Turn of Mind

by Alice LaPlante

What do you mean? she asks, but she is palpably upset. She sits down on the chair beside my bed, stands up, sits down again, takes my hand, and pats it. I pull it away, struggle to sit up.

  You seem agitated, I say.

  No. Well, yes. She stands up again, starts pacing. Isn’t it time for you to get up? It’s nearly nine o’clock.

  I push myself up to a sitting position, throw off the bedclothes, lift my legs, and put my feet on the floor, steady myself. She pushes her chair back, stands to help me. I shake her hand off .

  Are you okay? she asks.

  New meds, I say. Or, actually, more of the old ones. They upped the dosage of both the Seroquel and Wellbutrin. They’ve also been slipping me Xanax when they think I’m not paying attention.

  Yes, I know. They told me.

  I look more closely at her face. The nose slightly reddened in addition to the eyes. Limp hair around her ears from tugging at it. Signs of distress. I know my girl.

  Tell me, I say.

  She searches my face for something, appears uncertain. Then makes a decision.

  We closed on the sale today, she says. I just came from signing the papers.

  You bought a house?

  No, she says. Well, yes. But that’s not what happened today. Today I sold one.

  I didn’t know you owned a house. I thought you had that apartment in Hyde Park. On Ellis.

  I moved, about three months ago, she says. That apartment was so small. I bought a house right off campus. A brownstone, hardwood floors, exposed brick.

  Her face becomes less haggard, as if reliving a fond memory, before clouding over again. No, it was the house in Lincoln Park, on Sheffield, that we sold, she says.

  That’s where my house is. I love that neighborhood.

  Yes, I know. I loved it too, Mom.

  Her eyes begin to tear up. Mark, too. We were both born there. We’ve known nothing but that house. It was really, really hard. We took sleeping bags and spent last night over there. We stayed up all night talking and remembering. You know how long it’s been since Mark and I have spent that much time together without fighting? When I first called he wouldn’t pick up. But I kept trying and eventually he relented.

  Wait a minute. You’re saying you sold my house?

  Yes. Yes.

  My house?

  I’m so sorry.

  But my things. My books. My art. The tapes of my surgeries.

  Mom, we cleaned it all out months ago. You packed yourself. You decided what you would take with you and what would go.

  But what about when it’s time to go home?

  This is your home now.

  This is a room, I say. I am furious.

  I gesture around at the four walls. Point to the stainless-steel bathroom without a bathtub, only a shower. At the windows shuttered against the view of a parking lot.

  Yes, but look. All your things are here. Your statue of Saint Rita. Your Renoir. Your Calder. And your most beloved of all, your Theotokos of the Three Hands.

  There were others. Many others. Where are they?

  Safely stored.

  My furniture?

  I took the little oak secretary desk, Mark the Stickley mission oak sofa and rocker. The rest, sold.

  I swing my legs around, get up from the bed. My hands are clenched.

  I’m having some trouble absorbing this, I say.

  Yes. Mom, I’m sorry. I wasn’t going to tell you.

  Then why did you?

  Because I’m heartsick. Because you’ll forget. Because there’s no one else to tell.

  Cry me a river, I say. I pull my nightgown over my head. Sit there in my underpants. Not caring.

  Mom, please, don’t do this. Get dressed. She goes to the chest of drawers, starts pulling out clothes, hands me a bra, a dark blue T-shirt, a pair of jeans.

  Don’t what? I drop the clothes, put my hands over my eyes, try to still the rising fury. No. Not at my girl. Hold steady.

  Please don’t cry. We talked about this at length. You knew we had to do it. It was time. Please. I hate to see you cry. Look, I’m crying, too. She picks up the clothes, puts them on my lap. Here. Please. Get dressed. Please don’t cry.

  I take my hands away from my face, show her my dry eyes. I’m not crying. One doesn’t cry over things like this. You get mad. You take action.

  Fiona runs her fingers through her hair, rubs her eyes. I just don’t get you, Mom. You never crack. Not through any of this. Not through Dad’s death. Not even when Grandmother died.

  That’s not true, I say.

  Which wasn’t true? Dad or Grandmother?

  What your father and I had was private. I grieved in my own way.

  What about Grandmother? I was only nine, but I remember you coming home from Philadelphia. It was right before dinner. I was doing my homework at the kitchen table.

  You know, I seem to recall this.

  Yes. You came in, changed your clothes, sat down, and ate a huge meal. Roast chicken with mashed potatoes. Amanda had made it, and she and Peter came over and ate with us. Dad was off somewhere on one of his business trips. Mark was at football practice. And we sat and talked about nothing. Your recent surgeries.

  Amanda’s wayward students. My math scores. And your mother had just died.

  About which I could do nothing.

  But it was your mother. Your mother! Wouldn’t you expect someone to grieve even a little bit?

  Of course. Unless one were a monster.

  But you didn’t.

  You don’t know, I say. You just don’t know.

  My voice is raised. A woman in lavender, a badge attached to her shirt, passes by the open door to my room, glances in, sees Fiona, hesitates, then passes on.

  I was there, Mom. Unless you’re saying you got it all out on the two-hour flight between Philadelphia and O’Hare.

  But I didn’t lose my mother that day.

  I start getting dressed. It takes concentration. These are the pants. First one leg, then the other. This is the shirt. Three holes, the largest one for the head. Pull it down to the neck. There.

  The day before then.

  No. I had lost my mother years before.

  I find my shoes. Slip-ons. I stand up, still holding on to the bed. I test the floor, find it steady, and stand up straight. Fully dressed. Where is my suitcase. The discharge nurse.

  Here, fix your hair. She hands me a comb. You mean . . . ?

  My mother was long gone by the time she died. Her mind had rotted out. She spent the last eight years of her life among strangers.

  I walk around the bed, looking but not finding.

  Oh. Yes, I see. Now I know what you’re talking about. Now I know.

  No, I don’t think you do. I don’t think you could. Unless you’ve experienced it yourself.

  Fiona gives a little half smile. And how do you experience it, Mom?

  As termites eating away at my emotions. Nibbling at the edges at first, then going deeper until they destroy. Robbing me of my chance to say good-bye. You think, Tomorrow, or next week. You think you still have time.

  But all the while the termites are doing their work, and before you know it, it’s no longer possible to feel the loss honestly or spontaneously. Most people start acting at that point. I’m not capable of that. Hence, no funeral. Hence, no tears.

  I can’t imagine that.

  Believe me, it happens.

  Maybe to you. But not to me.

  You think not. But you don’t know.

  I do know. I do. I still feel. Everything. You have no idea.

  Yes, well. Apparently not. What’s that expression? Other people’s troubles are easily borne. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for you and your pain. But I’ve had enough of this morbid talk. I want to go home. Let’s go.

  I start looking again for my suitcase. I had put it here. Next to the bed.

  No, Mom.

  What do you mean, no? I’m ready—I packed last night.

  Mom, you pack every night. And every morning the
aides unpack you.

  Why would they do that?

  Because you live here now. Because this is your home. See? Look at your things. Look at your photographs! Here’s one of all of us on Mark’s high school graduation.

  Yes, I miss the children. They left one day.

  Mom, we went to college.

  It was more interesting when they were around. I tried not to mind, but I did.

  Well, you have plenty of people to keep you company here. I saw lots of them in the dining room, eating breakfast. Laughing and talking. It’s time for you to get over there yourself. Eat something. You’ll feel better.

  Yes, but it’s time to go home. I’ll eat breakfast there.

  Not quite yet. You don’t want to insult your hosts, do you?

  What an utterly ridiculous question. You don’t keep guests against their will. What kind of host would do that? Let’s just go. They’ll understand. I’ll write a thank-you card later. Sometimes you just have to dispense with the niceties.

  Mom, I’m sorry.

  What are you sorry for? I’m ready.

  Mom, I can’t. You can’t. This is where you live now.

  No.

  Mom, you’re breaking my heart.

  I give up on the suitcase and make for the door.

  If you won’t take me, I’ll get a cab.

  Mom, I have to go now. And you have to stay.

  She is openly crying, goes to the doorway of the room, waves her arm, flags down the woman who had passed through before. I need some help here.

  Suddenly there are others in the room. Not anyone I know. Unfamiliar faces. They are pulling at me, preventing me from following Fiona out the door, telling me to be quiet. Why should I be quiet? Why should I take this pill? I close my mouth tight against it. Struggle to free my arms. One is being held behind my back, the other straight out. A prick, a sting on the inside of my elbow.

  I fight, but feel the strength ebbing from my body. I close my eyes. The room is spinning. I am pushed onto a buoyant surface covered with something warm and soft.

  She’ll be out for a while.

  Good thing! Man, she’s strong. What caused this?

  I don’t know. Her daughter visited. Usually that’s a good thing. Not like when that son comes around.

  Why do we put up with it?

  Friends in high places. She used to be some muckety-muck doctor.

  I try holding on to their words, but they evaporate. The chattering of creatures not of my species. I lift my right arm, let it flop back down. Do it again. And again. It reassures. It hypnotizes. I do it until my arm is too heavy to lift anymore. Then, blessed sleep.

  I open my eyes. James. A very angry James. How unusual. Usually he expresses dissatisfaction by refusing to eat the rare dinner I’ve cooked or by strolling in late to one of our children’s birthday parties. Once he threw my favorite pair of broken-in tennis shoes outside into the garden—the ones I used for my longest and most delicate surgeries. I found them later, covered with mud and infested with earwigs.

  What is it? What happened? I ask now.

  But he isn’t paying attention to me. It isn’t me he’s angry with.

  Who let her in? he asks. He is speaking to the other woman in the room, one wearing green scrubs and a name tag. Ana.

  We had no reason to know, she says.

  I gave explicit instructions that no one could see my mother except those on the list I gave Laura.

  Laura doesn’t screen everyone who comes to the ward.

  Who does?

  No one person does. Whoever is on duty. It’s very secure. They have to sign in. They have to show ID. And they can’t get out until we let them out. It’s a locked ward, as you know.

  Who was on duty that day?

  I don’t know. You’d have to ask Laura.

  I will. You bet I will.

  Mr. McLennan? A tall woman with gray hair waved back off her face has come into the room. She is wearing an auburn blazer that matches the carpet, and a knee-length black skirt. Sensible shoes. The way I used to dress when not in scrubs.

  Laura, James says.

  I understand you are upset by what you perceive as a breach of security.

  Yes, he says. Very much.

  She was a police officer pursuing an investigation. She showed her ID. She signed in and signed out. It was all properly done.

  Did she read my mother her rights?

  That I couldn’t tell you. I’m sorry.

  James’s face reddens. We are about to witness something uncommon: James losing his temper. He almost always stays in control. Even in the courtroom, he prefers to keep his voice low. It makes for good theater. People have to lean close, strain to hear. I’ve never seen a jury so rapt as when James is lovingly murmuring all the reasons they should acquit.

  But before things erupt, James notices I’m awake. Mom, he says, and bends down and gives me an awkward half hug. He is dressed oddly, for James. Not his casual clothes of jeans and a T-shirt. Not business attire either. No suit. Tan-colored cotton trousers and a white shirt. Black sneakers. But he is young and vibrant and handsome as ever.

  Why are you calling me that? James, it’s me. Jennifer. How glad I am to see you!

  James’s face softens. He sits down on the edge of the bed, takes my hand. And how have you been?

  Well. Very well. Missing you. How tired you look. They work you too hard. How was New York?

  New York was good, he says. I tripped the light fantastic. Went out on the town. Painted it red. He pats my hand.

  Now you’re patronizing me, I say. I have a temper, too. Stop talking to me like I’m an imbecile. What happened? It was the Lewis case, wasn’t it? A tricky deposition? Did it not go well?

  I’m sorry, Mom. You’re absolutely right. I was being patronizing. And you probably get enough of that here. He glances back at the gray-haired woman. I’ll come talk to you later, he says.

  There is an ominous tone in his voice. There is something wrong with his face, too. Some trick of light. It is fading away, and the features are rearranging themselves, transmogrifying into someone who is not-James.

  James? Why are you calling me that?

  Mom, I know Fiona shines you on, and that’s okay, but it’s, well, it’s not my way. I am Mark. You are my mother. James is my father. James is dead.

  Mr. McLennan, the gray-haired woman interrupts. She is still standing by my bed.

  I said I’ll come to your office. When I’m done here.

  James! I say. My anger is dissipating. Turning into something else, something unsettlingly like fear.

  If I can make a recommendation, Mr. McLennan . . .

  No. I can handle this on my own, thank you.

  James!

  Shhh, Mom, it’s okay.

  Okay, the gray-haired woman says. She does not look pleased. If she becomes too agitated, push the red button there.

  The door closes behind her.

  James, what was that about?

  Not James, Mom. Mark. Your son.

  Mark is a teenager. He just got his driver’s license. He took the car out last week without asking, and now he’s grounded for a month.

  Yes, that happened. But many years ago. Not-James smiles. And it wasn’t a month. Dad relented, as he always did. I think I had to stay inside for three days. You were furious.

  He was always able to charm his way out of anything. Just like you.

  Not-James sighs. Yes, just like me. Like son, like father.

  James?

  Never mind, he says. He reaches over and takes my hand, holds it against his cheek.

  These hands, he says. You know, Dad used to say, All our lives are in your mother’s hands. Be careful of them. I didn’t understand what he meant. I’m still not quite sure, completely. But something about how you were the center. You were it.

  He takes my hand from his cheek, clasps it between both of his.

  He was very proud of you, you know. Whatever else may have happened. When I was small, and
you were late coming home from the hospital, he used to take me into your office. He’d show me all your diplomas and awards. These are the credentials of a real woman, he’d say. It scared the hell out of me. Small wonder I haven’t married.

  You’re nobody’s fool.

  No. Whatever I am, I’m not that.

  He is fading fast into the shadows. I cannot see his face anymore at all. But his hand is warm and substantial. I grasp it and hold on.

  Do me a favor, he says.

  What’s that?

  Talk to me. Tell me about what life is like for you right now.

  James, what kind of game is this?

  Yes, call it a game. Just tell me about your life. A day in the life. What you did yesterday, today, what you’ll do tomorrow. Even the boring stuff.

  A silly game.

  Humor me. You know how it is. You think you know someone, you take things for granted, you lose touch. So just talk to me.

  What is there to tell? You know it all.

  Pretend I don’t. Pretend I’m a stranger. Let’s start with the basics. How old are you?

  Forty-five. Forty-six? At my age you don’t count so carefully anymore.

  Married, of course.

  To you.

  Right. And how are the children these days?

  Well, I already told you about Mark.

  The charming, intelligent, delightful one. Yes.

  My daughter is another matter altogether. She was a gregarious, outgoing child. But she’s closed down now. They say girls do. And that you get them back, eventually. But right now we’re in the middle of the dark years.

  It’s a mother-daughter thing.

  I suspect so.

  I can promise you that it does work out.

  You have psychic powers?

  Something like that.

  Well, that would be something to look forward to.

  You say that so mournfully. Yet you have a very rich, very full life.

  The forties are a hard decade for women. I’d be the first to admit it. Lost hair, lost bone density, lost fertility. The last gasp of a dying creature. I’m looking forward to getting on the other side. A rebirth.

  That sounds like something Amanda would say.

  It does, doesn’t it? Well, we’re close. You pick things up.

  You were a formidable pair. When I was small, I thought all women were like you and Amanda. God help anyone who didn’t treat me the way you thought I should be treated! Avenging angels.