about her room. It was as though she had been given shock treatment and had come crashing back into reality.
"What are you looking for, Jillian? Why do you sit at the window all day and stare out at the maze?"
She spun around. Two small bright tears shone in the corners of her cornflower-blue eyes, eyes so much like my own they made me shudder.
"Everyone hates me," she said. "Everyone's turned against me, blaming me for all the bad things." She brought her lace handkerchief to her face and delicately touched her eyes. This was the Jillian I knew, acting, performing, playing her emotions like a musician would play an instrument. Her song was "Pity me, poor me. Poor Jillian."
I sighed. "Why does everyone hate you, Jillian? What have you done?" I asked in a tired voice.
"They said I chased your mother from this house. The servants used to whisper. Oh, I knew what they said. I used to hear them. They said I was too cold to Tony, living and sleeping apart from him, not permitting him to make love to me as often as he would have liked just so I could protect my youth and beauty. I wouldn't become worn and tired just to satisfy a man's hunger for sexual satisfaction, his need to prove his masculinity."
"Why should the servants have cared?" I asked, thinking that it might be best to humor her. She smiled, but so coldly I felt the chill overtake me.
"Why do you think? They adored Tony. They still do. They think he's some sort of God walking around here. He can't be blamed for anything; nothing's his fault. When your mother threw herself at him and he didn't reject her, they thought it was because of the way I treated him. Don't you see? Everything's my fault. Everything. Even Troy's death."
"Troy's death!" I stepped closer to her.
"Yes, Troy's death. For what horse did he choose to ride? As though it were my fault that he chose it."
"Abdulla Bar," I said, repeating lines
memorized ages ago.
"Abdulla Bar." She nodded. "My horse, the horse no one but I could ride. And so, it was my fault. Don't you see? My fault," she repeated, waving her handkerchief at me and turning back to the window. "And now they're all coming back to haunt me, to punish me."
"Jillian," I said, realizing now what she meant.
"That's silly; that's foolish. Ghosts and spirits don't exist, they're merely the creations of uneducated and superstitious minds. People like Rye Whiskey rattle or such silly stories to entertain themselves. There's nothing out there, nothing but reality, hard and true. Please," I said, going to her and taking her hand into mine. She looked at me and I knelt beside her and looked into those troubled blue eyes, willing with all my might that she would hear and see me and understand, willing with all my might that I could be significant in her eyes, that for once I could be her granddaughter and we could share our deepest feelings with each other. "Please. Don't torment yourself. You're suffering enough as it is."
Suddenly she smiled and with her free hand she stroked my hair. It was the first time she had ever really touched me with any sign of affection.
"Thank you, Heaven. Thank you for caring. But," she said, turning away, "it's too late, too late."
Jillian," I repeated. "Grandmother." She didn't turn back. She was locked in a gaze now, locked in her maddening stare. I stood up and looked out the window, too, down at the maze.
A mist had blown in from the ocean. It looked as though the clouds had fallen from the sky to swallow up the secret and dark passageways. The sky was becoming overcast quickly. We were soon to have a summer thunderstorm. The darkness seemed appropriate.
I stood there by the window with my mentally tormented maternal grandmother and looked out at a continually evolving world below as if I, too, expected the spirits she thought were haunting her to come forth. It wasn 't until Martha came to the door to see what had transpired that I realized how long I had been standing there, staring. I had been holding Jillian's hand
"What are you looking for, Jillian? Why do you sit at the window all day and stare out at the maze?"
She spun around. Two small bright tears shone in the corners of her cornflower-blue eyes, eyes so much like my own they made me shudder.
"Everyone hates me," she said. "Everyone's turned against me, blaming me for all the bad things." She brought her lace handkerchief to her face and delicately touched her eyes. This was the Jillian I knew, acting, performing, playing her emotions like a musician would play an instrument. Her song was "Pity me, poor me. Poor Jillian."
I sighed. "Why does everyone hate you, Jillian? What have you done?" I asked in a tired voice.
"They said I chased your mother from this house. The servants used to whisper. Oh, I knew what they said. I used to hear them. They said I was too cold to Tony, living and sleeping apart from him, not permitting him to make love to me as often as he would have liked just so I could protect my youth and beauty. I wouldn't become worn and tired just to satisfy a man's hunger for sexual satisfaction, his need to prove his masculinity."
"Why should the servants have cared?" I asked, thinking that it might be best to humor her. She smiled, but so coldly I felt the chill overtake me.
"Why do you think? They adored Tony. They still do. They think he's some sort of God walking around here. He can't be blamed for anything; nothing's his fault. When your mother threw herself at him and he didn't reject her, they thought it was because of the way I treated him. Don't you see? Everything's my fault. Everything. Even Troy's death."
"Troy's death!" I stepped closer to her.
"Yes, Troy's death. For what horse did he choose to ride? As though it were my fault that he chose it."
"Abdulla Bar," I said, repeating lines
memorized ages ago.
"Abdulla Bar." She nodded. "My horse, the horse no one but I could ride. And so, it was my fault. Don't you see? My fault," she repeated, waving her handkerchief at me and turning back to the window. "And now they're all coming back to haunt me, to punish me."
"Jillian," I said, realizing now what she meant.
"That's silly; that's foolish. Ghosts and spirits don't exist, they're merely the creations of uneducated and superstitious minds. People like Rye Whiskey rattle or such silly stories to entertain themselves. There's nothing out there, nothing but reality, hard and true. Please," I said, going to her and taking her hand into mine. She looked at me and I knelt beside her and looked into those troubled blue eyes, willing with all my might that she would hear and see me and understand, willing with all my might that I could be significant in her eyes, that for once I could be her granddaughter and we could share our deepest feelings with each other. "Please. Don't torment yourself. You're suffering enough as it is."
Suddenly she smiled and with her free hand she stroked my hair. It was the first time she had ever really touched me with any sign of affection.
"Thank you, Heaven. Thank you for caring. But," she said, turning away, "it's too late, too late."
Jillian," I repeated. "Grandmother." She didn't turn back. She was locked in a gaze now, locked in her maddening stare. I stood up and looked out the window, too, down at the maze.
A mist had blown in from the ocean. It looked as though the clouds had fallen from the sky to swallow up the secret and dark passageways. The sky was becoming overcast quickly. We were soon to have a summer thunderstorm. The darkness seemed appropriate.
I stood there by the window with my mentally tormented maternal grandmother and looked out at a continually evolving world below as if I, too, expected the spirits she thought were haunting her to come forth. It wasn 't until Martha came to the door to see what had transpired that I realized how long I had been standing there, staring. I had been holding Jillian's hand
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