Turn of Mind

by Alice LaPlante

  They keep us clean, too. Frequent showers with strong antiseptic soap. Harsh washcloths wielded expertly by rough hands. The indignity of a vigorous scrubbing of the belly, the buttocks.

  Why bother exfoliating? Let the dead cells accumulate, let them encase me until, mummified, I am preserved as I am. No more deterioration. To stop this descent. What I wouldn’t pay. What I wouldn’t give.

  I am sitting with a well-groomed woman with feathered gray hair. We’re in the dining room, at the long communal table. It has been freshly set for a dozen or so diners, but we are the only ones eating.

  I have some sort of long pale strings of matter swimming in a thick red liquid. She has a piece of whitish meat. We both have a mound of white mush with a brown liquid poured on it. Through a sort of haze I recognize a fellow professional. Someone I could respect.

  What is that? I point to something she has to the right of her food, something I don’t have.

  That’s a knife.

  I want one.

  No, you don’t need one. See, your food is soft, easy to break into bite-size morsels. You don’t need to cut it.

  But I like that one. Most of all.

  That makes sense.

  How long have you been here? I ask.

  About six years.

  What did you do?

  What do you mean?

  To get sent here. What did you do? Everyone here has committed a crime. Some worse than others.

  No, I work here. My name is Laura. I’m the resident manager. She smiles. She is tall and broad-shouldered. Strong and sturdy. And what crime did you commit? she asks.

  I don’t like to say.

  That’s all right. You don’t need to tell me. It’s not important.

  How long have you been here?

  Six years. My name is Laura.

  I like your necklace, I say. A word comes to me. Opal?

  Yes. A present from my husband.

  My husband is out of town, I say. Somehow I know this. In San Francisco, at a conference. He travels.

  You must miss him, then.

  Sometimes, I say. And then suddenly the words come more easily.

  Sometimes I like rolling over in the bed, to find a place where the sheets are still cool. And he can take up a lot of psychic space.

  But it seems that you have great affection for him. You talk about him a lot.

  What is that you are holding?

  A knife.

  What is it for?

  To cut.

  I remember that. Can I have one?

  No.

  Why not?

  It’s not safe.

  For whom?

  For yourself, mostly.

  Just mostly?

  There is a concern.

  That I might hurt others?

  Yes. There is that.

  But I am a doctor, I say.

  And you’ve taken a solemn oath.

  I am gifted with a vision. A framed script hanging on a wall. I quote what I see written there. I swear by Apollo, Asclepius, Hygieia, and Panacea, and I take to witness all the gods, all the goddesses . . . the image leaves me before I can finish.

  Impressive words. Frightening, even.

  Yes, I’ve always thought so, I say.

  And of course, there’s the part everyone knows, about never doing harm, the gray-haired woman says.

  I’ve always fulfilled that oath, I say. I believe I have.

  Believe?

  There is this thing that nags.

  Oh?

  Yes. It has to do with the thing you’re holding.

  The knife.

  Yes, the knife.

  The woman leans forward. Are you remembering? No. Let me rephrase that. If you are remembering, keep it to yourself. Don’t tell me.

  I don’t understand, I say.

  No, not today. It is not your day to understand. But you might remember tomorrow. Or the day after. Memory is a funny thing. It might be a good thing not to try too hard. That’s all I’m saying.

  And with that, she leaves, taking the lovely shiny sharp thing with her. Knife.

  One living creature still trembles at my command. A small dog, a mutt that has somehow become attached to me. I’ve never been fond of dogs. The opposite, in fact. The children’s pleas counted for nothing.

  At first I kicked the thing away. But it persevered, haunted me morning until night. The other residents attempt to entice it away at every turn, but it always returns to me after devouring a treat or being subjected to a trembling petting session.

  I’m unclear who it belongs to. It wanders the halls at will and is a general favorite. But I am the one it pursues relentlessly. Despite the fact that it has a bed in the television lounge, bowls of food and water in the dining room, it sleeps with me. Shortly after I go to bed I feel a thump, of dog that I always hated. But gradually I have found comfort in it, have enjoyed being so adored.

  Other residents are jealous. They try to steal Dog away. Several times I have awakened from deep sleep to find a dark shape bending over my bed, attempting to grab the whining wiggling body. I always let it go without comment, and the thing always returns to me. My familiar. Every crone needs one.

  The only thing that helps is the walking. What the people here call wandering. They’ve set up a kind of a trail. A labyrinth for the mentally deficient.

  On any given hour, there might be two or three of us traversing the loop. If someone tries to wander more randomly, they are stopped and firmly put back on the trail.

  I remember the Chartres labyrinth, the children fascinated with it, following its mesmerizing lines to the center. Where pilgrims hoped to get closer to God. Where repentant sinners who suffered the stony path on their knees finally arrived, bloodied and weary, their penance fulfilled.

  How I would love to experience once again that sense of freedom that follows punishment, that release that children feel once they have confessed and paid for their trivial crimes. But I—I have no choice but to keep wandering.

  We have a visitor, Jen. Aren’t you glad we had a bath? Look how nice your hair looks!

  It is a face I have seen before. That’s what I am reduced to now. No more names. Just characteristics, if they are idiosyncratic enough, and knowing whether a face is familiar or unfamiliar.

  And those are not absolute categories. I can be looking at a face that I have decided is unfamiliar only to have its features shift and reveal a visage that is not only known but beloved.

  I didn’t recognize my own mother this morning, disguised as she was. But then she revealed herself. She cried as she held my hand. I comforted her as best I could. I explained that, yes, it had been a difficult birth, but I would be home soon, the baby was doing well. But where is James? I asked. Mom, Dad can’t be here right now. Why are you calling me Mom and him Dad? More tears.

  And then my mother was gone.

  Now this one. A different sort altogether.

  I am Detective Luton. We’ve spoken on a number of occasions.

  Who performed your thyroidectomy? Was it Dr. Gregory?

  My what? Oh—and her hand goes to the scar on her throat. I actually don’t remember his name. Why?

  He always had a good hand with the needle. Your scar healed nicely.

  So I’ve been told.

  Has your dosage been titrated correctly?

  Ma’am?

  When was the last time your T3 and T4 levels were checked?

  O, perhaps a year ago. But that’s not why I’m here.

  It’s not my specialty, I know. But it’s something I would ask your endocrinologist. I find that eighty percent of the people with chronic thyroid conditions aren’t adequately monitoring their levels.

  Okay, well I appreciate that. But I actually came here on another matter. I know you don’t remember, so I’ll just fill you in real quickly. I’m with the police. I’m in charge of an ongoing investigation into the death of Amanda O’Toole.

  She pauses as if waiting for something.

 
Is that name familiar?

  There’s someone on my street of that name. But I don’t know her well. We’ve only just moved into the neighborhood, and I have a new baby and a very busy practice. So I’m very sorry to hear it. But we were not more than acquaintances.

  I’m glad. Because it was very upsetting to the friends and family of this woman. The sudden death, but also the way her body was treated after death.

  Go on.

  We believe, due to the violence with which her head hit the table, that it was not an accident. And then, sometime after death, the fingers of her right hand were cut off. No. Not cut. Surgically removed.

  An interesting modus operandi. And why are you telling me this?

  Because I want your brain. I need your brain.

  I don’t quite understand.

  We think you know something about this. But that you don’t know what you know.

  How did you know that?

  Just a hunch. You see a lot in my line of work.

  Yes, I’ve been worried. My memory. It’s not what it used to be. Just this morning, I told James—my husband—that we were going to have to start eating more fish. You know, for the omega-three fatty acids. He wasn’t enthusiastic. It’s hard to get good fresh fish in Chicago.

  Right. So you know what I’m talking about. So I’m wondering if you’ll humor me. Talk to me about your work, the memories you do have of Amanda O’Toole. Play some word games. I want to try and trigger a reaction from that very large brain of yours.

  I’ll cancel my appointments for the morning.

  The woman nods gravely. I appreciate that.

  She takes out her phone. Do you mind if I record this? I have a bit of a memory problem myself. So, do this: Think about Amanda. Here’s a picture if it will jog your memory. No? Well then, don’t worry about what she looks like. What do you think of when I say the name Amanda?

  I think of someone tall and straight and unyielding. Someone with dignity.

  How would a dignified person meet death?

  It’s a silly question. The only good death is a swift one. Dignity has nothing to do with it. Whether you suffer a heart attack or die due to a head trauma, it doesn’t matter. As long as there’s little or no suffering it’s a good death.

  But you do hear of people who die with honor. Not just soldiers. You know what I mean.

  It’s drugs. Drugs get most people through. Without drugs our own families wouldn’t wait for a more natural end. The drugs are as much for them as for us.

  You’re a doctor, so you’re closer to death than most people. But then you don’t often deal with fatalities in your line of work, do you?

  No, not many deaths due to hand trauma. I permit myself a smile.

  But amputations?

  Yes, a fair number.

  What are the reasons you would amputate, say, a finger?

  Infection, gangrene, frostbite, vascular compromise, bone infection. Cancer.

  Is there ever any reason you would amputate all the fingers and leave the rest of the hand intact?

  Yes. In cases of extreme frostbite or meningococcemia, there’s the possibility of gangrene, and you might well need to remove all digits.

  And what, exactly, is gangrene?

  A complication of necrosis, or cell death. In effect, a part of your body dies and starts to rot. Amputation is eventually required.

  Have you ever had to perform an amputation due to gangrene?

  Yes, occasionally. In this climate, you get some frostbite cases. It doesn’t usually get to the point where amputation is necessary—when it does, it’s unfortunately mostly among the poor and homeless.

  But you wouldn’t see homeless people, would you? Not at your practice?

  I do pro bono work at the Hope Community Health Center over on Chicago Avenue, and most of my work of this kind takes place there. And occasionally you get cases of what is called wet gangrene, which is due to infection. That’s more serious. If you don’t do an amputation in those cases, the gangrene can spread and eventually kill the patient.

  So, in other words, you cut off body parts to keep the rot from spreading?

  Yes, that’s one way of putting it. For the serious type of gangrene.

  But there would be no reason to amputate after death.

  No, of course not.

  None?

  None whatsoever.

  Then why would someone do such a thing? In your opinion.

  I’m not a psychiatrist. Certainly not privy to the deranged or criminal mind.

  No, I realize that.

  But it seems to me it might have symbolic value.

  How would that work?

  Well, if an amputation stops rot from spreading, then someone who was guilty of using their hands to do wrong—if their hands were, say, corrupted by unclean activities—that might be a way of sending a message. You know what Jesus says at the Last Supper: Behold, the hand of him that betrayeth me is with me on the table.

  But why the fingers, not the hands?

  That could be symbolic, too. A hand without fingers can’t easily grasp, can’t easily hold on to things. It could be a message for someone perceived as greedy, mercenary. Or someone who won’t let go emotionally. After all, without fingers, a hand is just a paddle of bone covered with soft tissue. Good for very little.

  The woman nods. She stretches, gets up, and starts walking around the room.

  I’ve noticed a certain number of religious things around the room, she says. And your ability to quote the Bible. Are you, in fact, a religious woman?

  I shake my head. I was raised Catholic, but now I just like the accessories. It’s hard to avoid some degree of biblical scholarship when you choose medieval history to specialize in for a graduate degree.

  The woman stops in front of my statue.

  I notice you brought this from your home. Who’s this? The mother of Jesus?

  Oh no, that’s Saint Rita of Cascia. See the wound on her forehead? And the rose she’s carrying?

  Who is she?

  The patron saint of impossible causes.

  I thought that was Saint Jude.

  Yes, those two saints have very similar missions. But the feminist in me prefers Rita. She was not a passive vessel like so many of the virgin martyrs. She took action.

  Yes, I can see how you would be attracted to that. Is that her medal you’re wearing around your neck?

  This? No. This is Saint Christopher.

  Why are you wearing this?

  It’s a joke. Amanda’s idea.

  What kind of joke?

  Saint Christopher is not a real saint.

  No?

  A fraud. No, that’s not right. An implausible and unprovable legend. A fantasy of the devout. He was evicted from the host of accredited saints some time ago. But I loved him as a child. He was a protector against many things. One of them is a sudden, unholy death. The patron saint of travelers. You’ll still find people with statues of him on their car dashboards.

  More accessories.

  Yes.

  So what does this have to do with Amanda?

  She gave it to me. On my fiftieth birthday. I had just ended a tough decade.

  Tough in what way?

  On many fronts. So many losses. Of a very personal, rather self-involved narcissistic kind. Loss of looks. Loss of sexual drive. Loss of ambition.

  That last one surprises me. You were at the top of your game when you retired.

  Yes. But ambition is not success. It’s something else. It’s a striving, not an achieving. By age fifty I had gotten where I wanted to be. I didn’t know where else to go. In fact, there was nowhere I wanted to go. I didn’t want to be an administrator, join boards. I wasn’t ambitious in that way. I didn’t want to write textbooks or advice books. I didn’t want—didn’t need—more money.

  And then?

  Amanda helped, in her way. She told me to volunteer at the New Hope Community Medical Clinic, on Chicago Avenue, to give back to the world. Insisted on it.
She had her reasons for knowing that I would comply. But the experience turned out to be extraordinarily gratifying on a number of levels. I had to become a generalist again. Think of the human body beyond the elbow. It was difficult.

  And Saint Christopher? Sudden death?

  Yes. If thou on any day Saint Christopher you see / Against sudden death you will protected be. In my case, death of the spirit. Against my fear, my despondency, that everything important had come to an end. The medal was Amanda’s way of saying don’t panic just because of the current darkness. That there was a way out. That by paying for past . . . transgressions . . . my mind would be at ease. That brighter things lay ahead. So she thought.

  So the medal represented vanquishing spiritual trouble—nothing to do with friction between you and Amanda.

  I wouldn’t say that. No. There was friction there.

  She leans forward, asks, May I? and takes the medallion in her hand. Her face tightens. There’s something on the medal, she says. A stain. Do you mind if I look closer?

  I shrug, reach behind, and pull the chain over my head, hand it over. She studies it.

  It’s dirty, she says. Let me take it away and clean it. I’ll bring it back, don’t worry.

  There is a pause. I say, Is there anything else? Because I have patients waiting. I’m surprised my nurse hasn’t interrupted us. She’s got instructions to keep me on schedule.

  I beg your pardon. Yes, I’ve taken up too much of your time already. Do you mind if I stop by again?

  Just make an appointment at the front desk. I hold office hours Mondays, Tuesdays, and Fridays. Wednesdays and Thursdays are my surgery days. I should see you in three weeks, to follow up on this consultation.

  Yes. Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.

  She leans down, pushes a button on her phone, and puts it in her briefcase.

  Yes, she says. I am sure we’ll be talking again, quite soon.

  Fiona is here. My girl. Her green eyes are slightly reddened. She has three moon earrings arcing up the outside of her right ear.

  What is it? I ask. I’m still in bed. I can’t seem to find a clock to see the time.