Alice LaPlante - Turn of Mind

She’ll be out for a while.

Good thing! Man, she’s strong. What caused this?

I don’t know. Her daughter visited. Usually that’s a good thing. Not like when that son comes around.

Why do we put up with it?

Friends in high places. She used to be some muckety-muck doctor.

I try holding on to their words, but they evaporate. The chattering of creatures not of my species. I lift my right arm, let it flop back down. Do it again. And again. It reassures. It hypnotizes. I do it until my arm is too heavy to lift anymore. Then, blessed sleep.

I open my eyes. James. A very angry James. How unusual. Usually he expresses dissatisfaction by refusing to eat the rare dinner I’ve cooked or by strolling in late to one of our children’s birthday parties. Once he threw my favorite pair of broken-in tennis shoes outside into the garden—the ones I used for my longest and most delicate surgeries. I found them later, covered with mud and infested with earwigs.

What is it? What happened? I ask now.

But he isn’t paying attention to me. It isn’t me he’s angry with.

Who let her in? he asks. He is speaking to the other woman in the room, one wearing green scrubs and a name tag. Ana.

We had no reason to know, she says.

I gave explicit instructions that no one could see my mother except those on the list I gave Laura.

Laura doesn’t screen everyone who comes to the ward.

Who does?

No one person does. Whoever is on duty. It’s very secure. They have to sign in. They have to show ID. And they can’t get out until we let them out. It’s a locked ward, as you know.

Who was on duty that day?

I don’t know. You’d have to ask Laura.

I will. You bet I will.

Mr. McLennan? A tall woman with gray hair waved back off her face has come into the room. She is wearing an auburn blazer that matches the carpet, and a knee-length black skirt. Sensible shoes. The way I used to dress when not in scrubs.

Laura, James says.

I understand you are upset by what you perceive as a breach of security.

Yes, he says. Very much.

She was a police officer pursuing an investigation. She showed her ID. She signed in and signed out. It was all properly done.

Did she read my mother her rights?

That I couldn’t tell you. I’m sorry.

James’s face reddens. We are about to witness something uncommon: James losing his temper. He almost always stays in control. Even in the courtroom, he prefers to keep his voice low. It makes for good theater. People have to lean close, strain to hear. I’ve never seen a jury so rapt as when James is lovingly murmuring all the reasons they should acquit.

But before things erupt, James notices I’m awake. Mom, he says, and bends down and gives me an awkward half hug. He is dressed oddly, for James. Not his casual clothes of jeans and a T-shirt. Not business attire either. No suit. Tan-colored cotton trousers and a white shirt. Black sneakers. But he is young and vibrant and handsome as ever.

Why are you calling me that? James, it’s me. Jennifer. How glad I am to see you!

James’s face softens. He sits down on the edge of the bed, takes my hand. And how have you been?

Well. Very well. Missing you. How tired you look. They work you too hard. How was New York?

New York was good, he says. I tripped the light fantastic. Went out on the town. Painted it red. He pats my hand.

Now you’re patronizing me, I say. I have a temper, too. Stop talking to me like I’m an imbecile. What happened? It was the Lewis case, wasn’t it? A tricky deposition? Did it not go well?

I’m sorry, Mom. You’re absolutely right. I was being patronizing. And you probably get enough of that here. He glances back at the gray-haired woman. I’ll come talk to you later, he says.

There is an ominous tone in his voice. There is something wrong with his face, too. Some trick of light. It is fading away, and the features are rearranging themselves, transmogrifying into someone who is not-James.

James? Why are you calling me that?

Mom, I know Fiona shines you on, and that’s okay, but it’s, well, it’s not my way. I am Mark. You are my mother. James is my father. James is dead.

Mr. McLennan, the gray-haired woman interrupts. She is still standing by my bed.

I said I’ll come to your office. When I’m done here.

James! I say. My anger is dissipating. Turning into something else, something unsettlingly like fear.

If I can make a recommendation, Mr. McLennan . . .

No. I can handle this on my own, thank you.

James!

Shhh, Mom, it’s okay.

Okay, the gray-haired woman says . She does not look pleased. If she becomes too agitated, push the red button there.

The door closes behind her.

James, what was that about?

Not James, Mom. Mark. Your son.

Mark is a teenager. He just got his driver’s license. He took the car out last week without asking, and now he’s grounded for a month.

Yes, that happened. But many years ago. Not-James smiles. And it wasn’t a month. Dad relented, as he always did. I think I had to stay inside for three days. You were furious.

He was always able to charm his way out of anything. Just like you.

Not-James sighs. Yes, just like me. Like son, like father.

James?

Never mind, he says. He reaches over and takes my hand, holds it against his cheek.

These hands, he says. You know, Dad used to say, All our lives are in your mother’s hands. Be careful of them. I didn’t understand what he meant. I’m still not quite sure, completely. But something about how you were the center. You were it .

He takes my hand from his cheek, clasps it between both of his.

He was very proud of you, you know. Whatever else may have happened. When I was small, and you were late coming home from the hospital, he used to take me into your office. He’d show me all your diplomas and awards. These are the credentials of a real woman, he’d say. It scared the hell out of me. Small wonder I haven’t married.

You’re nobody’s fool.

No. Whatever I am, I’m not that.

He is fading fast into the shadows. I cannot see his face anymore at all. But his hand is warm and substantial. I grasp it and hold on.

Do me a favor, he says .

What’s that?

Talk to me. Tell me about what life is like for you right now.

James, what kind of game is this?

Yes, call it a game. Just tell me about your life. A day in the life. What you did yesterday, today, what you’ll do tomorrow. Even the boring stuff.

A silly game.

Humor me. You know how it is. You think you know someone, you take things for granted, you lose touch. So just talk to me.

What is there to tell? You know it all.

Pretend I don’t. Pretend I’m a stranger. Let’s start with the basics. How old are you?

Forty-five. Forty-six? At my age you don’t count so carefully anymore.

Married, of course.

To you.

Right. And how are the children these days?

Well, I already told you about Mark.

The charming, intelligent, delightful one. Yes.

My daughter is another matter altogether. She was a gregarious, outgoing child. But she’s closed down now. They say girls do. And that you get them back, eventually. But right now we’re in the middle of the dark years.