Turn of Mind

by Alice LaPlante

  I’ve been at work. First surgery, then on call. A busy week. I’ve been on my feet for fourteen hours a day.

  You bend your knees and lift up your feet as though presenting evidence. She doesn’t look at them. She is intent on what she is saying.

  I think you’ve been at the New Hope Clinic since this morning. But before that you were having quite an adventure.

  You’re not making much sense, you say. But then you realize that nothing much does. Why are you sitting here with a stranger, wearing clothes not your own?

  You look down at your feet and realize even the shoes are not yours: They are too wide and the wrong color: red. You never wore anything but sneakers and plain black pumps. Still, you slip them back on, struggle to stand up, fight the comfort of having firm wood support your thighs and buttocks.

  It is time to go. Home again, home again, jiggity jig. You have a vision of a train speeding past a small plot of parched earth, of a clothesline strung between wooden poles from which hang a man’s trousers, a woman’s housedress, and some frilly dresses that belong to a young girl.

  A tall dark man, a sweet melancholy face, kneeling by your side as you dig a hole in the dirt. He puts his hand in his pocket, brings out a fistful of coins, opens his hand, and lets them fall into the hole. Then he helps you push dirt over them, pat it down so there’s no trace.

  Buried treasure! he says, and laugh lines appear around his eyes. But you know what you need? he asks. A map. To remind you, so you can retrieve the treasure when you need it. I won’t forget, you say, I never forget anything, and this time he laughs out loud. We’ll come back in a year and see if you can find it, he says. But you never did.

  It’s time, you say, and begin to push yourself up.

  The woman leans over, puts a hand on your arm, and gently but firmly pulls you back to a sitting position. You went away for a minute, she says.

  I was remembering my father, you say.

  Good memories?

  Always.

  That’s something to be grateful for. She sits for a moment, motionless, then shakes her head.

  There was a disturbance at your old residence last night. A neighbor reported an attempted break-in. Was that you?

  You lift up your hands, shrug.

  If it was you, you weren’t alone; the neighbor saw two and perhaps other people at your former house. By the time we got a car there, everyone was gone.

  There is a burst of music. A sort of cha-cha. The woman gets up and retrieves a small metal object from a table, holds it to her ear, listens, says some words. She looks at you, and says something else. Then puts down the device.

  That was Fiona, she says. She’s on her way.

  Who’s Fiona? you ask. The visions come and go. You would prefer them to come and stay, to linger. You enjoy these visitations. The world would be a barren place indeed without them. But the woman isn’t listening. Suddenly she leans forward. She is focusing everything on you. She vanquishes the last remnants of your vision with her gaze.

  It’s time for the truth, she said. Why did you do it?

  Why did I do what? you ask.

  Cut off her fingers. If I understand that, I can put the rest together. If you killed Amanda, I believe it was for a reason. But I don’t believe you would kill and then maim gratuitously.

  Maim. An ugly word, you say.

  An ugly business all around.

  Some things are necessary.

  Tell me why. Why was it necessary? Tell me. This is for me. Once I take you in, once you are committed to the state facility, that’s the end of it. Case closed. But not really. It will never be, in my mind, unless I know.

  She didn’t mean for it to go that far.

  What? What didn’t she mean?

  It was coming a long time.

  Sometimes things build up. I understand. I do.

  There’s a knock on the door. The woman gets up, lets in a young woman with short hair.

  Mom! She rushes over and hugs you, won’t let go. Thank God you’re all right. You had us all so worried. Detective Luton has been a godsend.

  We’ve been going over things, says the older woman.

  The young woman’s face tightens. Yes? Does she remember? What has she told you?

  Nothing yet. But I feel we’re close. Very close.

  That’s great, the young woman says mournfully. She has not let go of your hand. If anything, she is clasping it even tighter. Mom, shhh. You don’t have to say anything. It doesn’t matter anymore. There’s nothing worse they can do to you. You will not be judged fit to stand trial. Do you understand me?

  A messy job.

  The older woman speaks up. Yes, it was a messy job. How did you get rid of the bloody clothes?

  Mom, you don’t have to say anything.

  They were taken away.

  Who took them away?

  You shrug. You point.

  Mom . . . The young woman puts her hands to her face, sits down heavily in a chair.

  Jennifer, what are you saying?

  Her. There. She took the bloody cloth, the gloves. Cleaned everything up.

  Detective Luton—Megan—I don’t know why she’s saying this.

  But it’s too late. The middle-aged woman has raised her head, the intelligence in her face aroused.

  Three women in a room. One, the young one, deeply distressed. She has taken her hands away from her face and is clasping them tightly in her lap. Wringing them. Wringing her hands. A rough motion, this grasping and twisting of the metacarpal phalangeal joints, as if trying to extract the ligaments and tendons from under the skin.

  Another woman, older, is thinking hard. She is looking at the young woman, but she is not seeing her. She is seeing images play out in her mind, images that are telling her some sort of story.

  And the third woman, oldest of all, is dreaming. Not really present. Although she knows she is wearing clothes, sitting on a hard chair, that material is pressed against her skin, she cannot feel any of it. Her body is weightless. The atmosphere has thickened. It is difficult to breathe. And time has slowed. An entire life could be lived between heartbeats. She is drowning in air. Soon, scenes will begin appearing before her eyes.

  The woman, the one that is neither old nor young, is opening her mouth. The words drop out, hang motionless in the congealing atmosphere.

  At last, something is making sense, she says. A beat of silence. Then another. Perfect sense, she says. She stands up. She is working something out. Even if your mother were capable of killing, it’s unlikely that she would have been able to cover her tracks so thoroughly. Not without help.

  The younger woman’s hands are now still, but they are gripping each other so tightly that all blood has drained from the knuckles. She closes her eyes. She doesn’t speak.

  The middle-aged woman’s voice is getting louder. She is coming alive as the young and old women shut down. That’s one of the things that saved your mother from being charged for so long. Her capacity for that kind of act was so obviously not there. But if she had assistance . . . Yours . . .

  When the young woman finally speaks, her voice is so low you can scarcely hear it. What are you going to do? she asks.

  I don’t know, says the middle-aged woman. First I have to understand.

  Understand? What is there to understand? The young woman is speaking faster now, agitatedly. Her voice is higher, pleading. She tugs at the edges of her shorn hair. Almost whining. You do not find it attractive. What does it remind you of ? Stop that. Stop it now. She did it, the young woman says, loudly. I found out. I helped her cover it up.

  Not so fast, the middle-aged woman says. I need to understand. She picks up something from the table, runs her fingers across it, puts it down before continuing. Did she give you any indication that she was angry at Amanda? That she was thinking about doing something like this?

  Absolutely not. The young woman almost interrupts, she is so eager to answer. She places her hands in her lap, one on top of the other, like
stacking bundles of kindling. Willing them not to move.

  Then how did you know to go over there? The older woman’s voice is rising. She is losing control even as the younger woman is regaining it. They are focused entirely on each other. One tamping down emotions, the other escalating them.

  I went home to check up on her. I’d been worrying. And I couldn’t sleep that night. I thought I’d spend the night there, give Magdalena a break.

  Why didn’t you tell us this?

  Because one thing would lead to another and you would ask too many questions.

  And so . . . ?

  I pulled up into the parking space next to the garage. Behind the house. And saw my mother coming down the alley. She was spattered with blood. All I could get out of her was one word: Amanda. So I took her there. And found her.

  Did your mother say why?

  She said it was blackmail.

  Blackmail?

  Yes.

  About what?

  About me. The circumstances of my birth. That my mother didn’t know who my father was. Not for sure. Amanda was going to tell.

  Tell who? Your father was dead. Who else would care?

  Me. How ironic. My mother killed to protect me. Or some idea she had about how I wouldn’t be able to handle the truth. Or perhaps it was Amanda pushing things one inch too far.

  And so you cleaned it up, the older woman says.

  And so I cleaned it all up, says the younger woman. She is even calmer now. Almost relieved.

  What did you do with the fingers?

  I wrapped them up and tossed them into the Chicago River, off the Kinzie Street Bridge.

  You did a good job of it. What about the scalpel?

  You mean the scalpel blades? I threw them out with the fingers. I tried to take the scalpel handle, too. But my mother wouldn’t let me. She took it home, along with the unused blades. You know the rest about those.

  The older woman has been pacing. Back and forth, between the wall and the desk. Yes, she says. We know the rest. She is now looking at you again. They are both looking at you. You are now visible again. You are not sure that you like that. You felt safer floating in the ether.

  But the fingers, says the older woman, suddenly. What about the fingers?

  The younger woman shudders. She turns away from you, as if she can’t bear what she sees. She answers the older woman without looking at her, either.

  I don’t know, she says. I haven’t a clue about that. It was just the way Amanda was when I found her.

  The older woman is quiet for a moment. Then she comes over, sits down next to you, and takes your hand.

  Were you able to follow this, Dr. White?

  There are pictures in my head, you say. Not gentle visitations. The other kind.

  Is that the way it happened?

  A horrifying tableau.

  Yes. Indeed it was. Can you tell us now why you dismembered her hand?

  She had something I needed. She wouldn’t give it up.

  The woman is suddenly alert, her hand reaching out and taking hold of your arm. What did you say? she asks in a soft voice that belies the strength of her grip. What did she have?

  The medal.

  The medal? The older woman is not expecting this. The Saint Christopher medal?

  The young woman sits up. She has a look on her face.

  Mom.

  You wave her away.

  Amanda had the medal. She wouldn’t give it up, you say.

  But I don’t understand. Why would she have your medal?

  Mom . . .

  There are voices outside the door, a shadow in the smoked glass at the top half of it. Then a loud knock—rat-tat-tat-tat. The woman gets out of the chair and reaches the door just as it is opening. She stops it with her foot, not letting whoever it is step inside. She speaks a few quiet words, then shuts and locks the door before sitting down again.

  You were saying, she says. About the medal.

  You do not know what she is talking about. The medal, you repeat.

  Yes, the medal. She sounds frustrated. You were about to tell me about the medal. About Amanda and the medal. What did that have to do with the fingers? She gets up again, comes around the desk, reaches out as if to grab your shoulders. To shake it out of you. But what? You are no use to her. You shake your head.

  The young woman opens her mouth to talk, hesitates, then speaks up.

  Amanda had the medal clutched in her hand. She must have grabbed it from my mother’s neck during the struggle. Then rigor mortis set in.

  The older woman backs away from you, faces the younger woman. Her face is a study.

  And so she cut open her hand to get it back.

  Fiona, you say.

  Yes, Mom, I’m here.

  Fiona, my girl.

  The older woman’s voice is cold. A fine little actress. She pauses, addresses the young woman. You know, we could charge you as an accessory.

  The younger woman is now trembling. It is her turn to get up, begin pacing the small room.

  Continue telling me about the fingers, please. Please, Jennifer. Try to remember.

  But you are quiet. You have said your piece, nothing remains. You are sitting in a strange room, with two strange women. Your feet hurt. Your stomach is empty. You want to go home.

  It’s time, you say. My father, he gets so worried.

  The young woman begins speaking again. I couldn’t pull the medal out of Amanda’s hand. She held it so tightly. Rigor mortis had set in. I panicked. I was certain someone was going to walk in. Then my mother just got to work.

  Cutting off the fingers.

  Yes.

  She went back to the house, got her scalpel and blades. Washed her hands just as if she were performing a procedure in the OR. She found a plastic tablecloth and a pair of rubber gloves from the kitchen. The tablecloth she positioned under Amanda’s hand. Then she inserted the first blade in the scalpel and cut off the fingers, one at a time, changing the blade after each amputation was complete. She had to sever all four fingers before she was able to free the medal.

  And then what did you do?

  Took her home, washed her, put her to bed. Came back and cleaned up. It was easy—I just rolled up everything in the tablecloth and drove to the Kinzie Street Bridge. Then went home to Hyde Park and waited for the police to show up. I thought there was no way they couldn’t know.

  The middle-aged woman doesn’t move for a moment.

  Jennifer?

  You wait for her to ask something else. But she seems to have run out of words.

  Some things stick, you say.

  Yes. Some things do. She looks miserable. Defeated.

  For myself, I don’t care, you say. But Fiona.

  The woman takes her hand away from you to watch Fiona, still pacing. Ten, twenty, then thirty seconds. A painful half minute. Then she makes her decision.

  No. It’s not necessary to mention any of this. Not to anyone. The worst has happened. Nothing will make a difference for Amanda. Nothing will change what will happen to your mother.

  Mom. The young woman is openly weeping. She comes over and kneels by your chair, puts her head in your lap.

  Thank you, she says to the middle-aged woman.

  It’s not for you. I have no loyalty to you.

  No one is looking at anyone else. You reach out and touch the brightly colored head. You plunge your fingers into the hair. To your surprise, you feel something. Softness. Such silken luxury. You revel in it. To have regained your sense of touch. You stroke the head, feel its warmth. It is good. Sometimes the small things are enough.

  FOUR

  She is not hungry. So why do they keep placing food in front of her? Tough meat, applesauce. A cup of apple juice, as though she is a baby. She hates the sticky sweet smell, but she is thirsty, so she drinks. She wants to brush her teeth afterward, but they say, Not now, we’ll do that later. Then, much later, the sloppy hard scrubbing, the rasp of the bristles against her tongue, the cup of w
ater brought to her lips and then taken away too soon. Rinse. Spit.

  The bulky diaper, the shame. Take me to the bathroom.

  No, I can’t, we don’t have the staff today, everyone’s on sixteen-hour shifts. Someone will change you later. Janice. I’ll send her in when she’s off break.

  Jennifer, you are not eating. Jennifer, you must eat.

  She shares her room with five other people. Four women and one man. The man sucks his toes like an infant. The nurses refer to them collectively as the Lady Killers.

  There are no niceties. There are no soft edges. There is no salvation.

  Once a day, they are let out of their room, allowed to walk around a cement courtyard. It is chilly, the season must be turning. Better than the suffocating heat. She takes care to stay away from the others, especially the contortionist, who is prone to bumping hard into people then daring them to complain.

  She walks back and forth across the courtyard, head down, not seeing, not talking. It is safer that way. Sometimes her mother walks with her, sometimes Imogene, her best friend from first grade, chattering about monkey bars and ice cream. Mostly she walks it alone. She is having visions. Angels with flame-colored hair singing in that unending hymn of praise.

  She’s doing it again. A voice nearby.

  Stop it! Stop her! Another voice, a smoker’s voice accompanied by a cough.

  The angels continue singing. Gloria in excelsis Deo. They are sending a savior. A very young man, but able. He will bring three gifts: The first gift she must not accept. The second gift she should give away to the first person who speaks to her kindly. The third gift is for her alone. This is the word of the Lord.

  Her mother, her beauty known through five kingdoms, had three royal suitors. On Good Friday one brought her a rabbit, the symbol of fertility and renewal. Not to be outdone, on All Souls’ Eve the second suitor gave her a black cat, emblematic of the witches’ Sabbath. On the night before Christmas a donkey was found tied to a tree in the front yard. A donkey in Germantown! Let that be a lesson to you, her parents said. But she accepted none of these suitors because she was waiting. And then He came.

  The laying of hands upon her, roughly. Now Jennifer, you have to stop that noise or we’ll have to put you in solitary again. Yes. What are you wailing about this time? Can you use your words? Not today, huh? Okay, then you can just stay quiet. That’s right. Shhh.