Alice LaPlante - Turn of Mind

And so I told her, it’s time for a truce. No more squabbling. After all, we used to be so close. And she agreed. But with reservations, I could tell. Always so cautious. Always playing it safe.

What are you talking about? I ask. I see, with alarm, that he is tracing his finger around the edge of my Renoir, his fingers coming perilously close to the young woman’s red hat.

Oh, never mind. Just babbling. Trying to keep the conversation going. So. You do your part. You tell me something. He’s now opening and shutting the top drawer of my bureau, sliding it in and out, in and out.

Like what? His movements are making me dizzy. Now he is on the move again, flitting from one object to another, examining everything with great interest.

He seems especially fascinated by my paintings. He moves from the Renoir to the Calder, from the left side of the room to the right, and then to the center, where my Theotokos of the Three Hands glows from its place above the door frame.

There is some connection here, something that tickles about this man and this particular piece. History.

Tell me what you did today. He sits down briefly on the chair next to my bed, then quickly stands up again, continues pacing.

I can more easily tell you about what happened fifty years ago, I say. I struggle out of my bed, holding on to the rails for support. Wrapping my gown around me in some semblance of modesty, I sit myself in the chair he has vacated.

So tell me. Something I don’t know.

And who are you again?

Mark. Your son. Your favorite son.

My favorite?

That was just a joke. Not a lot of competition for that honor.

You do remind me of someone I know.

Glad to hear it.

A boy living in the graduate dorm at Northwestern. Dark like you. Restless like you.

The man stops. I have his attention. Tell me more about him, he says .

Not much to tell, really. A bit of a ladies’ man. More than a little of a pest. Always knocking on my door, trying to entice me to put down my books and come out to play.

Which I am sure you would not do. This was when you were in medical school?

No. Before that. When I still wanted to be a medieval historian. I smiled at my words, so implausible.

What changed your mind? The man has settled down, is leaning against the door frame, his fingers drumming against his chest.

My thesis. The conflict in the medieval medical community between applying traditional folkloric remedies and following the precepts found in Avicenna’s Canon of Medicine .

Whew. Glad I asked.

I had a double undergraduate degree in history and biology. My thesis was a way of combining both my passions. But I fell in love with the Canon. I spent more and more time at the medical school, interviewing professors and students, observing. The dissections especially captivated me. I wanted a scalpel so badly. One of the students noticed. He allowed me to shadow him, took me down into the lab after hours, showed me the procedures he was learning, put the knife in my hand, and guided my first incisions.

Dr. Tsien?

Yes. Carl.

Is that how you met? I never knew.

My first mentor.

I’ve always wanted to know, was there anything between you? Anything romantic, I mean?

No, never. He just recognized a fellow addict. He was the first person I told that I was quitting the PhD program to apply for medical school. My biggest supporter when I chose orthopedic surgery. The medical establishment was not exactly friendly to the idea of a woman in that role.

And what about that guy, that party animal in your dorm? The man is smiling wryly.

Oh. Yes. Him. Another unexpected detour. My life was full of surprises around then. By that I mean I surprised myself. So many about-faces. So many disruptions of well-laid plans.

You and Dad didn’t talk much about your early years. I got the impression that both of you spent them in a bit of a daze. Him in law school, you beginning medical school. And by all accounts completely besotted with each other. Dr. Tsien spoke about it sometimes, with a bit of envy, I always thought.

Yes. It was that.

You don’t seem inclined to talk about it. Neither was Dad.

I’d rather not.

Because . . . ?

Because some things shouldn’t be scrutinized too closely. Some mysteries are only rendered, not solved. We found each other. And never regretted it the way others do their own youthful couplings.

The young man is picking up his soft leather satchel, leaning over me, brushing my cheek with his lips.

Bye, Mom. I’ll see you next week. Probably Tuesday, if work allows.

Yes, definitely a familiar face, one resonating on numerous levels. Later, after dinner, I finally get a name to attach to the face. James! I say, startling the Vietnam vet so that he spills his water into his bread pudding.

It is somewhat later that I realize my icon is missing. I keep my own counsel, for now.

They are telling me something, pointing to their heads. Pointing to my head. Tugging at my hair. I push their hands away.

The hairdresser. The hairdresser is here. It is your turn.

What is a hairdresser, I say.

Just come on, you’ll look and feel so much better!

I allow myself to be pulled to my feet, guided step-by-step down the hall, passing stuffed armchairs positioned strategically in little groups, as if conversing with one another. Tables laden with fresh flowers. What kind of place is this.

We enter a large room with shiny tile floors. Along one wall, tall cupboards containing plastic bins filled with yarns, colored paper, markers. A long counter along the opposite wall with a sink in the middle. Tables and chairs have been pushed to one side, and a clear plastic tarp has been laid out on the floor, a single molded plastic chair on the middle of it. A woman dressed in white, standing by.

Would you like to wash your hair before your cut? she asks, then answers herself. Yes, I see that would be a good idea.

I am turned around, and propelled gently but firmly over to the sink, and bent over. My hair and neck are ignominiously scrubbed, rinsed, then scrubbed and rinsed again. Led back and pushed into the chair, where the woman tugs a comb through my hair.

And what shall we do today? Another woman’s voice breaks in. Short, I think. Very short. We’re having some problems with grooming.

The woman in white agrees cheerfully. Very well! Short it is!

I try to protest. I’ve always been complimented on my hair, its thickness, color. James calls me “Red” when he’s feeling especially affectionate.

No, I say, but no one responds. I feel the pressure and coldness of steel against my scalp, hear the clip clip clip of the shears. Shorn like a sheep.

Other people are gathering around, looking. She looks like a man, one woman says loudly and is shushed. I wonder about that. Man. Woman. Man. Woman. The words have no meaning. Which one am I really?

I look down at my body. It is thin and spare. Androgynous. Sunken chest, chicken legs, I can see the femoral condyles and patellas through the material of my slacks. My malleoli without socks translucent and delicate, ready to snap if I put too much weight on them.

You look beautiful, says the woman doing the cutting. Like Joan of Arc. She holds up a hand mirror. See. Much better.

I don’t recognize the face. Gaunt, with too-prominent cheekbones and eyes a little too large, too otherworldly. The pupils dilated. As if used to seeing strange visions. And then, a secret satisfied smile. As if welcoming them.