched her with fingers of fire. "Samantha, what happened here while I was away?" I demanded. She simply cried harder. "Samantha?"

"I had to do it," she moaned. "They all made me. They all said I had to."

"Do what, Samantha? Samantha?" I shook her shoulder. "Do what?"

Suddenly she turned around and buried her face against my stomach while throwing her arms around my waist. Her body shook with sobs.

"I'm so ashamed," she cried.

"Ashamed of what? Samantha, you must tell me what Gisselle made you do. Tell me," I insisted, seizing her shoulders firmly. She sat back slowly, her eyes closed, and let her head fall back to the pillow. I realized she was naked under the blanket.

"She sent Kate in to tell me to come into her room. When I did, she asked me if I wanted to be part of the group again. I said yes, but she said . . . she said I had to do penance."

"Penance? What sort of penance?"

"She said that while she was away, I dreamt of being like her. I wanted to be her, and that was why I used her lipstick and her makeup and her perfume. She said I was so sexually frustrated, I even put on her panties, but I didn't," Samantha insisted. "Honest, I didn't."

"I believe you, Samantha. Then what happened?" Samantha closed her eyes and swallowed.

"Samantha?"

"I had to take off my clothes and get into the bed," she blurted.

I held my breath, knowing what sort of sordid things Gisselle was capable of making her do.

"Go on," I said in a breathy whisper.

"I'm so ashamed."

"What did she make you do, Samantha?"

"They all did," she cried. "They taunted and cheered until I gave in."

"Gave in to what?"

"I had to take a pillow and pretend it was . . . Jonathan Peck. They made me stroke it and kiss it and . . ."

"Oh no, Samantha." She shuddered with sobs.

I stroked her hair. "My sister is a sick person. I'm sorry. You shouldn't have listened to her."

"They all hated me," she cried in defense, "even the other girls in the dorm and the girls in our classes. No one would talk to me in the girls' room or in the lockers, and someone poured a bottle of ink over my social studies notebook today, blotting out all the pages." She cried harder.

"All right, Samantha. It's all right," I said. I rocked her until her sobbing subsided. Then I stood up. "My sister and I are going to have a little chat right now."

"NO!" Samantha said, seizing my hand. "Don't." Her eyes were wide with terror. "If you get her angry, she'll turn the girls against me again. Please," she begged. "Promise you won't say anything. She made me promise not to tell you what they made me do and she'll just accuse me of betraying her again."

"She would make you promise that because she knows I'll go right in there and heave her out the window," I said. Samantha bit down on her lip, the alarm filling her face. "All right, don't worry. I won't do anything, but Samantha, are you all right?"

"I'm okay," she said, wiping her face quickly. She forced a smile. "It wasn't so bad, and it's over. We're all friends again."

"With friends like that, you don't need enemies," I said. "My Grandmère Catherine used to say that even if we lived in a world without sickness and disease, without storms and hurricanes, droughts and pestilence, we would find a way to make the devil comfortable in our own hearts."

"What?" Samantha asked.

"Nothing. Are you moving back in with her?"

"No. She still wants to live alone," Samantha said. "Is it all right if I continue to room with you?"

"Of course. I'm just surprised. The second shoe hasn't dropped yet," I muttered, wondering what scheme Gisselle was designing to make life more unbearable for everyone, especially me, at Greenwood.

The remainder of the week passed quickly and without incident. I didn't know whether being alone in the dorm and being responsible for taking care of her own basic needs was what exhausted her, but every morning when Kate finally wheeled her to the breakfast table, Gisselle looked half drugged. She sat there with her eyelids drooping and nibbled on something, barely paying any attention to the chatter around the table. She was usually the first to interrupt or to ridicule something someone else said.

Then on Friday Vicki stopped me in the corridor after science class to tell me she had heard that Gisselle had fallen asleep in remedial reading. I imagined Gisselle was too stubborn to admit that caring for herself was draining her of whatever energy she possessed. Toward the end of the day, I stopped her in the corridor.

"What is it?" she snapped. Fatigue made her even more irritable than usual.

"You can't go on like this, Gisselle. You're dozing in class, dozing at lunch, moping in your chair. You need help. Either take Samantha back in with you or move back with me," I said.

The suggestion brought color to her face and perked her up.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" she replied in a voice loud enough to attract everyone nearby. "You want me to be dependent, to have to scream for help whenever I want to brush my hair or my teeth. Well, I don't need you or darling Samantha in order to get myself around this school. I don't need anyone," she added and whipped the wheels of her chair hard to push herself off. Even Kate was left standing with her mouth open.

"Well," I said, shrugging, "I'm glad she's trying to be independent. Let me know if she seems to be getting sick, though," I told Kate, who nodded and then ran after Gisselle. I went on to my art class.

That night Beau phoned. I had been waiting anxiously for his call all week.

"I thought I would sneak away tomorrow and come up to Baton Rouge to see you, but my father has restricted my use of the car since Daphne had a talk with him and my mother. She told them about my taking you up to the institution."

"And that made them that angry?"

"She said we disturbed Jean so much he has had to be given shock treatments."

"Oh no. I hope it's a lie," I cried.

"My father was furious, and then when she told them I was up in your room during the wake . . . I think she exaggerated what we were doing too."

"How could she be so horrible?"

"Maybe she takes lessons," Beau jested. "Anyway, I expect my restriction will be lifted at holiday time. It's only another ten days, right?"

"Yes, but will your parents permit you to have anything whatsoever to do with me now?" I wondered aloud.

"We'll manage. There's no way anyone can keep me from seeing you when you're here," he promised.

He asked me about school, and I told him about Gisselle and how she was making everyone's life as miserable as she could.

"You really have your hands full. It's not fair."

"I made promises to my father," I said. "I have to try."

"I overheard my father talking to my mother last night about Daphne," Beau said. "She and Bruce Bristow have made some drastic moves, foreclosing on some businesses and tenants to seize their property. My father said Pierre would never have been so cruel, even though it made good business sense."

"I'm sure she's enjoying it. She has ice water running through her veins," I told him. Beau laughed and described again how much he missed me, how much he loved me, and how much he looked forward to our being together. I could almost feel his lips on mine when he threw me a kiss through the phone.

When I returned to the quad, I half expected that Gisselle would be waiting for me in the lounge to interrogate me about the call, but she had the door to her room shut tight. Kate informed me that Gisselle had decided to go to sleep early. I thought about checking on her and reached for the doorknob, only to find she had locked the door. Surprised, I knocked gently.

"Gisselle?"

She didn't reply. Either she was already asleep or she was pretending to be.

"Are you all right?"

I waited, but there was no response. If that was the way she wanted it, I thought, that was the way it would be. I went to my own room to read and to write a letter to Paul before going to sleep. Miss Stevens and I had made a date to paint at the lake after breakfast the next day, and I was finally closing my eyes and looking forward to something again.

Saturday morning was beautiful. The December sky was more of a crystalline blue, even the clouds looking like glazed alabaster. Miss Stevens was already at the lakeside, setting up our easels. I saw she had spread out a blanket as well and had brought a picnic basket along. The lake itself had a silvery blue sheen. Although the sun was bright, the air felt cool and invigorating. Miss Stevens saw me approaching and waved.

"What a challenge it's going to be to mix paints to duplicate this color," she said, looking out over the water. "How are you?"

"Fine and eager," I said, and we began. Once we got started, we both lost ourselves for a while in our work, the process itself absorbing us, seizing our minds. Often, would imagine myself to be one of the animals I painted in my settings, seeing the world from the eyes of a tern or a pelican, or even an alligator.

We both had our concentration broken by the sound of hammering and looked at the boathouse to see Buck Dardar pounding on a lawn-mower blade. He paused as if he could feel our gazes and looked our way for a moment before starting again.

Miss Stevens laughed. "For a while there I forgot where I was."

"Me too."

"Want something cold to drink? I've got iced tea or apple juice."

"Iced tea will be fine," I replied. "Thanks."

She asked me how Gisselle was coping since Daddy's death and our return, and I described her behavior. She listened keenly and nodded thoughtfully.

"Let her alone for a while," she advised. "She needs to succeed at being independent. That will make her stronger, happier. I'm sure she knows you're there if and when she needs you," she added.

I felt better about it, and then we painted some more before stopping to enjoy the picnic lunch she had prepared. As we sat on the blanket and ate and talked, other students walked by, some waving, some gazing curiously. I saw many of my teachers and even spotted Mrs. Ironwood watching us for a few moments before crossing the campus.

"Louis was right about this lake," I said when we resumed our work. "It does have a magic to it. It seems to change its nature, its color, and even its shape as the day moves on."

"I love painting scenes with water in them. One of these days, I'm going to take a trip to the bayou. Maybe you'll come along as my swamp guide," she suggested.

"Oh, there's nothing I'd love better," I said. She smiled warmly at me, and I felt as if I did have a big sister. It turned out to be one of the best days I had had at Greenwood.

That night there was a pajama party at our dorm. Girls from the other dorms came over to listen to music, eat popcorn, and dance in the lounge. Afterward, they slept over, some sharing beds, some sleeping on blankets on the floors. During the night tricks were played. Some of the girls from the B quad downstairs went upstairs and knocked on a door. When the girls opened it, they threw pails of cold water over them and ran. Naturally, the girls upstairs had to respond. Somehow they had captured a couple of bullfrogs and cast them into the B quad lounge, sending the girls screaming through the corridors. Mrs. Penny was beside herself running from one section of the dorm to the other.

To my surprise, Gisselle found all this immature and stupid, and rather than participating and devising things for her little group to do, she retreated again to the confines of her room, locking the door behind her. I began to wonder if she wasn't falling into a deep depression and if that wasn't partly responsible for her fatigue every morning.

On Sunday I caught up on all my homework, studied for my English and math tests with Vicki, did my chores at dinner, and then dressed to go up to visit Louis. I told him not to bother Buck. I'd rather walk to the mansion. It was that nice a night, with a sky just blazing with stars, the Big and Small Dippers rarely as clearly delineated. I felt a pair of eyes on me as I walked and looked up and to my right to see an owl. I imagined that a human being walking alone at night through his domain was more of a curiosity to him than he was to me. It made me recall my life in the bayou and the feeling I used to have that animals there had grown accustomed to me.

The deer had no fear about drawing closer. Bullfrogs practically hopped over my feet; ducks and geese flew so low over my head, I felt the breeze from their wings stir the strands of my hair. I was part of the world in which I lived. Maybe the owl here sensed I was a kindred spirit. He didn't hoot; he didn't fly away. He just lifted his wings gently, as if in greeting, and remained like a statue on a branch, watching.

The large plantation house loomed ahead of me, lights burning brightly on the galeries, even though many of the windows were dark. As I drew closer, I could hear the melodious tones of Louis's piano. I rapped on the door with the large brass ball knocker and waited. A few moments later Otis appeared. He wore a troubled look when he set eyes on me, but he bowed and stepped back.

"Hello, Otis," I said cheerfully. His eyes shifted to the right to be sure Mrs. Clairborne wasn't watching from a doorway before he returned my greeting.

"Good evening, mademoiselle. Monsieur Louis is waiting for you in the music studio. Right this way," he said, and began to lead me through the long corridor quickly, but I looked to my left just in time to see a door closing and thought I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Clairborne. Otis brought me to the studio doorway before nodding and retreating. I entered and watched Louis play for a few moments before he realized I had arrived. He wore a dark blue velvet sports coat with a white silk shirt and a pair of blue slacks. With his hair neatly brushed, he looked handsome. When he turned toward the door, he stopped instantly and sprung from his stool. I immediately noticed something different about the way he looked in my direction and the confidence with which he now walked.

"Ruby!" He stepped quickly across the room to take my hand. "I can see you silhouetted clearly," he declared. "It's so exciting, even to view the world in grays and whites. It's so wonderful not to worry about bumping into anything. What's more, occasionally I get a flash of color." He reached up to touch my hair. "Maybe I'll see your beautiful hair before the evening comes to an end. I'll try. I'll think about it and I'll try. If I concentrate hard enough . . .

"Oh," he said, stepping back a bit, "here I am going on and on about myself and not even asking you how you are."

"I'm fine, Louis."

"You can't be fine," he insisted. "You've been through a terrible time, a terrible time. Come, sit on the settee and tell me everything, anything," he said, still holding my hand and leading me toward the sofa. I sat down and he sat beside me.

There was a new and brighter radiance in his face. It was as if with every particle of light that pierced the dark curtain that had fallen over his eyes, he came back to life, drew closer and closer to a world of hope and joy, returning to a place where he could smile and laugh, sing and talk and find it possible to love again.

"I don't mind your being selfish, Louis, and talking about your progress. I'd rather not talk about the tragedy and what I've just been through. It's still too fresh and painful."

"Of course," he said. "I only meant to be a sympathetic listener." He smiled. "Someone on whose shoulder you could cry. After all, I cried on yours, didn't I?"

"Thank you. It's nice of you to offer, especially in light of your own problems."

"We're better off not worrying about ourselves, and to do that, we have to worry about others," he said. "Oh, don't I sound like some wise old man. I'm sorry, but I've had a lot of time to sit and meditate these past few years. Anyway," he said, pausing to sit up straight, "I've decided to give in and go to the clinic in Switzerland next month. The doctors have promised me that I would stay there only a short time, but in the interim, I could attend the music conservatory and continue with my music."

"Oh Louis, how wonderful!"

"Now," he said, taking my hand into his and softening his voice, "I have asked my doctor why my eyes have suddenly come alive again and he assures me it's because I have found someone I could trust." He smiled. "My doctor is really more what you-would call a psychiatrist," he said quickly. "The way he describes my condition is that my mind dropped a black curtain over my eyes and kept it there all this time. He said I wouldn't let myself get better because I was afraid of seeing again. I felt safer locked in my own world of darkness, permitting my feelings to escape only through my fingers and into the piano keys.

"When I described you and the way I felt about you, he agreed with me that you have been a major part of the reason why I am regaining my sight. As long as I have you nearby . . . as long as I can depend on you to spend time with me . . ."

"Oh Louis, I can't bear to have so much responsibility." He turned red.

"I just knew you would say something like that. You're too sweet and unselfish. Don't you worry. The responsibility is all mine. Of course," he added, sotto voce, "my grandmother is not at all pleased with all this. She was so angry she wanted to employ another doctor. She had my cousin over here to speak to me to try to convince me I felt the way I felt because I am so vulnerable. But I told them . . . I told them how it was impossible for you to be the sort of girl they were describing: someone who connives and takes advantage.

"And then I told them . . ." He paused, his face becoming firm. "No, I didn't tell them—I demanded—that you be permitted to visit me whenever you can before I go off to the clinic. In fact, I made it very clear that I would not go if I didn't see you as often as I wanted, and . . . of course, as often as you wanted to see me.

"But you do want to see me, don't you?" he asked. His tone sounded more like a pleading.

"Louis, I don't mind coming up here whenever I can, but . . ."

"Oh, wonderful. Then it's settled," he declared. "I'll tell you what I will do: I will continue to write an entire symphony. I'll work all this month, and it will be dedicated to you."

"Louis," I said, my eyes tearing, "I must tell you . . . ″

"No," he said, "I've already decided. In fact, I have some of it already written. That's what I was playing when you arrived. Will you listen to it?"

"Of course, Louis, but . . ."

He got up and went to the piano before I could say another word and began playing.

My heart was troubled. Somehow I had gotten myself into Louis's world so deeply, it seemed impossible to climb out without hurting him terribly. Perhaps after he went off to the clinic and when his eyesight returned fully, I could get him to understand that I was involved with someone else romantically. At that time he could endure the disappointment and go on, I thought. Until then, I could do nothing but listen to his beautiful music and encourage him to continue with his efforts to regain his sight.

His symphony was beautiful. His melodies rose and fell with such grace that I felt swept away. I relaxed with my eyes closed and let his composition take me back through time until I saw myself as a little girl again, running over the grass, Grandmère Catherine's laughter trailing behind me as I squealed with delight at the birds that swooped over the water and the bream that jumped in the ponds.

"Well," Louis said when he finished playing, "that's all I have written so far. How's it coming?"

"It's beautiful, Louis. And it's very special. You will become a famous composer, I'm sure."

He laughed again.

"Come," he said. "I asked Otis to have some Cajun coffee and some beignets shipped up from the Cafe du Monde in New Orleans waiting for us in the glass-enclosed patio. You can tell me all about your twin sister and the terrible things she's been doing," he added. He held out his arm for me to pass my arm under and then we left the music studio. I looked back once as we walked through the corridor. In the shadows behind us, I was sure I saw Mrs. Clairborne standing and staring. Even at this distance, I felt her displeasure.

But it wasn't until the next morning at school that I was to discover how determined she and her niece, Mrs. Ironwood, were to get me out of Louis's life.