Alice LaPlante - Turn of Mind

Dubuffet. Gorky. Rauschenberg. Our eclectic tastes in art amused the people around us. But James and I were always in absolute agreement. We’d see a print or lithograph and would know without even looking at each other that it must be ours.

It was an obsession that grew with our means, became an addiction. And sometimes there was the pain of withdrawal. There was that Chagall we saw in a Paris gallery: L’événement. Love and death, love and religion. Our favorite themes. We talked about it for years, I even dreamed about it, became the bride in the chicken’s belly, was seduced by the tunes played by the levitating fiddler, drifted in a glorious world of deep blues and warm reds. So far above us, yet like spoiled children, we longed for it.

They tried, of course, to conceive, Peter and Amanda. My guess is that no egg was tough enough to implant itself into her impenetrable womb. For she was hard through and through. A tough old bird, I overheard a neighbor say at a party. A prize bitch, was the response. But not always. No. There was how she treated Fiona. She took her role as Fiona’s godmother seriously. Even though it started as a joke.

Fiona was never baptized, we had no intention of ever doing such a thing, heathens that we were. Yet the day after I brought Fiona home, and Amanda and Peter came over with a bottle of champagne, I announced that I wanted Amanda to be Fiona’s godmother.

A fairy godmother? Peter had teased.

I dipped my fingers into my champagne glass and sprinkled some of the bubbles onto Fiona’s tiny wrinkled red forehead. She awoke and let out a piteous wail.

Amanda was taken aback by these developments.

And what if my christening gift turns out to be a curse? She did an imitation. On your sixteenth birthday, you will prick your finger . . .

We all laughed. No, give her a real blessing, James urged.

Well then, Amanda said, and cleared her throat. Became solemn, to all of our surprise. Serious she was frequently; solemn, never.

Fiona Sarah White McLennan. You will inherit the many strengths of both your mothers, she said . Both your birth mother— she raised her glass to me— and your godmother. Here she toasted herself, took a sip. And you will have the love and support of both of us no matter what happens. Nothing except death can or will separate us from you. Never forget that.

For good measure, Amanda threw another sprinkle of champagne on Fiona.

And now comes one of those moments. A shift in perception, a wave of dizziness, and an awareness. It comes to me. What Fiona was going through. Amanda already gone. Me slipping away. Every day a little death. Fiona at three days old being told she could never separate, that she would always remember. A curse indeed.

A red-haired woman sits opposite me. She knows me, she says. Her face is familiar. But no name. She tells me but it evaporates.

How are you? she asks.

Well, I don’t tell many people this, I say, but my memory is shot.

Really? That’s terrible.

Yes, it is, I say.

So I’m curious, the woman says . What do you remember about me?

I look at her. I feel I should know her. But there is something wrong.

I’m Magdalena, she says. I changed my hair color. Just felt like it. But it’s still me. She tugged at her hair. Now do you remember?

I try. I stare at her face. She has brown eyes. A young woman. Or youngish. Past child-bearing age, but not like me yet. A melancholy face. I shake my head.

Good, she says.

That surprises me. Pleasantly. Most people are distressed or get angry. Aggrieved.

I need an ear, the woman says. I want to say something, and then I want it to vanish. A kind of confession. But I don’t want it in anyone’s brain, even if they are sworn to secrecy. And I don’t want a traditional confession, to do penance for it, because I’ve already finished with that. No one has suffered more for this than I have. And I don’t even have to ask you not to tell it. That’s the beauty of it all.

I have no objections. It is a sleepy heavy day. The kids are at school. I don’t have any surgeries scheduled. I nod to continue.

She takes a deep breath. I sold drugs. To kids. I took my grandchildren to the playground at the middle school. I sold lots of stuff. Pot, of course. But also Ecstasy, speed, even acid.

She stops and looks at me. No shock, she says. That’s a good beginning.

She continues: Then, one day, one of my grandkids got into my stash. Swallowed some LSD. She was just three years old. Three! I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t take her to the hospital. So I didn’t. I just sat with her in a dark room and held her hand while she screamed. Screamed and screamed. Hours of it.

The red-haired woman covers her eyes with her hands. I am patient. I will hear this out.

She was calmer when my daughter came to pick her up, but not enough. My daughter was already suspicious. She knew I had been a user. She knew I had friends, still. And so that was the end. She didn’t turn me in. It was close, but she didn’t. She said I needed to get help, get off the stuff, and if I did she wouldn’t report me. But she also wouldn’t speak to me again. So I did it. Went to rehab.

But despite that, lost my family anyway.

I don’t say anything. At the clinic, strung-out teenagers are a dime a dozen. And occasionally we get children. Mostly children who had gotten into their parents’ bottom drawers. Behind the socks or underwear. Occasionally one that had been given the stuff on purpose. I treated everyone, let the staff deal with the legal and moral issues, which didn’t concern me.

But why tell me this? I ask.

I’ve needed someone to pass this on to. Someone who wouldn’t be shocked and wouldn’t wince at the stink of me. You’ve got a practical and resilient kind of morality. You forgive trespasses.

No, I say. I wouldn’t call it forgiveness.

No? What is forgiveness but the ability to accept what someone has done and not hold it against them?

But to forgive, something has to touch you personally. This hasn’t touched me. That’s why I stopped believing in God. Who could worship someone that narcissistic, who takes everything anyone does as a personal affront?

You don’t really believe that. I know you don’t. She gestures toward the statue of Saint Rita. You have faith. I’ve seen it.

What is your name?

Magdalena. And do you remember what else I’ve told you?

I pretend to think, although I already know the answer. No, I say finally. I wait for the exclamations, the reminder, the subtext of blame. But it doesn’t come. Instead, relief. No, something more. Release.

Thank you, she says, and takes her leave.

A man is in my room. Hyperactive. Hopped up on something. Eyes dilated, jittery, moving around too fast. Fingering my things, picking them up, and putting them back down again. My comb. The photo of the man and woman and boy and girl. He grimaces at the latter and puts it down again.

He is wearing black trousers, a pressed white and blue shirt, a tie. He does not look completely comfortable.

We were apparently in the middle of a conversation, but I have lost the thread.