Turn of Mind

by Alice LaPlante

  I don’t know. I wasn’t around then. Perhaps. You’re not one to display much.

  I continue holding her hand, stroking the fingers with my own. The things that matter. The truths we hold on to until the end. These are things that make life as we know it possible, I used to say in my lectures, pointing to each phalange in turn. Treat them with the utmost reverence. Without them, we are nothing. Without them, we are hardly human.

  The beautiful one would leave by the back door as James came in the front. Duplicity. Making rounds with him and needing to be stern. He was so young. Reprimanding him for poorly executed sutures. But we saw the patient’s symptoms and functions improve after I reconstructed the traumatized joint, he argued once, almost whining. Not attractive in that context. No.

  The sullenness of the inexperienced, sulk of the injured. Why do you treat me this way? he would ask.

  Because I cannot show favoritism.

  Because people would notice?

  Because it compromises my reputation and the reputation of this hospital.

  If I’m so substandard, why put up with me?

  Because you are not substandard. Because you are beautiful.

  It did not last long. How could it? And people talked. But I would not have given up a millisecond of it. Still, the loss. To lose and to grieve and to be unable to confide that grief. It is a lonely place to reside.

  I stretch out my arm and feel nothing but bedclothes. The clock tells me it is 1:13 am, and James is still not home. The fact that I know where he is does not alleviate worry. It’s a dangerous world, and the hours between 1 am and 3 am are the most dangerous ones.

  Not just outside, in the city streets, but here, inside. Sometimes I get out of bed to go to the bathroom and relieve myself or to check the windows and doors, and I hear breathing. Rough and rasping. When there shouldn’t be anyone else in the house. Not the children, they are long gone. Not James, he has not come in from his wanderings.

  I seek the source of the noise, and it comes from one of the spare bedrooms. The door is open. I see a shape in the bed, large and bulky. Man or woman? Human or homunculus? At this hour, in these confused half-awake times, anything is possible.

  I breathe deeply to control the terror, close the door, and back away. I make it to the steps, run downstairs, nearly falling in my haste. I look for a safe place. The only room with a door is the bathroom. I lock myself in, sit down on the toilet, and try to calm myself. To have someone to clutch, to have my hand patted and be told, It’s just a dream. Or just a movie. For I cannot tell the difference anymore. But no one is here.

  Magdalena is out and about, leaving me alone in this house with an unknown thing. I wish suddenly for a dog, a bird, a fish, anything with a heartbeat. I adore cats, but we never got one, because I hated the thought of keeping one trapped indoors when its instinct would be to roam. The risks of letting one out in Chicago were too great.

  Did it bother me that first time James didn’t come home? The night of his original sin? Briefly. And then I found out the facts, and all the pain disappeared, replaced by anger.

  Not anger toward him, or at least nothing more than a slight flare-up that quickly burned itself out. No, anger directed inward. I never took myself for a dupe. I valued myself so highly that I assumed others did, too, especially those closest to me. James. The children, even during the horrors of the teenage years. Amanda, of course. I told no one but Amanda about James, and she disappointed me with the banality of her response.

  There’s nothing worse than betrayal, she had said. And, When trust is gone, so is respect.

  Actually, I told her, there are a lot of things worse than betrayal. And respect always precedes trust to the door.

  What’s worse than betrayal?

  Losing your sight. Losing the use of your arms. Just about any physical affliction or deformity.

  Illness.

  Yes.

  If you’ve got your health, you’ve got everything. She made a face as she recited the platitude.

  Pretty much.

  Well, if that isn’t a self-serving attitude for a physician to have, I don’t know what is. No wonder they call you the hammer.

  There are a lot of bona fide nails out there.

  How far would you take this theory?

  What theory?

  That physical suffering trumps psychological, emotional, or spiritual pain?

  Well, clearly they are all interrelated! I’d take it to the point that I always have, as a physician: When patients come to me, I do everything in my power to heal them or, if that isn’t possible, to minimize the impact on their ability to live their lives. Clearly, a physical trauma can have severe emotional and psychological effects that must be considered when making a prognosis.

  And spiritual effects?

  That one puzzles me. How can losing the use of a hand lead to a spiritual crisis? Medieval doctors, of course, believed that things worked the other way around: Spiritual flaws lead to physical illnesses. Lechery led to leprosy, for example. But other than that . . . ?

  It can cause someone to doubt their God. Their sense of how the universe works. Their sense of right and wrong. But let me reverse the question. What would cause a spiritual crisis for you? What would shake your belief in your universe?

  Well, clearly James having a fling is not going to do it! I know most people wouldn’t understand it, but our bond goes deeper than that. It will end. We will survive.

  Clearly. Then what?

  I thought about it. Some moments passed during which Amanda had time to pour herself another cup of coff ee.

  I guess, I said, the thing that scares me most is corruption.

  And you define corruption as . . . ?

  The act or process of tainting or contaminating something. To cause something that has integrity to become rotten.

  So when James cheats on you, that’s not corrupting your marriage?

  You can’t corrupt something like what James and I have. Although I am quite aware you question the integrity of our relationship.

  I was speaking slowly because I was in the process of working something out.

  Yes, indeed I do.

  It is a tragedy when something decent and good becomes tainted, I continued. That’s what is so horrifying about the Catholic Church protecting their priests. And corruption of the young is truly evil.

  And that’s why it’s not horrifying about James. Because neither of you is an innocent.

  Most definitely not.

  And what should be the punishment for corruption?

  She was playing with me, and I knew it. A dangerous game.

  As I said, pure corruption is pure evil. Something to be eradicated.

  Do you mean it deserves death?

  Yes, when it manifests itself in its purest form.

  Yet you’re against the death penalty. You’ve marched with me. Held candlelight vigils.

  Our courts aren’t the way to adjudicate good and evil.

  What is?

  Aren’t we getting pretty far from the point? We started out talking about betrayal and trust. And now you’re laughing at me.

  Never.

  Always.

  You’re right. Always.

  The memory fades out, like the end of a movie. I can no longer hear Amanda’s voice, but I can see certain words as though they had been written in the air. Respect. Innocence. Death. Clearer than my current reality. I sit in the dark and try not to listen to the house breathe.

  James was very angry last night. Someone had been in his sock drawer, taking all his clean pairs, he said. Someone had stolen his favorite comb. Someone had been using his razor. He sounded like Papa Bear. Who’s been eating my porridge? We both knew who, of course. Fiona is thirteen and in a danger zone.

  Need. I hate the word. I hate the very idea. Certain needs are unavoidable. I need oxygen. I need nutrients. I need to exercise this vessel, my body. I can accept all these things. But my hunger for companionship, that’s something else
altogether. The camaraderie of the OR, of the locker room, of sharing coffee with Amanda at her or my kitchen table.

  Since I cannot go out to get this companionship, it is brought to me. I don’t see money exchange hands anymore. That’s done behind my back, a sleight of hands, since I signed my financial power of attorney over to Fiona. We pretend now. We pretend that Magdalena is my friend. That she is here voluntarily, that I invited her into my home.

  So here we live, such an odd couple. The woman without a past. And the woman desperately trying to hold on to hers. Magdalena would like a clean slate, while I am mourning the involuntary wiping of mine. Each with needs the other can’t fulfill.

  How mortifying to be pregnant at forty. How mortifying not to suspect until a naive coworker congratulates you on your changing shape. But you haven’t had a regular period in your life. It took six years to conceive Mark. You’d given up. Almost agreed to get the dog for James. Never used birth control again. And now this.

  How will James react? Will he guess? How will you react when the shock has worn off ? You’re still staring at the white stick with the pink plus sign on the end of it. You’ve just peed onto a stick and changed your life forever.

  We are sitting in the living room, Mark, Fiona, and I. I vaguely recall some recent trouble between Mark and Fiona, some estrangement that had distressed Fiona considerably. Mark, as far as I could tell, had been unaffected. But there appears to have been some kind of reconciliation. Mark is lolling on the long leather-cushioned Stickley couch, and Fiona is sitting on the rocker smiling at him, remnants of little-sister adoration shining from her face.

  They really thought they had you this time, Mark says. But all the tests they ran were inconclusive. He is fiddling with his watch strap. He does not seem overly concerned. I catch a quick worried frown flash across Fiona’s face.

  What are you talking about? I ask. I am irritable. It is not a day when I feel especially maternal. I have paperwork to complete, and I am more tired than I like to admit. A cup of coffee and a retreat to my office is what I really want, not making small talk with these young people, however closely we are related.

  Never mind, Fiona says quickly, and so I don’t. Instead I look at my watch. I notice that Fiona notices, and the frown briefly reappears, but that Mark is now staring at my Calder, hanging in its usual place above the piano.

  Where is your father? I ask. He’ll be sorry he missed you. I begin to rise, it is my way of ending the session, which feels strangely like they are deliberately wasting my time, as if it’s a ruse to keep me in the room and away from my real work.

  I doubt he’ll be back before we have to go, says Mark, who doesn’t budge from the couch. I don’t miss the look Fiona gives him. Something is up, they are withholding information, but I am too annoyed to pursue it.

  Where’s Magdalena? Fiona asks abruptly. There’s something we have to discuss with both of you. She begins to get out of her chair, but just then Magdalena bustles. Her eyes are slightly red.

  I’m sorry, I was on the phone, she says, adding, Family stuff.

  Fiona has settled herself back in her chair and gives the ground a little push with her right foot to set it in motion. Small and slight as she is, she resembles a child as she rocks back and forth.

  We wanted to get on the same page about something, she begins, and looks over at Mark. He has turned his attention back to the Calder, so she continues.

  The press has been bugging both Mark and me. There was a leak. They know Mom was taken in for questioning and released. That’s about as much as they seem to know, but I’m—and here she gives Mark another quick glance— we’re eager to avoid any undue publicity.

  Magdalena jumps in. I would never say anything. You know that. I just hang up on them. Or if someone appears at the door I don’t recognize, I don’t even open it.

  Mark speaks up. Yes, but they somehow got hold of Mom last week—she’d wandered out into the front yard.

  What exactly do you mean—got hold of me? I ask, icily. And under what circumstances would I wander out into my own front yard? You make me sound like a two-year-old.

  I see Mark smile at this, but it isn’t a smile for me. Just some private joke.

  Magdalena is looking uncertain and slightly frightened. No one told me, she says.

  I got a call from the reporter. Fiona did, too. Apparently Mom was in fine form that day—got it in her head that the reporter was trying to dig up dirt on Amanda and her teaching methods—remember how Amanda was always battling the PTA? Confused the hell out of the guy. It seems they talked at cross-purposes for a moment or two, then Mom dismissed him. He doesn’t quite understand what is going on.

  If he’s any good he can find out about Mom’s condition from the hospital or clinic, Fiona says. And of course there’s the leak on the police end. But let’s not make it easy for him or anyone else.

  My condition? I ask. I am standing now. I’ll tell you what my condition is—I’m furious.

  I’m astonished that no one bothers to look at me. Excuse me, I say, clipping the words short, and deliberately lowering my voice. This invariably gets the attention of the OR. But it doesn’t work this time.

  No more negligence, Mark is saying, looking at Magdalena. Do you understand? Three strikes and you’re out. We’ve started counting.

  Magdalena’s breath is uneven. Yes, she says. Understood.

  Even Fiona, usually so attentive toward me and gentle toward others, has hardened her features. This is now your number one priority, she tells Magdalena. Protecting the family. Nothing else matters.

  We’re looking at apples. Piles and piles of apples, all different varieties, colors, sizes. Next to them, mounds of green pears, purple pears. Then oranges. Who stacks them so neatly? Who keeps them in order?

  I take one of the apples, a red one, and bite it. A bitter aftertaste. I spit it out and pick up another. Try that one. A little girl is watching me. Mom, that lady is wasting food. Shhh, her mother says, but the girl persists. And why is she taking off her dress?

  Jennifer! I turn around. A large blond woman is running at me. Startled, I bump against the apples, and they start tumbling down off the stand, rolling by the dozens onto my feet, onto the floor, scattering in all directions.

  Put your clothes back on! But why should I? Jennifer, no, not anymore. Please leave on your underpants. Oh God, they’ll call the police again. A large man hurries over. Ma’am? he asks. The blond woman cuts him off. She has dementia. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. Here. Here’s a letter from her doctor.

  The blond woman is pulling a crumpled envelope from her purse. She opens it hurriedly, thrusts a piece of paper at the man. He reads it, frowning. Okay, but get her dressed and get her out of here. What were you thinking, anyway, bringing her here when this might happen?

  Usually she’s very good. It’s just on occasion . . .

  Often enough that you have to carry a letter around with you!

  Yes, but . . .

  Just get her out.

  The blond woman is pushing something over my head and down over my hips and then picking up something smaller and balling it up and putting it in her pocket. We leave the store with the cries of children rising over us. But Mommy! Mommy? Mommy, look.

  My notebook: Fiona’s handwriting.

  Mom, we had a discussion today. It’s one I’ve been wanting to have for years, but the time was never right. I was always afraid. But now things are so different. Even if you get mad, it doesn’t last. Revelations these days are worth shit. We quickly go back to our safe, comfortable roles. It wasn’t always this safe, of course. So it’s still a little scary to initiate a talk.

  We started out talking about me at fourteen. Remember? Cantankerous, rebellious, rude. Acting everything that was age-appropriate, in fact. I ran away twice, if you recall. The first time was a fit of pure rage. One minute I was screaming at our nanny at the time—what was her name? Sophia? Daphne?—and I don’t remember anything else until I was
at Union Station, trying to buy a ticket for New York. That’s when the cops picked me up. I barely look my age now. I can only imagine what I looked like at fourteen: skinny and knock-kneed with my hair cut like a boy’s and greased to stand up straight. The first of my many piercings in my ears and cheeks. Dressed in all black, of course.

  What I would have done in New York is anyone’s guess. I must have had some of my wits about me, because I’d gone through Sophia’s or Daphne or Helga’s wallet and stolen what I thought was a credit card but was really a AAA membership card you’d given her in case her car broke down. Very naive I was. The cops brought me back right after you got home from work. You hadn’t even taken off your coat. And you just coolly accepted the facts the cops told you, didn’t punish me, didn’t bring up the subject ever again, just told me to wash my hands for dinner. I was furious, as you can imagine.

  The second time was different. I’d just broken up with Colin. Because of you. I was in a panic. I’d been shown the abyss and wasn’t sure if I had leaped in or been pulled back from the precipice. It was an almost purely physical sensation, because I certainly wasn’t thinking: my heart was racing, I had trouble breathing, and I was even breaking out in odd rashes all over my body. To all of this you seemed oblivious. Just leaving in the morning and coming back at night. Mark was away at college already. Dad was . . . well, who knows where. And I thought I was dying. Everything was getting out of control and I was afraid. So I left again. But I was smarter this time. I packed a bag and went over to Amanda’s, requesting asylum. She was delighted. She had always taken her role of godmother very seriously and had always encouraged me to come to her— especially if I was having trouble with you. You probably wouldn’t be surprised to hear that she reveled in such complaints. I always adored her. I saw her hardness, the way she treated others, the face she showed the world. But I could always overcome those defenses. I took advantage of her, of course. Shamelessly. And that time was no different. I laid my grievances about you at her feet and watched her mind begin to work.