Alice LaPlante - Turn of Mind

You must have been devastated.

No, my thought was, that’s James: a perpetual battle between his head and his heart to the end.

You’re making light of it. But I remember that time. What you went through.

Don’t patronize me. I had to laugh. His heart succumbed first. His heart! I did laugh, actually. I laughed as I identified the remains. Such a cold, bright place. The morgue. I hadn’t been in one since medical school, I always hated them. The harsh light. The bitter cold. The light and the cold and also the sounds—rubber-soled shoes squeaking like hungry rats against tile floors. That’s what I remember: James bathed in unforgiving light while vermin scuttled.

Now you’re the one patronizing me. As if I couldn’t see past that.

The doctor writes something in a chart. He allows himself to smile at me.

You scored a nineteen, he says. You’re doing well today. I don’t see any agitation and Magdalena says the aggression has subsided. We’ll continue the same drug therapy.

He gives me a look. Do you have a problem with that?

I shake my head. Okay, then. We’ll do everything we can to keep you in your home. I know that’s what you want.

He pauses. I must tell you, Mark has been urging me to make a statement that he can use to declare you mentally incompetent to make medical decisions, he says . I have refused. The doctor leans forward. I would recommend that you not let yourself be examined by another doctor. Not without a court order.

He takes a piece of paper out of his file. See—I have written it all down for you. Everything I just said. I will give it to Magdalena and tell her to keep it safe. I have made two copies. Magdalena will give one to your lawyer. You can trust Magdalena, I believe. I believe she is trustworthy.

He waits for my answer, but I am fixated on the photo of the naked woman. There is doubt and suspicion in her eyes. She is looking at the camera. Behind it. She is looking straight at me.

I can’t find the car keys, so I decide to walk to the drugstore. I will buy toothpaste, some dental floss, shampoo for dry hair. Perhaps some toilet paper, the premium kind.

Normal things. I’m inclined to pretend to be normal today. Then I will go to the supermarket and pick out the plumpest roast chicken for dinner. A loaf of fresh bread. James will like that. Small comforts—we share our love of these.

But I must go quickly. Quietly. They will try to stop me. They always do.

But no purse. Where is it. I always keep it beside the door. No matter, there will be someone nice there. I will say, I am Dr. Jennifer White and I forgot my purse and they will say oh of course here is some money and I will nod my head just so and thank them.

I stride down the street, past ivy-covered brownstones with their waist-high wrought-iron fences enclosing small neat geometrically laid-out front gardens.

Dr. White? Is that you?

A dark-skinned man in a blue uniform, driving a white truck with an eagle on it. He rolls down his window, slows to a crawl to keep pace.

Yes? I keep walking.

Not the nicest day to be out and about. Nasty.

Just a walk, I say. I make a point of not looking at him. If you don’t look, they may leave you alone. If you don’t look, sometimes they let it go.

How about a ride? Look at you, completely soaked. No coat. And my goodness. No shoes. Come on. Get in.

No. I like the weather. I like the feel of my bare feet against concrete. Cold. Waking me out of my somnolent state.

You know, that nice lady you live with won’t like this.

So what.

Come quietly now. He speaks soothingly while pulling the truck over to the curb. He holds out both hands, palms up, and beckons with them. Gently.

I’m not a rabid dog.

No, you’re not. Indeed you aren’t. But I can’t stand by and do nothing. You know I can’t, Dr. White.

I brush my icy hair out of my face and keep going, but he idles his truck alongside. He takes out his phone. If he punches seven numbers, it’s okay. If he punches three numbers, it’s bad. I know that. I stop and wait. Onetwothree. He stops. He brings the phone to his ear.

Wait, I say. No. I run around the front of the truck. I yank the door open and clamber in beside him. Anything to stop the phone. Stop what will happen. Bad things will happen. Put the phone down, I say. Put the phone down. He hesitates. I hear a voice on the other end. He looks at the phone and flips it shut. He gives me what is supposed to be a reassuring smile. I am not fooled.

Okay! Let’s get you home before you catch your death.

He waits at the curb until I reach the front door. It is wide open, and wind and sleet are gusting through into the hallway. The thick damask curtains on the front windows are drenched. I step on a sodden carpet—a dark Tabriz runner we bought in Baghdad thirty years ago, now considered museum-quality. James had it appraised last year, will be furious. Magdalena’s shoes are gone. A lukewarm cup of tea sits on the table, half drunk.

I am suddenly very tired. I sit down in front of the tea, push it away, but not before getting a waft of chamomile. So many old wives’ tales about chamomile have proven true. A cure for digestive problems, fever, menstrual cramps, stomachaches, skin infections, and anxiety. And, of course, insomnia.

A fix for whatever ails you! Magdalena had exclaimed when I told her that. Not really, I said. Not everything.

We are listening to St. Matthew’s Passion. It is 1988. Solti is at the podium in Orchestra Hall, and the audience is held captive until the cadences resolve. The diminished seventh chords and the disturbing modulations. The suspense barely tolerable. I can feel the warmth of James’s fingers intertwined with mine, his breath warm against my cheek.

Then suddenly it is a cold winter day. I am alone in my kitchen. I fold my arms on the table and lean my forehead against them. Did I take my pills this morning? How many did I take? How many would it take?

I am almost to the point. I have almost reached that point. And hear an echo of Bach: Ich bin’s, ich sollte büßen. It is I who should suffer and be bound for hell.

But not yet. No. Not quite yet. I sit and wait.

A man has walked into my house without knocking. He says he is my son. Magdalena backs him up, so I acquiesce. But I don’t like this man’s face. I am not ruling out the possibility that they are telling me the truth—but I will play it safe. Not commit.

What I do see: a stranger, a very beautiful stranger. Dark. Dark hair, dark eyes, a dark aura, if I may be so fanciful. He tells me he is unmarried, twenty-nine years old, a lawyer. Like your father! I say, cunningly. His darkness comes alive, he glowers—there is no other word for it.

Not at all, he says. Not in the slightest. I cannot hope to fill those mighty McLennan shoes. Give counsel to the mighty and count the golden coin of the realm. And he gives a mock half bow to the portrait of the lean, dark man that hangs in the living room. Why didn’t you give me your name, Mom? The shoes would have been just as large but of a different shape altogether.

Enough! I say sharply—for I remember my son now. He is seven years old. He has just run into the room, his hands clutching at his thighs, a glorious look on his face. Water spattering everywhere. I discover his front pockets are full of his sister’s goldfish. They are still wiggling. He is astonished at my anger.