At the bottom of the icon appeared a third hand. The severed hand of Saint John Damascene. As the legend went, it had been miraculously reattached to his arm by the Virgin. Now at her feet, a testament to her healing powers.
Amanda held the icon in silence for perhaps five minutes, intent as when she was deeply engaged in giving a lesson to a difficult student or preparing for an important school board speech. She finally spoke.
I like this, she said. I never really understood your passion for religious iconography, but this is different. This one moves me in a way I can’t explain.
Then she spoke. I want this, she said. Her voice was soft but firm. Will you give it to me?
Mark, who had been lolling on the steps, sat up straight. I could only look. There was a long silence before a car horn sounded on Fullerton, causing both Mark and me to jump. Amanda didn’t move.
Well? she said. I won’t ask if I can buy it, because I know I can’t afford it. So I think you will give it to me. Yes. I think so.
I stood up, walked over to where she was sitting on the porch swing, and took the icon from her hands. It took some effort, she was holding on so tightly.
Why now? Why this? I asked. You’ve never asked for anything before. Never.
And you’ve always been so generous to me, she said. Bringing me gifts from your travels. Lovely things. The most beautiful things I own in the world come from you. But I hope you won’t mind me saying that they meant nothing. Mean nothing. Such things never touched me. But this. This is something else.
Mark surprised both of us by clearing his throat and speaking. But Mom loves this. It’s not just a souvenir to her. He opened his mouth as if to say more, then blushed and closed it.
I understand that, Amanda said. Which is one of the reasons I want it so much. Not the only reason. But a main one.
No, I said. My voice came out stronger and louder than I had meant it to. This is mine. Anything else, you know I’d be happy to give you whatever you wanted. Money has never been an object.
No, it wouldn’t be, she said, and there was a warning in her voice. Mark was watching everything intently.
No, I said again. I rewrapped my icon and placed it back in its box. No and no and no. This time, you’ve gone too far.
I left her porch, and it was many weeks before I felt calm enough to speak to her again. Many lonely weeks. Then, she knocked on my door one Friday noon. Our standing appointment. And I got my coat and joined her. It was done. She had made a request—something I imagined was a humbling experience—and had been refused. There was nothing more to say.
Yet there was an odd coda to all this. Mark went off to Northwestern in the fall, as planned. Since his dorm was less than twenty minutes away, it was not as momentous a leave-taking as Fiona’s was to California four years later.
But it was traumatic for him. During the days before he left he was extraordinarily demanding. I need a study pillow. My roommate doesn’t have a TV, we need to buy one. And even, Bake me some cookies.
It was also a particularly busy time at work, and I gave most of these demands short shrift. Still, it was more draining than I had anticipated. It wasn’t until the morning after we’d dropped him off in Evanston, leaving him standing in front of his dorm, that I realized my icon was gone. A blank spot in its position of honor in the front hallway.
I immediately called Mark, but there was no answer. I left an urgent message on his machine, and paced from room to room, to the phone to call James, back to the front window, to the phone to try Mark again.
I didn’t for a minute think it could be anyone else. I had found Mark standing in front of it on more than one occasion, a bemused look on his face, his hand outstretched as if to caress the Madonna’s face. When the doorbell rang, I jumped. Amanda stood there, cradling the icon.
Look at what was on my doorstep yesterday morning, she said, and held it out.
I took it. My hands were shaking. I found I was unable to speak.
Yesterday morning? I managed to ask, finally. What took you so long to come around?
Amanda didn’t say anything. She merely smiled. I eventually answered myself.
Because you weren’t sure you were going to return it, I said.
Amanda seemed to be considering what to say.
I was touched by Mark’s gesture, she said.
And you coveted it. Badly. As badly as I had.
Yes, I did. And I asked you to give it to me. And you said no.
I said no. And I meant no, I said. I held out my hand. She handed over the icon.
I suppose I will pay in some way for that refusal, I said.
Yes, you will pay. Perhaps not in any way you can guess. But eventually, such things have repercussions, Amanda said.
Then she turned and left. My best friend. My adversary. An enigma at the best of times. Now gone, leaving me utterly bereft.
Jennifer you are having a bad day. Jennifer you have had a bad week. Jennifer this is the worst yet, ten days and counting. Dr. Tsien increased your galantamine. He increased the Seroquel. He increased the Zoloft.
When Mark calls, I lie, I say you are well, you are napping. Or I don’t answer the phone at all when I recognize his number on caller ID. Fiona knows, she is here every day. What a good daughter. How lucky you are. I will pray for you, I will say the Rosary. I will pray to Saint Daphne, patron saint of the mentally ill. Or to Saint Anthony, my favorite, the patron of lost things.
What has been lost? Your poor, poor mind. Your life.
Fiona and I go out to lunch. Chinese. My fortune: It doesn’t take a good memory to make good memories. You couldn’t make this shit up, says Fiona.
Amanda has always called me shameless. She means it as a compliment. Shame-less. Without shame. I used to lie to the priests when saying confession because I could never think of things I should be asking forgiveness for. People who take this to an extreme are called sociopaths, Amanda tells me. You have certain tendencies. You should watch them.
Bless me Father for I have sinned.
It has been forty-six years since my last confession.
My how time flies.
This always happens. I wake early, hoping to get some work done before the children start clamoring for their breakfast, but someone is up even earlier. That blond woman. Damn. Only this time she’s not alone. Another woman is with her, drinking coffee out of my favorite cup. Large bones. Short light brown hair, tucked behind her ears. Wearing a denim jacket on top of faded jeans, cowboy boots.
Jennifer! What have you done . . . ?
I beg your pardon? I ask, but the blond woman has already left the room. She returns immediately with a blue towel and places it around my shoulders. She puts her arm around mine, turns me around, takes me away from the kitchen.
I notice that I am oddly cold, that rivulets of water are dripping from my nightgown onto the wood floors, that I can see my wet footprints on the polished oak. The blond woman talks at me as she leads me upstairs.
What a morning to pull this stunt. What timing. Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I write it down in your notebook? Didn’t we talk about it last night? I swear, sometimes I feel like I’m the one going nuts in this house.
She takes off my wet things, towels me down, dresses me in a blue skirt and a blue-and-red striped sweater, talking the whole time.
Now, behave. Just answer the questions. Keep calm. No acting up. This is just an informal visit. Very friendly. There’s no need to worry. No need to bother Fiona or that lawyer she’s got. It’s not that kind of thing, not at all. Just a few questions and off she’ll go.
The world is subdued today. Like I am behind a veil, looking out. The colors pastel and faded, my senses dulled. My vision slightly obscured by the veil. It’s not unpleasant. But it can be dangerous. You think that you are hidden from them, behind your veil, and suddenly you realize that you’ve been visible the whole time. Exposed.
It’s not that you did anything you are ashamed of. Or that you would chang
e what you did. It’s just the thought of what you might have said or done. The breathtaking risk you’ve just taken. Now I am sitting at the kitchen table, facing the strange woman. My jaw feels wired shut. I have no energy to open it. I can barely keep my eyes open. Sleep. Sleep.
I remember turning on the shower. I remember soaping up my arms and my legs. I remember thinking that my nightdress was getting in the way. But I didn’t put it all together. Too slow. Too uncaring.
The woman is asking me questions. I’m finding it hard to pay attention.
Where were you again the week of February sixteen?
Here. I’m always here.
On February fifteen and February sixteen in particular? You were here? You didn’t leave the house?
I exert myself, reach out, and pick up my notebook. I leaf through the pages. February 13. February 14. February 18.
The blond woman interrupts.
We try to document as many of her days as possible. She likes to read over them when she’s feeling a bit down, when she’s having a bad time of it. But I guess we missed that day. Still, if anything out of the ordinary had happened, I would have made a point of writing it down. Her daughter insists upon it.
The brown-haired woman reaches out and takes the book from me. She carefully turns the pages.
I see she wandered from home several times in January.
Yes, she does that occasionally. I watch her, but sometimes she does get away.
Did that happen in mid-February?
No, not in February. Honestly, it’s a very rare occurrence.
She was seen by Helen Tighe, from Twenty-one Fifty-six, letting herself into Amanda O’Toole’s home on February fifteen. Was that one of those rare times?
We’ve been over and over that. If it happened, I didn’t know about it. She wasn’t missing for any extended length of time. Sometimes I do laundry in the basement. Make some soup. If she went over to Amanda’s, she was back before I noticed.
Doesn’t that worry you?
It does, it does. Honestly, I do my best. We’ve had locks installed on all the outside doors, but that upsets her and does more harm than good. It’s best to leave them unlocked and watch her carefully. Usually a neighbor notices. It’s that kind of street. Everyone looks out for everyone else. We always get her back. We had a bracelet made, but she won’t wear it.
What about at night?
Oh, nights are no problem. I’ve been told there are cases where you have to strap them in at night or you wouldn’t know what they’d get up to. Not her. She goes down quietly at nine and doesn’t make a peep until six in the morning. You could set a clock by her.
The brown-haired woman isn’t listening. She is frowning. She holds the book closer, places her index finger in between two of the pages, draws it back, and looks at me.
A page has been removed, she says. And not torn out. Sliced out. With a razor or something like that. She looks at me, moves her chair closer to the blond woman, and speaks more softly. She was a doctor, right? A surgeon?
That’s right.
Does she still have any of her equipment? Her scalpels?
I wouldn’t think so. Don’t those belong to the hospital? I’ve never seen anything like that around here. I would have, too. There isn’t anything about this house I don’t know. I have to keep an eye on things. Otherwise, you don’t know what she’ll do.
The blond woman pauses for a breath.
Last week, she threw all her jewelry in the trash. We only caught it by accident—her daughter found a diamond pendant lying outside in the snow next to the garbage. We dug down and found her wedding ring. Then some family keepsakes—some quite valuable, others just sentimental. We retrieved it all, and at that point we went through everything and I mean everything. Definitely no knives. Her daughter took a couple of trinkets that she wanted home with her—a special necklace that belonged to her mother and her father’s college ring—then locked everything away in the safe-deposit box.
I make a noise. It’s not until both women look at me that I understand it is laughter.
I stand up. I go into the living room. I go to the piano. To the bench. I open it up. It’s full of what looks like junk. It is James’s and my don’t-but-can’t place. As in I don’t-know-what-to-do-with-it-but-can’t-throw-it-away-yet. Receipts for purchases we might want to return someday. Knobs that fell off things. Unmatched socks.
I dig down. Past old prescription reading glasses, batteries that may or may not have charges, New Yorker magazines. Until I hit bottom. And pull it out, loosely wrapped in a linen napkin.
My special scalpel handle. Shiny. Alluring. Begging to be used. My name engraved on it, along with the date I finished my surgical residency. What do they say about me at the hospital? Get a second opinion. She’s the best there is, but she’s a hammer looking for a nail. She’ll operate on a torn cuticle if you let her.
Some plastic packages fall out of the napkin. Each one holding a glinting sharp blade, ready to be inserted into my scalpel handle. Ready to slice. Both women are standing nearby, watching me closely. The blond one closes her eyes. The brown-haired one reaches out her hand. I’ll have to take those, ma’am, she says. And I’m afraid you’ll have to come with me.
We are in a car. I am sitting in the back, behind a driver with short brown hair. I cannot tell if it is a man or a woman. The hands on the wheel are strong, coarse even. Androgynous.
Magdalena is next to me. She is on her phone. Speaking urgently to one person, then hanging up, dialing another. It is cold. Snow is in the air. Yet the trees are budding. I roll down the window to feel the wind in my face. A typical Chicago spring.
I like being able to use that word, typical. Usually is another good one. And most of the time. Anything that’s relative. Any way of comparing future events to past occurrences.
We are in a room. Empty except for a table and one chair—the chair I am sitting in. There is no one in the room I know. Four men. No Magdalena. I am read something from a piece of paper. I am asked if I understand. With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to me?
I am firm. No. I want my lawyer. There is a large mirror taking up an entire wall. Otherwise, a barren, forsaken place. A place to keep one’s counsel.
Your lawyer is coming.
Then I will wait.
My scalpel handle and the blades on the table in a plastic baggie. The men talk quietly among themselves, but no one can keep their eyes off the items and me.
I amuse myself by thinking how, in the movies, this room would be filled with cigarette smoke. Unshaved haggard men drinking cold weak coffee out of Styrofoam cups. Yet these men are close shaven, well dressed, dapper even. Two are drinking foamy drinks out of paper cups. One is holding an energy drink, the other a plastic water bottle. No one offers me anything.
A bustle at the door, and in sweep three women. Three tall striking women. Amazons! My daughter or perhaps my niece; the nice woman who helps me; and another one I may have seen before.
This last one, the one I am most uncertain about, holds out her hand, grips mine hard, and smiles. Nice to see you again, she says. Although I wish it were under better circumstances. She searches my face, smiles again, and says, Joan Connor. Your lawyer. To whom you are paying very big bucks indeed.
My daughter/niece comes straight over and puts her arm around my shoulders. It’s okay, Mom, she says. They can’t do anything to you. This is America. They still have to have some kind of proof.
The third woman, the blond one, just stands in the back, near the door. She is sweating profusely. Her color is curiously high. I reach into my jacket pocket for my stethoscope. Then I remember.
I am retired. I have Alzheimer’s. I am in a police station because of my blades. My mind won’t take me beyond these facts. My diseased mind. Yet I have never felt more alert. I am ready for anything. I smile at my daughter/niece, who does not smile back.
The lawyer turns to the men. Whereas before they had been standing casually apart from
one another, now they are in a line, their shoulders nearly touching, their beverages on the table, forgotten. Men on guard. Against the enemy.
Are you charging Dr. White?
We just have a few questions. She refused to talk without you.
As is her right.
As we explained to her. Can we proceed now?
My lawyer nods. Please, a few more chairs.
The men break rank, two leave the room and come back with four more folding metal chairs, another one returns with two cups of water. He silently offers one to me, one to the young woman.
The lawyer sits down to my right, my daughter/niece to my left. She keeps her arm around my shoulders. The blond woman remains standing near the door, waves off a man when he gestures to an empty chair.
Where were you on February sixteen and seventeen?
I don’t remember.
My lawyer interrupts.
She has been asked this time and time again. She has answered to the best of her ability. As you are aware, Dr. White has dementia. She will not be able to answer many of your questions.
Understood. When was the last time you used your scalpel?
I don’t know. Some time ago.
You were an orthopedic surgeon, right?
That is correct. One of the best.
The man allows himself a smile.
And you specialized in hands?
Hand surgery, yes.
What do you make of these? He handed me some photographs. I study them.
An adult hand. Female. Medium-sized. The thumb is the only remaining digit. The others disarticulated at the joints between the metacarpal and proximal phalanges.
How would you characterize the cuts?
Clean. But not cauterized. Judging from the amount of coagulated blood, not performed according to protocol. But by all appearances, expertly executed.
What kind of knife would you say has been used?
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