Alice LaPlante - Turn of Mind

Did it bother me that first time James didn’t come home? The night of his original sin? Briefly. And then I found out the facts, and all the pain disappeared, replaced by anger.

Not anger toward him, or at least nothing more than a slight flare-up that quickly burned itself out. No, anger directed inward. I never took myself for a dupe. I valued myself so highly that I assumed others did, too, especially those closest to me. James. The children, even during the horrors of the teenage years. Amanda, of course. I told no one but Amanda about James, and she disappointed me with the banality of her response.

There’s nothing worse than betrayal , she had said. And, When trust is gone, so is respect.

Actually, I told her, there are a lot of things worse than betrayal. And respect always precedes trust to the door.

What’s worse than betrayal?

Losing your sight. Losing the use of your arms. Just about any physical affliction or deformity.

Illness.

Yes.

If you’ve got your health, you’ve got everything. She made a face as she recited the platitude.

Pretty much.

Well, if that isn’t a self-serving attitude for a physician to have, I don’t know what is. No wonder they call you the hammer.

There are a lot of bona fide nails out there.

How far would you take this theory?

What theory?

That physical suffering trumps psychological, emotional, or spiritual pain?

Well, clearly they are all interrelated! I’d take it to the point that I always have, as a physician: When patients come to me, I do everything in my power to heal them or, if that isn’t possible, to minimize the impact on their ability to live their lives. Clearly, a physical trauma can have severe emotional and psychological effects that must be considered when making a prognosis.

And spiritual effects?

That one puzzles me. How can losing the use of a hand lead to a spiritual crisis? Medieval doctors, of course, believed that things worked the other way around: Spiritual flaws lead to physical illnesses. Lechery led to leprosy, for example. But other than that . . . ?

It can cause someone to doubt their God. Their sense of how the universe works. Their sense of right and wrong. But let me reverse the question. What would cause a spiritual crisis for you? What would shake your belief in your universe?

Well, clearly James having a fling is not going to do it! I know most people wouldn’t understand it, but our bond goes deeper than that. It will end. We will survive.

Clearly. Then what?

I thought about it. Some moments passed during which Amanda had time to pour herself another cup of coff ee.

I guess, I said, the thing that scares me most is corruption.

And you define corruption as . . . ?

The act or process of tainting or contaminating something. To cause something that has integrity to become rotten.

So when James cheats on you, that’s not corrupting your marriage?

You can’t corrupt something like what James and I have. Although I am quite aware you question the integrity of our relationship.

I was speaking slowly because I was in the process of working something out.

Yes, indeed I do.

It is a tragedy when something decent and good becomes tainted, I continued. That’s what is so horrifying about the Catholic Church protecting their priests. And corruption of the young is truly evil.

And that’s why it’s not horrifying about James. Because neither of you is an innocent.

Most definitely not.

And what should be the punishment for corruption?

She was playing with me, and I knew it. A dangerous game.

As I said, pure corruption is pure evil. Something to be eradicated.

Do you mean it deserves death?

Yes, when it manifests itself in its purest form.

Yet you’re against the death penalty. You’ve marched with me. Held candlelight vigils.

Our courts aren’t the way to adjudicate good and evil.

What is?

Aren’t we getting pretty far from the point? We started out talking about betrayal and trust. And now you’re laughing at me.

Never.

Always.

You’re right. Always.

The memory fades out, like the end of a movie. I can no longer hear Amanda’s voice, but I can see certain words as though they had been written in the air. Respect. Innocence. Death. Clearer than my current reality. I sit in the dark and try not to listen to the house breathe.

James was very angry last night. Someone had been in his sock drawer, taking all his clean pairs, he said. Someone had stolen his favorite comb. Someone had been using his razor. He sounded like Papa Bear. Who’s been eating my porridge? We both knew who, of course. Fiona is thirteen and in a danger zone.

Need. I hate the word. I hate the very idea. Certain needs are unavoidable. I need oxygen. I need nutrients. I need to exercise this vessel, my body. I can accept all these things. But my hunger for companionship, that’s something else altogether. The camaraderie of the OR, of the locker room, of sharing coffee with Amanda at her or my kitchen table.

Since I cannot go out to get this companionship, it is brought to me. I don’t see money exchange hands anymore. That’s done behind my back, a sleight of hands, since I signed my financial power of attorney over to Fiona. We pretend now. We pretend that Magdalena is my friend. That she is here voluntarily, that I invited her into my home.

So here we live, such an odd couple. The woman without a past. And the woman desperately trying to hold on to hers. Magdalena would like a clean slate, while I am mourning the involuntary wiping of mine. Each with needs the other can’t fulfill.

How mortifying to be pregnant at forty. How mortifying not to suspect until a naive coworker congratulates you on your changing shape. But you haven’t had a regular period in your life. It took six years to conceive Mark. You’d given up. Almost agreed to get the dog for James. Never used birth control again. And now this.

How will James react? Will he guess? How will you react when the shock has worn off ? You’re still staring at the white stick with the pink plus sign on the end of it. You’ve just peed onto a stick and changed your life forever.

We are sitting in the living room, Mark, Fiona, and I. I vaguely recall some recent trouble between Mark and Fiona, some estrangement that had distressed Fiona considerably. Mark, as far as I could tell, had been unaffected. But there appears to have been some kind of reconciliation. Mark is lolling on the long leather-cushioned Stickley couch, and Fiona is sitting on the rocker smiling at him, remnants of little-sister adoration shining from her face.

They really thought they had you this time, Mark says . But all the tests they ran were inconclusive. He is fiddling with his watch strap. He does not seem overly concerned. I catch a quick worried frown flash across Fiona’s face.

What are you talking about? I ask. I am irritable. It is not a day when I feel especially maternal. I have paperwork to complete, and I am more tired than I like to admit. A cup of coffee and a retreat to my office is what I really want, not making small talk with these young people, however closely we are related.