Turn of Mind

by Alice LaPlante

  He shrugs and turns away, busies himself at some machinery with complicated handles, and then places a tall frosted glass filled with something frothy and yellow in front of you. What is this. Where am I. You suddenly have a revelation. You are Jennifer White. You live at 544 Walnut

  Lane, in Germantown, in Philadelphia, with your beloved mother and father. You are eighteen years old and have just started classes at the University of Pennsylvania. A biology major. Your life stretches out in front of you, a clear path, no encumbrances to speak of. There is a cold beer in front of you. Your first in a restaurant! You have never ordered a beer on your own before. You have every reason to be lighthearted. Suddenly you are.

  You notice another glass at your elbow. This one is smaller, not cold. Filled with a rich amber-colored liquid. You pick it up and swallow. It burns going down, but it is not distasteful. You drink again, and it is gone.

  Another? asks the man. You are startled. You did not realize he was still there, still watching. You nod. You test out your voice again.

  Certainly, you say.

  He gives a short laugh and again you catch that look. He places another small glass on the counter, pours, pushes it in your direction. You leave it there, turn your attention to the tall cold glass, and take a sip. This goes down easier. Beer, yes.

  Your father always pours a small amount into a teacup for you whenever he opens one for himself. This one quenches your thirst in a way the other one didn’t. You drink deeply. You are starting to feel good—you hadn’t noticed how on edge you had been. That edge is dissipating. Slow, pleasurable warmth. A heaviness of limbs. Colors are brighter, the noise subdued. You have traveled into a private space within the organism, a private pocket of comfort. You love it here. You will come back every night. You will bring your mother and father and let them work their considerable magic on these delightful people, your comrades.

  The bartender puts a napkin and some silverware in front of you. You pick up the knife. There is something about this. Something that is familiar yet strange. You have a sense of anticipation. You press the sharp edge of the knife against the wooden counter, press and pull it toward you. A white line appears in the wood, straight and true.

  If you could press harder, split open this dark matter, what would come out? What would be revealed? O the excitement of exploration! You pick up your beer again and drink some more. Good. You had not realized how tight your shoulders were, the tension in your neck.

  Waiting for someone?

  The voice is from a girl to your left. She is about your age, you estimate. Perhaps a little older. Twenty. Twenty-two perhaps. Very pretty. Her hair cut so that it hangs longer on one side of her face than the other, and fringed unevenly at the edges. It is not unattractive. She has a nice smile. Her eyes are ringed with blue, mascaraed to bring out their size and brilliance.

  Am I? You consider this. You want to answer, but you do not yet trust that the words will match your intent. You try.

  No, you say. I’m alone.

  You are heartened that she is not disconcerted. You try again. I was hungry, you say. This looked nice.

  Oh, it’s a great little place. We love it. She gestures to a young man on the other side of her. He watches the television. And Ron takes good care of everyone. She smiles at the man behind the counter. He leans forward to you and speaks confidentially.

  If this young lady gives you any trouble, just let me know. I’ll take care of her, he says. The pretty girl laughs.

  A plate of noodles covered with thick red sauce appears in front of you. It smells fabulous. You are ravenous. You pick up the fork and begin eating.

  So, let me guess. You’re a professor. This is the young man to the girl’s left. He has forsaken the television, the beautiful girls, and now seems to be addressing you.

  Excuse me? You wipe your mouth. The food is as good as it looks. The noodles al dente, the sauce rich and aromatic with spices. So much better than what you could do. James is the real cook, the children’s faces fall when they come into the kitchen and find you there.

  The girl interrupts. Oh, it’s just a game we play in bars. Guessing who people are, what they do. He thinks you look like a college professor. I can see that. But I need to think about it before I guess. There’s a lot at stake! Winner has to buy everyone a round of drinks. She puts her hand to her forehead, acts as if she is thinking hard. Definitely someone professional, she says. You weren’t just a housewife.

  The young man hits her playfully on the arm.

  Okay, okay, I shouldn’t say that. It’s just that you look like you’ve been out in the world more.

  The young man hits her again.

  Oh, did I say something else stupid?

  No, you say. The words come out smoothly. You are saying what you mean to say. Relief. The path between your brain and your tongue is open.

  And, yes, I am most definitely not a housewife, you tell her.

  You realize your voice sounds contemptuous. James always warns you about this. You wrap another length of pasta around your fork. You take another bite. You have not been this hungry in a long time. There were only five women in my program, you explain.

  What type of program was that? No, let me guess. The young man is enthusiastic. I’m good at this. You’ll see. My guess is . . . English literature. Medieval poetry.

  The girl rolls her eyes. How sexist can you be? A woman, she must be an English major, must be poetry.

  Well, what would you guess, Einstein?

  The man behind the bar breaks in. Given the way she throws back her drink, I’d say something a little tougher. Engineering. You built bridges, right?

  No, no. You are laughing. It has been so long since you have enjoyed yourself so much. These fresh young faces, their ease, no trepidation around you. You realize, suddenly, that you have been frightening people. That thing you see in their eyes, it is fear. But what have they to fear from you?

  What’s your guess, Annette? The young woman pretends to think hard. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say lawyer, she says. I bet you defend the poor and defenseless of the world against unfair prosecution.

  No, no, you say. Never a lawyer. Words have never been my forte. That’s my husband.

  See? I was close!

  Well, I wouldn’t exactly call him a friend of the underprivileged, you say. The thought makes you smile.

  Then what would you call him? asks the girl.

  The last resort of the rich and powerful. And he’s very good at what he does. He always gets them off. He’s worth every one of the considerable pennies he charges.

  Something closes down in the girl’s face. And you? she asks.

  You realize that you have erred. That you have forgotten the hypersensitivity of the young. Fiona and Mark were inured to it early. The cynical joking about it around the dinner table. During Mark’s teenage years, he insisted on opening up every meal with a particularly egregious lawyer joke. He was hoping to get to James, but that wasn’t the way. He’d bring his own to the table.

  How can you tell the difference between a dead skunk and a dead attorney on the road? Then, after a pause, he’d triumphantly bring out the punch line: The vultures aren’t gagging over the skunk.

  The girl is still waiting for your answer.

  I’m a doctor, you tell her. An orthopedic surgeon.

  That’s bones, right? the young man asks.

  Yes. It’s more than just the bones. It’s everything to do with injuries, degenerative diseases, birth defects. I specialize in hands.

  Annette does hands, too.

  The girl laughs. He means I read palms. I took a Learning Annex class in psychic skills. Most of us were there as postmodern cynics. But I learned some things.

  Chiromancy, you say. You’d be surprised how many believers there are. There’s been a considerable amount of research into palm creases and fingerprint whorl variations published in medical journals.

  Really? The girl leans forward. She turns sli
ghtly and it’s her turn to hit the young man. See? I told you! She turns back to you. Like what?

  For a long time scientists have been interested in exploring whether phenotypic markers can diagnose genetic disorders.

  Can you say that in English?

  Certainly. Doctors have always been interested in whether they can use the lines in your hands and the length of your fingers and even your fingerprints as a way of diagnosing illness.

  Like what kind of illnesses?

  Mostly genetic. For example, there turns out to be a strong correlation between a single palmar crease and aberrant fingerprints and Cri Du Chat syndrome.

  Cri Du Chat? Cry of the cat? the young man asks.

  Yes, because babies born with this defect mew like cats. They are usually severely mentally impaired. Then there’s Jacobsen Syndrome. Also diagnosable by the hands.Very similar to Down.

  Are there any happy diagnoses you can make with the palm? Annette likes telling people they have long lives and will come into riches some day.

  Unfortunately, most of the deviations from the normal in hand characteristics point to problems, often severe ones. But one researcher claims to have found a strong correlation between different ratios of finger lengths and exceptional musical ability. You pause. Of course, that’s just statistically speaking. Look. You hold out your right hand. See how my index finger is just as long as my middle finger? That’s statistically abnormal. Yet I don’t have any genetic defect that I know of.

  Let me see your hand, the girl says, somewhat abruptly. You hesitate, then let her take it. She leans over your palm, frowning.

  How’s my life line? you ask.

  Oh, no one believes that one anymore. Good thing, too. According to your life line, you had a very short life. You’re dead, technically. But otherwise, you are intellectual rather than materialistic. You have the power to manipulate, but you choose not to exercise it. And your life has not been especially fortunate.

  You’re using past tense, you say. Is that because I’m technically dead?

  I’m sorry?

  You didn’t say, your life will not be especially fortunate, but that it has not been.

  The girl blushes. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that your life is over. You don’t act old.

  You are puzzled. Why should I? you ask.

  You’re right, I’m stereotyping. Blame it on the beer.

  But how old do you think I am? you ask.

  Oh, I’m terrible at this. Don’t ask me.

  I would guess we’re about the same age. Or that I’m slightly younger.

  The girl smiles. I deserved that. You know, I took that Internet test, the one that is supposed to tell you your real age, and I scored sixteen. All my friends scored older—thirty, thirty-two. Jim here is an old soul. His real age is thirty-five, according to the test. In actual years, he’s only twenty-four, of course.

  I’m eighteen, you say.

  Good for you! Forever young!

  Not forever, you say. Although it certainly seems that way sometimes.

  If I were really thirty-five, I’d want to slit my wrists, says the young man.

  The girl rolls her eyes. Here he goes again, she says.

  Why on earth? you ask.

  I mean, if I were thirty-five and were in the position I am now. Stupid job. Not getting on with anything. Not having written my novel. Things like that.

  Are you working on a novel? you ask. It seems like this is information that a lot of people divulge in bars, on examining tables.

  No. That’s the point. Here I am, still in my twenties, so I have an excuse. But at thirty-five you don’t have any more. Excuses, I mean.

  You’d be surprised, you say. Mark will have plenty of excuses when he’s that age. Just wait and see.

  Who is Mark?

  You are confused. Who is he?

  Just someone I know, you say. I think he might be my nephew.

  You think? The girl starts to laugh and then looks at your face and stops.

  An image rises up in front of you. A distraught face. Slight shoulders shaking. Someone in deep distress. Her face is familiar.

  Fiona, you say slowly. Fiona is someone else I know, someone I admire very much, who seems to have gotten herself into some trouble. Mark, on the other hand. You pause to think. Mark has always been in trouble.

  The girl looks confused. Fiona?

  Fiona is someone who always knows exactly what she wants and how to get it, you say slowly. But sometimes that is not the best thing. No.

  I find I don’t really like those kind of people very much, the girl says.

  No. You would like Fiona.

  The girl nods politely. She has lost interest in talking about people she doesn’t know. She whispers something to the young man next to her and he smiles in return. He has turned his attention back to the television. It’s now the national news, all bad. Catastrophes natural and manmade. Money lost by millions, upticks in flooding, natural disasters, murders committed and unsolved.

  You have finished the food on your plate, and both glasses, the tall and the short one, are empty. The heavyset man is at the other end of the counter, talking to another man in a suit.

  Do you know where the bathroom is? you ask. The girl points. There. Near the door where you came in.

  You get off the stool, stumbling slightly. You feel your way across the crowded room, using the backs of chairs and sometimes people’s shoulders, as guides. You are unsteady and feel intense pressure on your bladder.

  The door marked toilet is locked, so you wait, shifting from one foot to the other like a small child. You hear the toilet flush, water being run in the sink, and the click of the door as it finally opens. A woman emerges.

  You stumble past her and barely make it to the toilet to relieve yourself. Even so, there is a wet patch on your pant leg. You take a paper towel and rinse it out, making it more prominent than before. At least it’s not as bad as blood. You think of all the times you locked yourself in public bathrooms like this, scrubbing at pants to rid them of bloodstains from tampon overflows. For a doctor you’ve had remarkably little insight into your own body. You secreted tampons everywhere: in your purse, in the glove compartment of the car, in your desk drawer, and yet you were continually caught short. Your body was always betraying you.

  It got worse as you got older. There were days in your forties and early fifties when you hesitated to schedule surgeries because of brief, intense episodes of hemorrhaging that could happen any time. Your body defeated you in ways it had never in the past. You wore double tampons and pads underneath that. You’d go into the surgery wearing adult diapers, waddling slightly when you walked. But once the gushing started, there was no stopping it. You learned to live with the humiliation. Blood in the OR. You kept extra clothes in the office, in the car. Two years of that. You thought you might mourn the loss of fertility, but the trauma of perimenopause made you welcome it.

  You look in the mirror as you wash your hands. What you see there startles you. The very short crinkly white hair. Your face covered with red blotches, liver spots on your forehead, and the slack skin over the jawbone. Too much sun.

  You never did listen to the dermatologists, felt their cautions were old lady-ish. Now you are an old lady. Your life should be discussed in the past tense. You are suddenly tired. It’s time to go home. You exit the bathroom only to stop, disoriented.

  Where are you? A crowded restaurant. Overwhelming smells of heavy garlicky sauces. The noise makes your head ache. Bodies press up against you, propel you back into the open door of the bathroom. As if from far away, you catch sight of a door marked exit. You start to make your way toward it.

  Voices are shouting behind you. Hey! Lady! A man holding menus nods, opens the door for you. Stop her! The man sings a cheery Good evening! Evening? you ask, and then you are outside, a warm breeze caressing your face.

  When did day turn to night? The heat into deliciousness? The streetlights are on, all the shops an
d restaurants are lit and welcoming, and bright lights shine amid the leaves of the trees, which are in full bloom. People everywhere, holding hands, linking arms, the warmth of human bodies in harmony. It is a party. It is a fairyland. You plunge deep into the festive night.

  You have not lived until you have seen fish striving for the moon. By the dozens they burst out of the water, their silvery bodies flashing as they rise. The perfect shiny arc as they peak. The downward trajectory is lyrical: perfect dives back into the blue gray depths.

  The air is balmy and tropical, but the lake water frigid. How it numbs your feet and ankles. Still, there are others who would not be dissuaded. You see heads just above the water, arms reaching up and slicing through the water, a long line of heads attached to shoulders and arms. Bursts of water from the feet, those tiny motors.

  The park is nearly as bright as day—the automatic streetlights haven’t switched on. Celebratory howls emanate from the zoo. All the benches are occupied, the pavements crowded. And dogs everywhere, running, rolling, chasing balls and Frisbees, frolicking in the shallow waves. The fish continue to jump and splash.

  Ma’am? A young man is running up behind you. He is holding something in his hand.

  You forgot your shoes! He is out of breath. He stops and holds out a pair of new-looking white sneakers. He has the look of someone who expects gratitude, so you try to infuse your voice with warmth.

  Why, thank you, you say. He is still extending the shoes, so you take them, but the minute he turns his back, you drop them on the grass. Who needs shoes on a night like this? Encumbrances. They just separate your flesh from this goodly sphere, the earth.

  To your right you see a young couple vacate a bench. You sit down, not because you’re tired but because you want to watch the parade.

  And what a parade! Musicians: drummers and horn players and trombonists. You have to strain to hear them because the crickets are so loud. Then come the entertainers, the tumblers and acrobats and men on unicycles and women on stilts, all dressed in the most outlandish costumes.