Alice LaPlante - Turn of Mind

You share a birthday, Sarah said.

Technically, the day of her death and of my birth are the same, yes. But we share more than that.

That’s right—you were often called the doctor of last resort.

You’re up on your hagiography.

A natural result of working for you for more than fifteen years. Anyway, everyone felt cheated by not being able to give you a retirement party. You left so suddenly. So we all put our heads together. Here. Here’s the card.

I’m honored.

And I was. Extraordinarily touched.

We all felt the same. It was an honor working with you.

I reached out and touched the statue, traced the gilt crown, the lines of the robe from her shoulders to the floor.

Sarah pointed to the statue. Why does she have a cut in the middle of her forehead?

According to the Saint Rita legend, she asked God to let her suffer the same way he did, and a thorn fell off a crucifix that was hanging on the wall and wounded her.

What about the rose she’s carrying?

When she was dying, her cousin asked if there was anything she wanted. She requested a rose from her garden. Even though it was winter, a rose was blooming there.

I just love these old legends, don’t you?

Some are more interesting than others. I don’t find Rita’s story particularly compelling. The cruel father, the drunken husband, the disobedient sons. Trite stuff. I like the idea that there’s someone you can go to when all else has failed.

Have you ever invoked her? Just curious.

No. No. On those rare occasions when I needed help, there were others I could ask.

You’re talking about human intervention. I’m talking about something else.

You mean, a higher power?

I mean . . . your diagnosis. Sarah said this tentatively. We’ve never discussed this. Officially, no one at the hospital knows why I retired early. Unofficially is another matter, I suspect.

I won’t say I didn’t hope there was a mistake.

No praying for a miracle?

None whatsoever.

How about just plain hope?

None of that, either.

How can you go on? I don’t understand.

What is there to understand? I have a degenerative disease. There is no cure for that disease. That is the condition facing hundreds of thousands of people around the world.

You’re so clinical about it. This is your life, not some hypothetical patient.

And whatever choice do I have, my dear Sarah?

I’m sorry. I’m prying. I guess I’m just wondering. How you keep going.

At some point we die. Except under unusual circumstances, we usually get some advance warning. Some of us know sooner than others. Some of us will suffer more than others. You’re asking, how do you endure that interval between when you know you’re dying and when you actually die?

Yes, I guess so.

I suppose everyone is different. To get her through, Saint Rita wanted the impossible: a rose in midwinter.

And you?

I was stymied. No one asks me such things anymore. They ask me if I want tea. If I’m cold. If I want to listen to some Bach. Avoidance of the big questions.

My deathbed wish?

Well, not death bed! But do you think you’ll stay as practical as time progresses? Or will you ever be tempted to ask for the impossible?

Part of my condition is that the line between those two things is increasingly blurred. I was looking through my notebook this morning, and apparently on some days I still have my parents with me. Magdalena has recorded some long talks I have with them. I don’t remember any of this, of course. But I like the idea very much.

So maybe some very impossible requests are being granted.

Perhaps. Yes. And I’ve been thinking. What you said about how one keeps going.

Yes?

A dear friend of mine just died.

Yes, I heard. I’m sorry.

And amid the grief and the anger, I found myself feeling gratitude— gratitude that it wasn’t me. So at some level I still see death as something to be put off. It’s not that I don’t think about it—and I won’t say that on bad days I don’t plan for when things are a lot worse. But I’m not ready yet.

Well, that’s a good thing! Sarah reached over and gave me a hug before gathering her things together. I waved good-bye from the front door, then closed it, and sat down to examine my present. What a delightful prize. It will get the place of honor in the living room, on the mantel, next to the icon.

Really, I feel utterly blessed today.

No, it’s not yet time. Not yet.

We’re in front of the television, which seems to be our habit in the evening. This program is easy to follow. I don’t need to try to hold anything in my head for too long. A game show, where a motley congregation of contestants possesses a seemingly unlimited knowledge of trivia.

The blond woman loves it. She says things like He’s my favorite and I can’t believe she didn’t make it to the next round. I am having trouble concentrating. I try to do what a new sign in the kitchen commands me: Live in the moment. I have to. There is no other way for me, not anymore. But a young man wearing excessive eyeliner is jumping up and down after demonstrating his superior knowledge of the mating habits of penguins. Do I really want to be in this moment? I get up to leave the room just as the phone rings. I turn back and pick it up.

Mom, it’s Fiona.

Who?

Fiona. Your daughter. Can I speak to Magdalena? The nice lady who lives with you?

I hand over the receiver, but I don’t leave the room. Conversations are being had about me. Decisions being made.

The blond woman says little but agrees to whatever the person on the phone says. Yes. Okay. Sure. Yes, we’ll be there. She hangs up.

And what was that all about? Where will we be?

I am glad to have something to hold on to. Delighted to be able to raise my voice and release this tension.

Calm down, Jennifer. It’s no big deal. The police have some more questions. They’ve asked you to come back to the station tomorrow. Fiona will be there. And your lawyer—remember her?

Why would I need to talk to the police?

About Amanda.

What’s Amanda done wrong?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The reverse. The police are trying to find out who killed her.

Lots of people would like to.

The blond woman gives a little snort of laughter. Yes. That’s what I told them. And then wished I hadn’t, because they started asking me a lot of questions.

Now a young woman with implausibly red hair is stumped over a question related to seventies pop music. The TV audience is going wild.

Why would you say that? What do you know about Amanda?

I’ve been here eight months. That’s given me plenty of chances to observe.

Like what?

She always treated you with respect. Deference, even. Even when you were at your dottiest. She never talked down. Always spoke to you as though you were her equal. Or superior. And for the most part, you rose to the occasion. No episodes around her.

That all sounds commendable. What’s there not to like?

It had its reverse side. She didn’t cut you any slack. She’d grow impatient at answering the same questions over and over, and simply stopped answering after a while. Once I heard her say, That was all long ago and far away, in a tone of voice that meant the subject was closed.