Alice LaPlante - Turn of Mind

As I told you today, I think now that she’d planned this for years. She’d just been waiting for the right time. She had been watching me and calculating and hoping. Observing me change from an intense but loving child into a total freak with mother issues. Waiting for her chance. She thought she had it that time. We were sitting at her dining room table, and she had this funny look on her face. Funny for Amanda, who is usually so resolute. But I could see her trepidation when she asked me. To move in with her and Peter. To spend the rest of my teen years with them. To leave you, Mark, and Dad behind, although I’d see you, of course. She would be my foster mother. It shocked me out of my teenage angst. And attracted me. Revenge, ready-made. I asked for some time to think it over. She agreed, naturally, and told me to go home until I made up my mind. I came home that evening in a daze. You noticed something was up—I found you studying me during dinner—but didn’t say anything directly. Still, you came to my room that evening, something you rarely did. You sat on the edge of my bed and said something odd. It was as if you knew. You said, three more years. Just three more years. And you patted my arm. That’s all it took. Just one touch. Even though at that age I shrank from any physical contact, I welcomed that touch and in one instant abandoned Amanda and her well-laid plans. We never spoke about it, Amanda and I. No questions ever asked. And she never changed her attitude toward me. We continued as before, the iconoclast and the devoted godmother. Until the day she died.

And what did you say, this afternoon, when I told you all this? You smiled, and reached out and patted my arm again. Then withdrew it, sooner than I liked. For I’m no longer at a point where I don’t want to be touched. The opposite, in fact. Yet I don’t seem to be attracting much these days. I’ve spent some years in the wilderness and can’t seem to find my way out. God help me, I’d thought and didn’t realize I’d said it out loud until you said, Yes, please do.

I’m having a bad day, the kind of day when I know that believers would pray, but I just can’t allow myself to sink that low. So a single word echoes repeatedly inside my head, little pleadings to little gods. Godlets. Please. Just that one word, over and over again.

Fiona is sobbing. Her head in her hands at my kitchen table. Magdalena is standing behind, rubbing her bowed back. They can both go to hell.

I do so much! Fiona says. Day after day. Month after month. The head of the green-eyed snake tattoo is just visible from under her long-sleeved T-shirt. Her short hair is tousled from running her hands through it. We’ve been at it for some time.

Yes, you do. Indeed you do, Magdalena says. Her soothing voice does not match her expression.

And what, exactly, do you do? I ask. What have I ever asked you to do? I am inflamed, infused with the power of the injured.

I know it’s the disease speaking, but it’s still hard. So hard, Fiona says. Her voice is muffled. She has not lifted her head from her hands.

No, it’s me speaking. Stop treating me like I’m crazy. I’m forgetful, true. But just because I don’t remember where I put my car keys doesn’t make me psychotic. Don’t shake your head at me. I heard you say it. I heard you on the phone. She’s being difficult today. No, beyond difficult, psychotic. You said those words. Deny it.

Fiona just shakes her head.

The blond woman speaks up. Jennifer, the reason you can’t find your car keys is that they don’t exist anymore. Your car was sold last year. You are not allowed to drive. You are too ill.

You, too?

Yes, me, too. Everyone, too.

Everyone.

Yes, just ask. Go ahead. Go out in the street. Knock on a few doors.

Then you two have been talking about me, I say. Spreading the word.

You’re after something. You’re after my money. Fiona, you were looking through my papers. I saw that, too.

Fiona raises her head. Mom, I am your financial adviser. You gave me power of attorney. More than two years ago. When you were first diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Remember that?

She gives a snort of laughter and turns to Magdalena. I’m asking a woman with dementia if she remembers. Who’s the crazy one?

That’s it, I say. Out. Now. And leave the papers. I want to check them.

Mom, you’ve never been able to ‘check’ any numbers. You’ve said so yourself. You’re hopeless with money.

Well, then. Such people can be hired. I will hire one. I will commission an audit.

Fiona lifts her head. An audit? What for?

Why does one do an audit? To make sure everything is in order. Call it a second opinion.

But you’ve always trusted me. Always.

Be a professional. Do I throw a tantrum every time a patient wants a consult? What kind of doctor would I be if I did?

This is different.

How. How ? What do you have to hide?

Nothing! Mom, get a grip.

I have a grip. I have a tremendous grip. And I will not be betrayed. Get out. And stay away. From this point on, I have no daughter, I say.

I feel a burden rise as I say this. No daughter! No husband! No son! No encumbrances! I will pack my bags. I will depart for parts unknown. I will take leave from work. I am owed the vacation time. I have the willpower.

I remember the statements Fiona was perusing so intently. And I have the money. No one will know where I am going. No one can follow me. No longer a prisoner in my own house. No longer being watched and followed from room to room. Ah, glorious freedom.

Jennifer. You don’t mean any of this, Magdalena says. She has completely failed to control her face. There is no doubt of her expression. Secret triumph.

You stay out of this. Actually, you’re in it already, aren’t you? You’re a part of this conspiracy. Okay, you’re fired. Both of you, out. I have things to do.

Magdalena puts her hands on her hips. You can’t fire me.

What?

You can’t fire me. You’re not my boss.

If I’m not your boss, who is?

Magdalena gestures to Fiona. She is. Along with your son. They hired me. They signed the agency paperwork. The money comes from them.

No. It’s my money. This I know.

It’s not your name on the check every month.

A sleight of hand, that’s all. Robbing Peter to pay Paul. Besides, you forget. This is my house. I decide who comes and who goes.

Fiona speaks again. Her jaw is quivering. Not for long, she says.

Excuse me?

This won’t be your house for long. Mark and I agree.

Since when are you and Mark friends?

We talk. We cooperate. When necessary. And we will not hesitate to have you declared mentally incompetent and put you into assisted living. We have ample evidence. Multiple nine-one-one calls. Emergency room visits. Eye-witness accounts. Not to mention the ongoing investigation.

So you’re all in this together.

Yes, all of us, Magdalena says. The whole world! She goes to the stove, puts the kettle on. Time for some tea, she says. Then a walk. We have some shopping to do. Help me make a list. Milk, for sure. And pasta. We’ll have pasta for dinner. I’ll make my marinara sauce if we can find fresh basil. If not, we’ll just grate some parmesan on top. That’s something else we need. Also we’re almost out of salt. See, here’s the list. Anything to add? Anything I forgot?