She is one of a kind.
She was, indeed. He pauses. Did the detective ask about her?
What detective?
A woman here earlier this week. Did she ask about Amanda’s enemies? Whether there was anyone that wished her harm?
Oh, lots of people did, I would imagine. How could they not? She is difficult. Like you just said, an avenging angel. That is her genius— spotting the carcass before it has begun to rot. She out-vultures the vultures.
A nice way to talk about your best friend.
She’d be the first to admit it. She senses weakness and goes in for the kill.
Whereas when you saw weakness you chose to heal.
I wouldn’t say that’s why I chose surgery. Not exactly.
Did you and she ever fight?
Once or twice. Almost breached our friendship. We would declare a truce almost immediately. The alternative was too horrifying to contemplate.
What would that horror have been, if a breach had occurred?
For me, loneliness. For her I can’t guess.
It sounds like an alliance rather than a friendship. Like the treaties between heads of state, each with powerful armies.
Yes, it was a bit like that. Too bad she doesn’t have children. We could have arranged marriages between our two houses.
Created a dynasty.
Exactly.
I have some other questions, but you look tired.
Perhaps. I had a long day of surgeries. One particularly difficult one. Not technically difficult. But it was a child with meningococcemia. We had to take off both his hands at the wrist.
I never did understand how you could do what you did.
The father was distraught. He kept asking, But what about the kitten? He loves the kitten. It turns out he wasn’t worried about eating, writing, or playing the piano, but about the child losing the soft feel of fur against a certain part of the body. Trying to reassure him that other areas of the epidermis were equally sensitive to the feel of fur didn’t do any good. We had to medicate him almost as much as his son.
Sometimes that’s how you grieve. In the small ways. Sometimes those are the only ways open to you.
I wouldn’t know.
Oh?
My losses have been minimal. Containable. Small enough that they don’t need to be broken down any further to be processed. Except when I lost my parents, of course. My dear father. My exasperating mother. There I managed to compartmentalize, to shut off the particular horrors that way.
You’re lucky, then.
I forgot your name.
Mark.
You look familiar.
Lots of people tell me that. I have that kind of face.
I think I am tired.
I’ll go now, then.
Yes. Shut my door behind you, please.
The good-looking stranger nods, leans down to kiss me on the cheek, and leaves. Just a stranger. Then why do I miss him so much?
Wait! Get back here! I call. I command.
But no one comes.
When I have a clear day, when the walls of my world expand so that I can see a little ahead and a little behind me, I plot. I am not good at it. When watching the heist movies that James loves, I am impressed by the trickery the writers think up. My plots are simple: Walk to the door. Wait until no one is looking. Open the door. Leave. Go home. Bar the front entrance against all comers.
Today I look at the photo I picked out. Labeled clearly: Amanda, May 5, 2003. My handwriting?
In the photo, Amanda is dressed simply but severely in a black blazer and pants. Her thick white hair is pulled back in a businesslike bun. She has just come from a meeting, something official. The expression on her face is a mixture of triumph and bemusement. The memory tickles, then slowly returns.
I had heard a story about her, told to me by one of my colleagues at the hospital whose son attended a school in Amanda’s district. One of many such stories that had been whispered over the years in the neighborhood.
But this one was different, more extreme. It concerned an eighth-grade history teacher. A plausible rogue. Stocky and shorter even than some of the students, he nevertheless charmed. A thick mop of ragged black hair and dark eyes to match. Refined features and a low, thrilling voice with which he told delightful stories about authority subverted, injustices corrected, wrongs revenged. Even Fiona, as world-weary as she was at thirteen, had been enthralled when she was in his class.
Parents watched him carefully, especially around girls, but there was never a hint of impropriety. He always left his door open when with a student, never contacted one outside of school by phone or by e-mail. Never touched a student, not even a casual hand on the arm.
Why had Amanda disliked him so much? Perhaps only because he took the easy way out as a teacher, choosing popularity over her more rigorous and less appreciated pedagogical methods. And then, acting on an anonymous tip, the police raided his classroom, found pornography on the computer. A terrific scandal ensued, but the fact that it was a school computer, left mostly unattended in an unlocked room, made the police hesitate to prosecute. He still quit. My guess was that he couldn’t bear his students looking at him as anything but a hero. But soon after he left, the rumors began. That he had been set up, that it had all been engineered. That someone powerful wanted him out. No one actually said Amanda’s name.
I asked her about it. I remember that day, the day of the photograph. She’d stopped by to say hello, was waiting in my vestibule to be asked in. I kept her waiting.
Did you have anything to do with Mr. Steven’s ouster? I asked.
To my surprise, she looked uncomfortable. Extraordinary, really. There was a pause before she answered.
Do you believe I would do such a thing? she asked, finally.
That’s not an answer.
There was another pause.
I don’t think I’ll give you one, she said. After all, whoever actually put the pornography on that computer would face federal charges. I think I’ll take the fifth.
She started to smile, but then stopped. What are you doing? she asked.
Getting the camera.
Why?
To capture the expression on your face.
Again, why?
It’s an unusual one. One I’ve never seen before. There. Done.
I’m not sure I’m pleased about this.
I’m not sure I care, I said. And now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got some paperwork to do.
And I closed the door on her face—not something I had ever dared to do before. As I recall, we left it at that. We never referred to it again, as was our way. But I thought the interchange significant enough to print the photo and put it in my album. Amanda, accused. I might have added, Jennifer, marginally victorious. For once.
Dubuffet. Gorky. Rauschenberg. Our eclectic tastes in art amused the people around us. But James and I were always in absolute agreement. We’d see a print or lithograph and would know without even looking at each other that it must be ours.
It was an obsession that grew with our means, became an addiction. And sometimes there was the pain of withdrawal. There was that Chagall we saw in a Paris gallery: L’événement. Love and death, love and religion. Our favorite themes. We talked about it for years, I even dreamed about it, became the bride in the chicken’s belly, was seduced by the tunes played by the levitating fiddler, drifted in a glorious world of deep blues and warm reds. So far above us, yet like spoiled children, we longed for it.
They tried, of course, to conceive, Peter and Amanda. My guess is that no egg was tough enough to implant itself into her impenetrable womb. For she was hard through and through. A tough old bird, I overheard a neighbor say at a party. A prize bitch, was the response. But not always. No. There was how she treated Fiona. She took her role as Fiona’s godmother seriously. Even though it started as a joke.
Fiona was never baptized, we had no intention of ever doing such a thing, heathens that we were. Yet the day after I brough
t Fiona home, and Amanda and Peter came over with a bottle of champagne, I announced that I wanted Amanda to be Fiona’s godmother.
A fairy godmother? Peter had teased.
I dipped my fingers into my champagne glass and sprinkled some of the bubbles onto Fiona’s tiny wrinkled red forehead. She awoke and let out a piteous wail.
Amanda was taken aback by these developments.
And what if my christening gift turns out to be a curse? She did an imitation. On your sixteenth birthday, you will prick your finger . . .
We all laughed. No, give her a real blessing, James urged.
Well then, Amanda said, and cleared her throat. Became solemn, to all of our surprise. Serious she was frequently; solemn, never.
Fiona Sarah White McLennan. You will inherit the many strengths of both your mothers, she said. Both your birth mother—she raised her glass to me—and your godmother. Here she toasted herself, took a sip. And you will have the love and support of both of us no matter what happens. Nothing except death can or will separate us from you. Never forget that.
For good measure, Amanda threw another sprinkle of champagne on Fiona.
And now comes one of those moments. A shift in perception, a wave of dizziness, and an awareness. It comes to me. What Fiona was going through. Amanda already gone. Me slipping away. Every day a little death. Fiona at three days old being told she could never separate, that she would always remember. A curse indeed.
A red-haired woman sits opposite me. She knows me, she says. Her face is familiar. But no name. She tells me but it evaporates.
How are you? she asks.
Well, I don’t tell many people this, I say, but my memory is shot.
Really? That’s terrible.
Yes, it is, I say.
So I’m curious, the woman says. What do you remember about me?
I look at her. I feel I should know her. But there is something wrong.
I’m Magdalena, she says. I changed my hair color. Just felt like it. But it’s still me. She tugged at her hair. Now do you remember?
I try. I stare at her face. She has brown eyes. A young woman. Or youngish. Past child-bearing age, but not like me yet. A melancholy face. I shake my head.
Good, she says.
That surprises me. Pleasantly. Most people are distressed or get angry. Aggrieved.
I need an ear, the woman says. I want to say something, and then I want it to vanish. A kind of confession. But I don’t want it in anyone’s brain, even if they are sworn to secrecy. And I don’t want a traditional confession, to do penance for it, because I’ve already finished with that. No one has suffered more for this than I have. And I don’t even have to ask you not to tell it. That’s the beauty of it all.
I have no objections. It is a sleepy heavy day. The kids are at school. I don’t have any surgeries scheduled. I nod to continue.
She takes a deep breath. I sold drugs. To kids. I took my grandchildren to the playground at the middle school. I sold lots of stuff. Pot, of course. But also Ecstasy, speed, even acid.
She stops and looks at me. No shock, she says. That’s a good beginning.
She continues: Then, one day, one of my grandkids got into my stash. Swallowed some LSD. She was just three years old. Three! I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t take her to the hospital. So I didn’t. I just sat with her in a dark room and held her hand while she screamed. Screamed and screamed. Hours of it.
The red-haired woman covers her eyes with her hands. I am patient. I will hear this out.
She was calmer when my daughter came to pick her up, but not enough. My daughter was already suspicious. She knew I had been a user. She knew I had friends, still. And so that was the end. She didn’t turn me in. It was close, but she didn’t. She said I needed to get help, get off the stuff, and if I did she wouldn’t report me. But she also wouldn’t speak to me again. So I did it. Went to rehab.
But despite that, lost my family anyway.
I don’t say anything. At the clinic, strung-out teenagers are a dime a dozen. And occasionally we get children. Mostly children who had gotten into their parents’ bottom drawers. Behind the socks or underwear. Occasionally one that had been given the stuff on purpose. I treated everyone, let the staff deal with the legal and moral issues, which didn’t concern me.
But why tell me this? I ask.
I’ve needed someone to pass this on to. Someone who wouldn’t be shocked and wouldn’t wince at the stink of me. You’ve got a practical and resilient kind of morality. You forgive trespasses.
No, I say. I wouldn’t call it forgiveness.
No? What is forgiveness but the ability to accept what someone has done and not hold it against them?
But to forgive, something has to touch you personally. This hasn’t touched me. That’s why I stopped believing in God. Who could worship someone that narcissistic, who takes everything anyone does as a personal affront?
You don’t really believe that. I know you don’t. She gestures toward the statue of Saint Rita. You have faith. I’ve seen it.
What is your name?
Magdalena. And do you remember what else I’ve told you?
I pretend to think, although I already know the answer. No, I say finally. I wait for the exclamations, the reminder, the subtext of blame. But it doesn’t come. Instead, relief. No, something more. Release.
Thank you, she says, and takes her leave.
A man is in my room. Hyperactive. Hopped up on something. Eyes dilated, jittery, moving around too fast. Fingering my things, picking them up, and putting them back down again. My comb. The photo of the man and woman and boy and girl. He grimaces at the latter and puts it down again.
He is wearing black trousers, a pressed white and blue shirt, a tie. He does not look completely comfortable.
We were apparently in the middle of a conversation, but I have lost the thread.
And so I told her, it’s time for a truce. No more squabbling. After all, we used to be so close. And she agreed. But with reservations, I could tell. Always so cautious. Always playing it safe.
What are you talking about? I ask. I see, with alarm, that he is tracing his finger around the edge of my Renoir, his fingers coming perilously close to the young woman’s red hat.
Oh, never mind. Just babbling. Trying to keep the conversation going. So. You do your part. You tell me something. He’s now opening and shutting the top drawer of my bureau, sliding it in and out, in and out.
Like what? His movements are making me dizzy. Now he is on the move again, flitting from one object to another, examining everything with great interest.
He seems especially fascinated by my paintings. He moves from the Renoir to the Calder, from the left side of the room to the right, and then to the center, where my Theotokos of the Three Hands glows from its place above the door frame.
There is some connection here, something that tickles about this man and this particular piece. History.
Tell me what you did today. He sits down briefly on the chair next to my bed, then quickly stands up again, continues pacing.
I can more easily tell you about what happened fifty years ago, I say. I struggle out of my bed, holding on to the rails for support. Wrapping my gown around me in some semblance of modesty, I sit myself in the chair he has vacated.
So tell me. Something I don’t know.
And who are you again?
Mark. Your son. Your favorite son.
My favorite?
That was just a joke. Not a lot of competition for that honor.
You do remind me of someone I know.
Glad to hear it.
A boy living in the graduate dorm at Northwestern. Dark like you. Restless like you.
The man stops. I have his attention. Tell me more about him, he says.
Not much to tell, really. A bit of a ladies’ man. More than a little of a pest. Always knocking on my door, trying to entice me to put down my books and come out to play.
Which I am sure you woul
d not do. This was when you were in medical school?
No. Before that. When I still wanted to be a medieval historian. I smiled at my words, so implausible.
What changed your mind? The man has settled down, is leaning against the door frame, his fingers drumming against his chest.
My thesis. The conflict in the medieval medical community between applying traditional folkloric remedies and following the precepts found in Avicenna’s Canon of Medicine.
Whew. Glad I asked.
I had a double undergraduate degree in history and biology. My thesis was a way of combining both my passions. But I fell in love with the Canon. I spent more and more time at the medical school, interviewing professors and students, observing. The dissections especially captivated me. I wanted a scalpel so badly. One of the students noticed. He allowed me to shadow him, took me down into the lab after hours, showed me the procedures he was learning, put the knife in my hand, and guided my first incisions.
Dr. Tsien?
Yes. Carl.
Is that how you met? I never knew.
My first mentor.
I’ve always wanted to know, was there anything between you? Anything romantic, I mean?
No, never. He just recognized a fellow addict. He was the first person I told that I was quitting the PhD program to apply for medical school. My biggest supporter when I chose orthopedic surgery. The medical establishment was not exactly friendly to the idea of a woman in that role.
And what about that guy, that party animal in your dorm? The man is smiling wryly.
Oh. Yes. Him. Another unexpected detour. My life was full of surprises around then. By that I mean I surprised myself. So many about-faces. So many disruptions of well-laid plans.
You and Dad didn’t talk much about your early years. I got the impression that both of you spent them in a bit of a daze. Him in law school, you beginning medical school. And by all accounts completely besotted with each other. Dr. Tsien spoke about it sometimes, with a bit of envy, I always thought.
Yes. It was that.
You don’t seem inclined to talk about it. Neither was Dad.
I’d rather not.
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