Alice LaPlante - Turn of Mind

I take the list. I look at the markings on it. Chicken scratches. Nothing that makes sense. I nod intelligently to show I understand. Something nags at me. The kettle whistles. Tea. Milk. Sugar. What just happened? And why is Fiona wiping red eyes, refusing to look at me?

Yes, that’s right. Calm down. It’s time to calm down. We’ll have a cup of tea and we’ll talk and then we’ll go to the grocery store. She addresses Fiona. You go home now. It’ll be all right. She’s already past it. She won’t remember any of this tomorrow. Or even in an hour.

But she’s never turned on me this way. Mark, yes, but never me.

Actually that’s not true. You just haven’t been here. The stories I could tell you. The situation is deteriorating.

That’s what Dr. Tsien says. He says she’s entered the worst stage. The next one will be easier. Much sadder, but easier. It’s almost time. Our options are running out.

I listen carefully, I think this is important, but the words disappear into the ether the moment they are spoken.

I accept a cookie from a plate. I bite into its sweetness. I drink the hot wet liquid in the cup that is in front of me. And I ignore the two women who are in my kitchen, two of the multitude of half-familiar strangers who have been intruding, who take such liberties with my house, my person.

Even now, one is leaning over my chair, hand outstretched, trying to pat me on the head. Pet me. No. Stop. I am not a wild thing to be soothed by touch. I will not be soothed.

There is one picture of James that I like and only one. It is James at his most pompous, his most self-promoting, self-gratifying. He could have a crown and a leopard robe about his shoulders and he wouldn’t look more ridiculous.

I love it because it is honest. I love it because it is true. In his other photos he appears spontaneous, open, game. But that was the pose. In reality, he has too high an opinion of himself to accept most people as equals. That I see this about him doesn’t make me love him any less.

I call for Amanda. I close the door behind me, put the key in my pocket. All is quiet. I fumble, find the light switch, flip it upward, and the hallway is flooded with light. Hey there! I say, louder this time. Nothing. Perhaps she is out of town? But she would have told me. Reminded me to water her plants, take in her mail, feed Max.

That reminds me. Max! I call. Good kitty! But no jangling bell, no skittering of claws across hardwood.

Yellow tape has been strung across the entrance to the living room: police line do not cross. I walk into the kitchen, which I know as well as my own. Something is wrong. None of the noises of a living household. No electric hum from the refrigerator. I open the door. The inside is dark and rank smelling. The water pipes that give Amanda perpetual insomnia, silent. No squeaking floorboards.

Yet something is here, something that wants congress with me. I do not believe in the supernatural. I am not a fanciful woman, nor a religious one. But this I know: Revelation is near. For I am not alone.

And from the shadows she comes, barely recognizable, so brilliant is her complexion, so golden her hair. She is dressed in a plain blue suit, sheer stockings, low-heeled shoes. I have never seen her attired like this, like a seventies-style junior executive intent on ascending the organizational ladder. Corporate angel. But her face is twisted in pain, and her hands are bandaged. She holds them out to me.

I take hold of her right wrist and gently begin to unwrap the coarse cotton from her hand. Around and under and around until it is revealed: perfect, white, and soft to the touch. The unblemished hand of a good child. I compare it to my own liver-spotted ones. Those of the witch that lures the child into the forest, fattens her up to eat. The hands of a sinner.

Suddenly Amanda and I are not alone. My mother is there with her virgin martyrs. And my father, too, wearing, oddly enough, a motorcycle helmet and jacket, when he was too terrified to ever get a driver’s license. And James, of course, and Ana and Jim and Kimmy and Beth from the hospital and Janet and Edward and Shirley from the neighborhood.

Even Cindy and Beth from college and Jeannette from before that. My grandmother O’Neill. Her sister, my great aunt May. People I haven’t thought of in decades. The room is full of faces I recognize, and if I don’t love them, at least I know their names, and that is more than enough. Perhaps this is my revelation? Perhaps this is heaven? To wander among a multitude and have a name for each.

It is dark here in my house. I bump into something with a sharp edge, bruise my hip. I put out my hands and feel a wall, a door frame, a closed door. I try the knob. It will not open. I need the bathroom, badly. Where is the light. I want to go home. Home to Philadelphia. I’ve been here long enough. A prisoner.

What crime have I committed? How long have I been incarcerated? It’s often safer to be in chains than to be free . Who said that? The pressure in my bladder is too great. I squat. I pull up my nightgown, pull down my pants. Let go. Spatter my bare ankles, my feet. No matter.

The relief ! Now I can sleep. Now I can go to sleep. I lie down where I am. There is softness under me, not a bed but acceptable. I hug my body for warmth. If I lie here, still, I will be safe. If I revel in my chains I will be free.

Inside is not safe. Too dark, and the house breathes. It breathes, and strangers appear and touch you. Tug at your clothes. Force open your mouth and fill it with foul pills. Out here it is brighter, the moon and the streetlights conjoining to cast a soothing aura over the sidewalks, the gardens just awakening from the winter.

Everything is where it should be. Even the squat object made of metal and painted bright red is a beautiful sight. It has always been there, in front of the house. It will always be there. There may be things lurking in the shadows, but they come in peace. They let me sit here, unmolested, on this patch of grass.

I can look to the right and see the church at the end of the block. To the left, the Bright and Easy Laundry. And upward, the stars. Bright pinpricks, most staying in their places, but others blinking, transmitting signals as they crawl across the vast darkness.

If only I could interpret this message. I want my friend. She would understand. She is safety. She is comfort. Her features remain constant, her voice does not rise or get loud. She does not reach for the phone. She does not make me drink tea, swallow small round bitter objects. I’m walking now. I’m opening the gate. Down three houses. I count carefully. Three is the magic number, my friend says.

That gate sticks, but I get it open. The brick path is uneven, so I proceed carefully to the white stone statue of the laughing Buddha that presides over the front garden. Buddha holds the key , my friend says. And you know you are always welcome, day or night.

I take the key from under the Buddha’s rotund cheeks and let myself in. I will find my friend. She will explain everything. She knows everything. She knows it all.

It is apparently my birthday today. May 22. Magdalena did the math for me: I’m sixty-five. Fiona and Mark are taking me out to dinner at Le Titi. In the afternoon, my old assistant Sarah stopped by. Remarkable for her to remember. I wouldn’t know her birthday under the best of circumstances. Even in my prime. I wouldn’t even have asked. Sarah presented me with a gift from the hospital: a three-foot-tall statue of Saint Rita of Cascia. Eighteenth century. A beauty.