Turn of Mind

by Alice LaPlante

  What happened to the money? I take it that the . . . theft . . . or whatever it was, stopped, asks Magdalena.

  Yes. There was never any scandal, no trial, no prison. But the couple ceased going on expensive trips, buying costly furnishings, rugs, artwork. Still, they continued to live seemingly happy lives.

  And what about the two women? asks Magdalena.

  The same. It was as if the day had never happened. As if a group memory had been erased. A folie en quatre dissipated.

  The bearded man speaks up. And you remember, he says to me. Of all things, this story survives. He sighs heavily. It’d be best if this conversation hadn’t taken place, he says.

  He gets up to leave, and something about the way he stands, favoring his right leg, causes something to spark. You’re Peter, I say.

  He sits down again. That’s right, he says. That’s right. He smiles. It is a lovely smile.

  Peter! My dear, dear friend! I lean over and hug him. No, hold him. I have trouble letting go.

  It’s been years! I say. What made you stay away so long?

  Actually, it’s been just eighteen months since I left. But it’s seemed like a long time. I didn’t have much reason to come back here. Not until . . . recent events.

  You mean Amanda being murdered?

  He gives a short laugh. Yes, that.

  How are you holding up?

  Not great. Thanks for asking. It’s funny—well, not funny, but naive—for people to think that just because there’s been a split all emotional connection is broken.

  I know. I saw it all the time at the hospital. The divorced couples had the most touching scenes in the recovery room.

  Magdalena touches my arm. I flinch and draw away. It’s time to get dressed, she says.

  I look down and realize I am still in my nightgown. I blush. Of course, I say. I’ll be right down.

  But something happens. At the top of the stairs I lose my bearings. There was an idea in the back of my mind. Some intent. Now gone. Just a dim hallway, lit only by light coming from open doors.

  Through them I glimpse neatly made beds, sun streaming through windows. I feel a vein throbbing in my neck. I cannot get enough air. I reach my arms out straight, touch a wall, make contact with a rectangular plastic plate. I know this. The light switch. I flick it on. Royal blue walls. Photographs of smiling people. How can so many people be so happy all the time?

  I flip down the switch, plunge everything into shadow. Up, illumination, down, despair. Up down. The satisfying, familiar click. I know what this is. I know what it does. My body begins to feel comfortable again, my breathing evens out. I continue what I’m doing until the blond woman comes and leads me away.

  Some things do stick. I do what my neurologist friend Carl suggests and scan my memory. Just see what pops up, he says. See where it leads you. Exercise those neurons.

  Surprising things. Not what I expected. No weddings, no funerals. No births, no deaths. Small moments. My cat, Binky, up a tree when I was five. A pair of my underwear blowing off the clothesline in the wind and into Billy Plenner’s yard next door when I was in seventh grade— something that he never let me forget. Finding a five-dollar bill on the floor of the roller-skating rink and feeling rich. Rolling in the grass in Lincoln Park with Fiona, nine years old.

  The day after my fiftieth birthday, after a party James had thrown for me. Wondering if things were shredded for good this time.

  It had been an evening of joy. People crowded in the living room, over-flowing into the kitchen, some sitting on the stairs. Drinking the excellent wine selected by James. My colleagues from the hospital. Dear Carl, and my assistant, Sarah, and, naturally, the orthopedics team: Mitch and John. Cardiovascular was there in force, as was Psych. And my family. Mark, fifteen, looking his most handsome, wrapping his arm around my shoulder, leaving it there as he guided me to the table laden with bottles and wonderful treats. Hugging me before pouring me a glass of wine.

  Buddies. Fiona darting among the partyers, emerging occasionally to touch my arm. And James. Thrilling to know he was in the room. We sometimes met in the crowd. Each time he gave me a quick hard kiss on the lips. As if he meant it. Bliss.

  But then, the downward plunge, the slide into hell. I was looking for James, he had disappeared. I searched the kitchen, the living room, dining room, even knocked on the bathroom door. No James.

  Suddenly the room felt too crowded, too hot. I opened the front door and escaped to the stoop, to feel the cool May evening air. But then I heard sharp voices. Peter and Amanda. So intent on each other that they didn’t notice me.

  You crossed the line, Peter was saying. He was speaking in a low tone but was clearly enraged.

  But I did nothing . . . Amanda’s voice was cool and controlled.

  Nothing? You never do nothing. Never. And now, a lie. On top of such cruelty. Like I said, you crossed the line.

  The moon was bright enough to see their faces. From both, righteousness shone. A battle between two avenging angels.

  It is time James knows, time he understands that his little family has some anomalies, some . . . unconventional antecedents. That he has a cuckoo’s egg in his nest. That he is in fact a cuckold. That he was not the only one who had wandered. He was holding Fiona’s hand. He had been joking about how she was a changeling, so different from himself. It was the perfect opportunity, one I have been waiting for. An opportunity to be seized. The truth must out.

  And you were simply truth’s vehicle?

  I didn’t say anything. I just looked. Just gave a look. That was all James needed. He was ninety percent there. How could he not be?

  So you were lying when you said you did nothing.

  Peter was having trouble modulating his voice and was breathing heavily. I had never experienced him like this. Usually so slow to anger, the sleeping giant.

  I never lie. I didn’t say a word, after all. Not a word. So no. I never lie.

  Except in extremis, that’s true.

  What’s that supposed to mean?

  It means that when it’s important enough to you, when it comes to protecting yourself against some intolerable consequence, you’re like the rest of us mortals.

  Name one time I lied. Just one. Other than this supposed incident.

  I have to go back fifty years. But it happened, and I have a long memory. Peter was calmer now, in control. He spoke deliberately. The philosophy test in 1966, he said.

  Silence. Amanda didn’t move. I heard nothing but the cars streaming down Fullerton.

  How did you know about that?

  I was a research assistant for Professor Grendall. I was waiting outside his office. The door was half open. And you denied everything. That you’d cheated, plagiarized. You lied then.

  Of course I did. It was necessary.

  And then, after you left, Professor Grendall walked out, saw me, shook his head, and said, What a woman. What ruthlessness. She’ll go far.

  And you said?

  Be careful. That’s my future wife you’re talking about.

  So when you approached me in the quad that year?

  I’d already decided.

  There was a silence. Amanda took a step back, put her hand on the iron railing surrounding the front garden, and wrapped her fingers around one of the iron spikes.

  Well. You certainly know how to win an argument.

  I wasn’t looking to win.

  The Peter I knew began to appear again. The tension left his shoulders, and he put his hand to his head and stroked his hair—a gesture of appeasement often used when with Amanda.

  No, you never are. I saw her fingers slowly unwind from the gate. She, too, touched her hand to her head, but as if it were aching.

  So why did you do it? Peter asked. Make him aware of Fiona’s . . . ambiguous . . . paternity. About Jennifer’s single instance of straying, about what everyone else has known for nine years. As I said, you never would lie unless you were in extremis. What is going on?

  Again, n
othing but the sound of traffic.

  Peter was speaking slower now, working it out.

  The party. It’s something to do with the party. But what? We’re celebrating— that’s a happy thing. And honoring your best friend. You helped James organize it. And it’s gone splendidly. I’ve seldom seen Jennifer so delighted. She’s so difficult to please. But you pulled it off. You must have seen that. Jennifer and James so openly affectionate. Mark so proud of his mother, a kind of miracle at his age. Fiona taking brave forays out into the crowd before running back to Jennifer or James for safety. So what?

  Amanda was rigid. She was not going to help him.

  Peter stopped stroking his hair, his hand resting on the back of his head. He raised his other hand and extended it toward Amanda. Almost pointed but at the last second closed it into a loose fist.

  That’s it, isn’t it. Too much happiness. You’re envious. A foul-weather friend.

  That’s when I quietly turned and went back into the house, into the warmth and light. James was not to be found. I smiled and nodded until my face and neck muscles ached and the last guest had left. I put Fiona to bed and kissed Mark good night. Then lay sleepless in my own bed until morning.

  The next day, James declined to go to the park with Fiona and me. He took Mark to the zoo. He rejected the idea of a family dinner, and he and Mark went to McDonald’s. For a month after that, he bit his words back into his throat every time I addressed him. He showed his back in bed. He turned his cheek when Fiona attempted her good-night kiss.

  And then, after a month or so, the trouble passed. As it always did between James and me. You learn, you grieve, you forgive, or at least you accept. That’s why we’ve lasted. That’s how we’ve endured. The secret of a happy marriage: not honesty, not forgiveness, but acceptance that is a kind of respect for the other’s right to make mistakes. Or rather, the right to make choices. Choices you can’t be sorry for, because they were the right ones. So I never apologized. And so the matter died between us, but with it something else. Not enough to bring down the tree of our marriage, but a bough did fall that didn’t grow back.

  Mark and Fiona felt it, of course. As children do, they acted out. Mark was sullen and rude to James. Me he treated with distance. But Fiona—it was hardest on her. She would sit on the couch between James and me as we watched a movie, placing her hand on each of our arms, as if she could be a conduit. Of what? Affection was still there. Delight in each other’s company, if slightly dampened. But respect— yes, that was the problem. There was now the taint of distain when James talked to me, a roughness in his embraces. In bed he was insistent and aggressive. Not necessarily a bad thing, for me. But Fiona took the change in our household very hard. She swung wildly between attempts at reconciliation and fits of rage. When she was good, she was very very good. But then the episodes. Too early to blame on adolescent hormones. Although as she got closer to puberty, they increased in intensity. She spent a lot of time with Amanda. When I couldn’t find her in the living room or her bedroom I would walk the three doors down to retrieve her. Amanda standing at the door, waving in a way that was both a beckoning and a farewell. Fiona, a recalcitrant and obstinate stranger. Then, after hours behind her closed door, the other Fiona would appear, offering to do the dishes, to help Mark with his math homework.

  Those were strange, difficult years. I took on extra shifts, accepted new patients I didn’t have time for. Published articles. Began working at the free clinic. Busied my mind and body but emotionally descended into despair. It was Amanda, of course, who noticed and slowly patched me together again. The inflictor and healer of my pain, both.

  I open the door, and there they are. My two children. The boy and the girl. Older, looking more careworn, especially the boy. I pull them both close, one arm around each, my cheek resting halfway on my daughter’s shoulder.

  Why did you ring the bell? I ask. This is your home! You’re always welcome. You know that!

  They both smile in unison. It looks almost choreographed. They seem relieved. Oh, we didn’t want to sneak up on you! says my son, my handsome, handsome boy. Even before his voice changed, the girls started calling.

  Well, come in! I say. My friend and I just made some cookies. The blond woman has come up behind me. She smiles at the young man and woman.

  We settle ourselves around the kitchen table. The blond woman offers coffee, tea, cookies. They both decline, although the boy accepts a glass of water. The blond woman takes a seat, too. There are undercurrents.

  How have you been? the boy asks me.

  Quite well, I say.

  The boy looks at the blond woman. She shakes her head slightly.

  Are you sure? You seem a little . . . excited. Overwrought, even.

  This is from the girl, my daughter. The snake wrapped so tenderly around her delicate bones. Oddly enough, she takes after James. For all his height he is somehow insubstantial. Always ten pounds too thin. He doesn’t see it that way, of course. Always running, always swimming, always moving. On days he can’t go out because of excessive rain or snow or cold, he runs up and down the stairs for an hour at a stretch.

  I consider her question. I weigh my options, my choices. And make up my mind.

  This is a talk we had to have sooner or later, I say. I’ve been putting it off . But since you’re both here, now is as good as anytime.

  The girl nods. The boy looks at me. The blond woman keeps her eyes on the table.

  Your father doesn’t know. Not yet. So please don’t mention it to him.

  We won’t, says the boy. You can count on that. He gives a wry smile when he says this.

  It started a while ago. Months. I noticed I was forgetting things. Little things, like where I’d put my keys or my wallet or the box of pasta I’d taken out of the pantry. Then these gaps. One minute I’d be in my office, the next in the Jewel frozen foods section with no recollection of how I’d got there. Then words started to go. I was in the middle of surgery and I forgot the word clamp. I remembered it afterward, driving home. But at the time I had to say, Give me that shiny thing that pinches and holds. I saw my residents exchanging glances. Humiliating.

  The boy and girl don’t look shocked. This is good. The hard part is yet to come.

  I’ll even make a confession, I say. I don’t know your names. My own children. Your faces are clear—for that I’m grateful. Others blur beyond recognition. Rooms are sealed without doors, without any way in or out. And bathrooms have become extraordinarily elusive.

  I’m Fiona, says the girl. And this is your son, Mark.

  Thank you. Of course. Fiona and Mark. Well, to make a long story short, I went to the doctor—to Carl Tsien. You know Carl, of course. He asked me some questions, sent me to a specialist at U of C. They have a special clinic there. They call it, without a trace of irony, the Memory Unit.

  They ran some tests. You may or may not know, but there is no conclusive way to diagnose Alzheimer’s. It’s mostly a process of elimination. They ran a number of blood labs. Made sure there were no low-lying infections. Eliminated hypothyroidism, depression. Mostly, they asked a lot of questions. And at the end of it all, they didn’t give me much room for hope.

  Both my children nod calmly. They’re not crying. They’re not noticeably distressed. It’s the blond woman who reaches over and covers my hand with hers.

  Perhaps I’m not being clear, I say. This is a death sentence. The death of the mind. I’ve already given notice at the hospital, announced my retirement. I have started keeping a journal so I have some continuity in my life. But I won’t be able to live on my own for very much longer. And I don’t want to be a burden on you.

  The girl reaches out and takes my other hand. This is not comforting, this is awkward, having both my hands held captive by these nameless people. I disengage from both, place my hands safely in my lap.

  That must be very scary for you, the girl says.

  The boy gives me a half smile. You’re a tough old bird, he says. You’re go
ing to wrestle this disease to the ground and break its arm before it takes you.

  You don’t seem surprised.

  No, says the girl.

  You’ve noticed?

  A little hard not to! says the boy.

  Shh! says the girl. Actually, this kind of brings us to why we came here today, Mom.

  Not only are we not surprised, says the boy, in fact it’s gotten so bad that it’s time to make a change. Sell the house. Move into a more . . . suitable . . . living situation.

  What do you mean, sell the house? I ask. This is my home. This will always be my home. When I walked into it twenty-nine years ago— pregnant with you, by the way—I said, at last I found the place I can die in. Just because I mislay my keys every once in a while . . .

  It’s not just the keys, Mom, says the boy. It’s the agitation. The aggression. The wandering. Your inability to use the bathroom, take care of basic sanitary needs. Refusing your medications. It’s too much for Magdalena.

  Who is Magdalena?

  Magdalena. Right here. See? You don’t even remember the woman who lives with you. Who takes care of you. Wonderful care. You don’t even remember that Dad is dead.

  Your father is not dead! He’s just at work. He’ll be home—what time is it?—very shortly.

  The boy turns to the girl. What’s the use? Let’s just do what we planned. We have all the documentation we need. It’s the right thing. You know it is. We’ve considered all the options—including you moving in here to help Magdalena. That idea was lunacy.

  The girl nods slowly.

  We could have a trained nurse. Start using the locks we installed on the doors. But that upset her so much, it did more harm than good. And she’s deteriorating so fast. It’s just not safe for her to be in anything but a closely controlled environment.

  The girl does not answer. The blond woman abruptly gets up and leaves the room. Neither the girl nor boy seems to notice.

  I don’t understand the boy’s words, so I concentrate on his expression. Is he friend or foe? I think friend, but I am not certain. I feel uneasy. There is a trace of hostility in his eyes, tenseness in his shoulders, that could be remnants of old injuries, old suspicions.