Turn of Mind

Home > Nonfiction > Turn of Mind > Page 17
Turn of Mind Page 17

by Alice LaPlante


  Imposed in what way?

  Borrowed money, repeatedly. Asked for more. Hassled your friends, as well. Even stolen, for example, your icon. He got a substantial sum for that.

  I’d say, To hell with him.

  Yes, but suppose he’s cleaned up his act. And wants to reconcile.

  I’d want to know why.

  Well, you’re his mother. Isn’t that enough?

  Since I don’t know him, I don’t know why it would matter one way or another to him.

  It’s just the idea of it. And the fact that he can’t get through to you. Either you’re furious at him, or you don’t remember him. Either way, he’s lost his mother.

  How old is he?

  Maybe twenty-nine, thirty.

  In other words, old enough to survive without a mother.

  That’s the person who doesn’t know she has a son talking.

  In other words, a rational person. I’ve noticed that people with children do irrational things. Anything to protect their young.

  As you have.

  How is that?

  It means that you yourself have protected your young on occasion. Even beyond what a rational person would do.

  And how would you know that?

  Jennifer, we’ve known each other for nearly forty years. Longer than most marriages survive. There’s little I don’t know about you. What you’ve done. Or what you’re capable of doing.

  Sounds tedious. Like most marriages. Once you know everything there is to know about someone, it’s usually time to move on.

  Well, there is affection.

  Perhaps.

  And that irrational thing that’s even stronger. Love. People do strange things in the name of love.

  What exactly are we talking about here? We seem to have strayed from the subject.

  Back to the subject, then. Will you forgive Mark, your hypothetical son? Under the circumstances I just described?

  I give it some thought, try to conjure up an emotion beyond bemusement at being asked to forgive and forget when I’ve already forgotten.

  No, I say, finally. You can ask me again when I know who we’re talking about.

  But that may not happen. As you yourself said, today is a good day.

  No, it may not happen.

  At the very least, can you not do anything that will harm him in any way?

  That implies I have power over him.

  You do. More than you know at this moment.

  As I’m unlikely to remember this conversation either, what’s the point?

  Sometimes things stick. Promise?

  Hypothetically I promise not to harm this person I don’t remember. Do no harm. If you’re really a doctor, you took that oath, too. So this is an easy promise to make.

  A vision. My young mother, sporting a Peter Pan–like haircut. She who always wore her dark hair long, pulled back in a ponytail during the day, loose and flowing and beautiful at night, even throughout her long decline.

  She has her hands cupped around something precious. She is not wearing her wedding ring. Perhaps she is not even old enough to be married yet, although she met and married my father when she was eighteen. He was twenty-seven, and both sets of parents complained but were powerless to stop them.

  But this image is so much more vivid than anything in my present life. The colors vibrant, my mother’s rich chestnut hair, her milky clear complexion, the white softness of the skin on her arms, shoulders. I feel so calm looking at her. Hopeful. As if she held my future in her girlish hands and that the smile on her face was an assurance that my story would have a happy ending after all.

  Never felt guilt. Never felt shame. Until I was brought to this place. Trussed like a chicken. Denied the right to move my bowels in private. Purgatory I heard one of the other residents call it. But no. That implies that heaven is within reach once you have paid for your sins. I suspect this is a station on the one-way road to hell.

  I was fifteen, spotted with acne and smitten with Randy Busch. I was a young mother with an ever-present child at my side—Mark clung tenaciously to me until he was ten—and then I was an older pregnant woman being tested to ensure I wasn’t carrying a mutant. I was a reluctant host, during that pregnancy. I pushed Fiona out and went to sleep. I had to be nudged to take her to my breast. I simply endured those first six months, the colic, the sleepless nights, those months so critical to bonding.

  I went back to surgeries within two weeks. A cold vessel indeed. But somehow attachment grew. Fiona hated our nanny, Ana, so beloved by Mark, by us all. It was only me she cried for, when I left and when I returned. And so reluctantly I took her on.

  Someone came in this morning and brought photographs. Lovely full-color photographs. I sit in the great room and study them.

  One woman sidles over, then screams. Others come over. Others recoil. My lovely lovely pictures. One shows the excising of a tumor in the olecranon fossa. Another, a hand reattachment. I feel the twinge of muscle memory. Contrary to what people might think, the knife is not cold, the blood on latex gloves is not warm. The gloves separate you from the heat of the human body.

  From the moment I opened up the arm of a cadaver and saw the tendons, the nerves, the ligaments, and the carpal bones of the wrist, I was in love. Not for me the heart, the lungs, or the esophagus—let others play in those sandboxes. I want the hands, the fingers, the parts that connect us to the things of this world.

  The straps are too tight around my legs. I can move my arms an inch perhaps. My head from side to side. There is an IV in my arm. A bitter metallic taste in my mouth.

  Someone is sitting at my bedside. It is dark. Through the blinds a dull gleam illuminates the lower part of her face. She has the mouth of a ghoul, thin-lipped and grotesquely long. If she opened it she could swallow the world. What is this. She is taking my hand. No. She is raising it. No. Help me. She will bite into a vein, she will suck out what remains of my life.

  Stop. Please stop. They will come if you don’t stop, the ghoul says.

  She is placing something in my hand, closing my fingers around it.

  What is this. A holy relic. Did they give this to you. Why am I being so honored.

  It is a plastic bag containing a small metal disk, engraved. I can feel the protrusions. On a long chain. The bag is cold against my palm. I shake my head. I continue shaking it. The movement feels good.

  Do you know your name?

  I strain against what binds me. I do not answer.

  Dr. White. Jennifer. Do you know where you are?

  I do, but it is in pictures. No words. I am on a porch, sitting on the top step. A brisk morning in late October. The trees are golden. There is a line of pumpkins on the porch gazing at the world with horrified expressions. A daddy pumpkin, a mommy pumpkin, and a baby pumpkin. All agape at some terrible vision. That was my idea.

  I am sixteen. There is a young man coming. I am ready. My dress is short, cut square, boldly colored with blue and red geometric shapes. My boots reach just below my knees. The step is rough against my bare thighs. These boots are made for walking. Any moment now, he will be here. I am quivering with excitement.

  Dr. White?

  The young man will come. I am beloved.

  Dr. White, this is important. That medallion. It tested positive for type AB blood. Amanda O’Toole’s blood type.

  We will be charging you with first-degree murder. You will go through a mental competency examination, plead not guilty for reason of insanity, and that will be it. But I’m not happy. Because I don’t understand. And I like understanding.

  Amanda.

  That’s right, Amanda. Why did she die?

  Amanda, she knew.

  Knew what?

  She never dyed her hair. Never wore a scrap of makeup. But vain, regardless.

  Vain about what?

  A seducer. Not for sex. Secrets. She knew everything. I never figured out how. A dangerous woman.

  Yes, I can see that. I can indeed. Would you like some water?
Here let me pour you some—and here is a straw so you can drink. That’s right. Don’t strain, I’ll hold it.

  I am . . .

  Yes?

  Frightened.

  Yes.

  What will happen next?

  You will be examined. Declared mentally incompetent to stand trial. The judge will dismiss the case on the condition that you are committed to a state facility. Where you will likely end your days.

  What are the alternatives?

  Her face is becoming clearer. Not a ghoul at all. A plain, doglike face. A face you can count on.

  Untie me?

  I believe I will. I believe you are calm enough. Here—and I feel the pressure around my arms, then legs, slacken. I pull myself up to a sitting position in the bed, drink some more water. Feel the blood start flowing back into me.

  Yes. My illness is getting worse.

  And it will get worse still.

  The woman is silent for a moment. Then, I want to know why Amanda died, she says.

  I believe I could. Kill. There is that in me.

  Yes. There is that in many people. I have a recurring dream that I have killed my sister. I am overcome by shame. And afraid. Not of the punishment. Of having people know what I really am. I think that’s why I became a cop. As if the trappings of good would keep me safe from that nightmare.

  I pause and try to clear the thickness from my throat. It is hard to talk.

  The knife in my hand always felt right. The first incision, to get inside the body, that playground beneath the flesh. But those guidelines. To know what is acceptable. Stay within parameters.

  The woman stands up, stretches, sits down again.

  Jennifer. I want you to help me.

  How?

  You know something. I want you to try. She takes the plastic bag away from me, holds it up. Do you recognize this? A Saint Christopher’s medal. With your initials engraved on the back. Can you think of any reason Amanda’s blood would be on that medal?

  No.

  Did you wear the medal?

  Sometimes. As a reminder. A talisman.

  And do you have any ideas about who killed Amanda?

  I have ideas.

  The woman leaned forward.

  Are you protecting anyone? Jennifer, look at me.

  No. No. It’s better this way.

  The woman opens her mouth to talk, then looks hard at my face. What she sees there convinces her of something. She lays her hand on mine before she leaves.

  I am sitting in the great room. Although there are clusters of other residents in the vicinity, I am alone. I want to be left alone. I have much to think about. Much to plan.

  The door to the outside world buzzes, and a woman enters. Tall, brown hair cut smartly to her jawbone, carrying a suitcase made of buttery leather. She comes straight over to me, holds out her hand to be shaken. Jennifer, she says.

  Do I know you? I ask.

  I’m your attorney, she says.

  Is this about our wills? I ask. James and I just redid them. They’re in the safe-deposit box.

  No, she says. This is not about your will. Can we move over here? Good. Let me help you. Much better.

  Dog trots over, settles himself at my feet.

  How cute. Look how he loves you. She makes herself comfortable in her seat, sets her briefcase on her lap, and opens it up. This is not a happy visit, I’m afraid. It’s about your being a so-called person of interest to the police in an investigation. I have some bad news. The DA’s office has decided to charge you. In one sense, this is just a formality. You will be examined, be found mentally incompetent.

  None of this makes sense, but her face is serious, so I make mine serious too.

  The bad news is you won’t be able to stay here after that. You’ll be committed to a state hospital. I’m trying to get you into Eglin Mental Health Center here in the city. But the DA is pushing for the Retesch facility downstate, which is substantially more restrictive.

  She stops, looks at me. I don’t believe much of this is getting in.

  She sighs, then continues: I’d hoped you’d be in good enough shape today. To understand. Legally, your son has power of attorney. But I prefer to get my clients to sign, as well. Here. Here’s a pen.

  She puts something in my hand, guides it to a piece of paper, and touches its surface.

  You’re petitioning for acquittal for reasons of mental incompetence. The DA is not going to fight it. As I said, the only point of contention is where you’ll be sent. I’m sorry.

  Her face is mobile, expressive. Makeup expertly applied. I always wondered how to do that. I never bother myself—it rubs off, streaks my surgical mask, my glasses during surgery.

  The woman is now telling me something else that I can’t follow. She sighs, pats Dog absentmindedly. I’m sorry, she says again.

  She gives the appearance of waiting, perhaps for a response from me. That she considers her words bad news there is no doubt. But I have no intention of letting them touch me.

  We sit like that for several minutes. Then she slowly puts papers back in her briefcase and snaps it shut. It’s been a pleasure working for you, she says, and then she is gone. I try to remember what I have been told. I am a person of interest. Of course I am. I am.

  I am cunning. I get rid of Dog. I do this by kicking him in front of one of the aides. Then I pick him up and make as if to throw him against the wall. Shouts ensue. Dog is taken from me, forcibly. Taken off the ward at night, forbidden to come into my room. I miss him. But he would ruin my plans.

  Mom?

  I turn to see my handsome son, aged considerably but still recognizable. Someone visited this morning, a stranger to me, left abruptly when I didn’t recognize her. When I wouldn’t play along. A brash, unreasonable woman.

  How were your exams? I ask.

  My what? O, yes, they were good. They went well.

  I’m not your professor. You don’t have to be afraid I’ll flunk you.

  I’m a little . . . nervous . . . when I visit. I never know how you’ll greet me.

  You’re my son.

  Mark.

  Yes.

  Do you remember my last visit?

  You’ve never come to see me here. No one has.

  Mom, that’s not true. Fiona comes several times a week. I come at least once. But last time you told me you never wanted to see me again.

  I would never say that. Never. No matter what you’d done. What have you done?

  Never mind that now. I’m glad it’s forgotten. You weren’t exactly . . . sympathetic. But all is well now.

  Tell me.

  No. Let’s move on. Glad to see you’re in good form today. I wanted to ask if you remembered something.

  Remember what?

  Something that happened when I was around seventeen. Certainly older than sixteen, because I was driving. I’d borrowed your car to take my girlfriend out to the movies. Remember Deborah? You never liked her. You never really liked any of the girls I dated, but Deborah, my girlfriend throughout high school, you really hated. Anyway, you had a bunch of boxes filled with stuff. Deborah began rooting around in them. Just curious, or maybe it was a malicious kind of curious, because when she found it she was positively gleeful. A plastic flowered pouch filled with what Deborah said was very expensive makeup.

  Makeup? Among my things? Seems unlikely, I say.

  Well, I don’t know the names of all of it, but I did recognize mascara, lipstick, a powder compact.Various brushes. Deborah said it was all well used. She showed me a tube of magenta lipstick, half worn down. I nearly swerved off the road. I’d never seen you wear any makeup. Not a scrap. And yet here was this tube of magenta lipstick.

  Magenta is for people with no taste. I would have been, what, fifty at that time? This is sounding increasingly implausible, I say.

  Yes, I thought so. It totally disconcerted me. Like finding Dad prancing around in one of your dresses. I realized you had secrets. That there was this side of you that none of us
knew about. Where you wore mascara and magenta lipstick and needed to please in that way—a desire we’d never have attributed to you.

  Oh. Yes.

  Now you’re remembering.

  Yes, I say, and am silent. There was only one time I tried to please in that particular way.

  Well?

  How old were you?

  Like I said, probably seventeen.

  Yes. That was around the time I shifted offices—they built the new facilities on Racine and I cleaned out my filing cabinets, my desk, threw everything in boxes and into my car. Probably all sorts of odd things in there from previous lives.

  Is that all you’re going to say?

  Yes, I think so. Just history. Prehistory, as far as you are concerned. Nothing to be said about that. Now I’ve come up with something. My turn. I’m also going back to around that time. When you were seventeen. Same girlfriend. Deborah. The peddler’s daughter.

  Yes, that was your charming name for her. Because her father owned a gourmet cookware distributorship. And I know exactly what you are going to say.

  No, I don’t think so.

  You caught us. In flagrante delicto.

  Well, it would have been hard not to! Right in the middle of the living room, clothes everywhere, the noise! But that wasn’t what was important. What interested me was that when you heard my footsteps, you turned around, almost as if expecting me. You had a look of intense satisfaction on your face that quickly changed to disappointment, before the more expected embarrassment.

  Your point being?

  You’d hoped for a different witness. My guess is your father.

  Now why would I want that?

  I don’t know. Something happened between you around that time. Something after you’d interned for him when you turned sixteen, just before your senior year. You were so close until then. Then, trouble. You came home from work together one night that summer not speaking. And it lasted for years.

  I’d rather not talk about it.

  Even now?

  Even now.

  If it had something to do with a woman, you don’t have to worry about telling me. I knew it all. It didn’t change anything between your father and me.

 

‹ Prev