Alice LaPlante - Turn of Mind

I am sixteen. There is a young man coming. I am ready. My dress is short, cut square, boldly colored with blue and red geometric shapes. My boots reach just below my knees. The step is rough against my bare thighs. These boots are made for walking. Any moment now, he will be here. I am quivering with excitement.

Dr. White?

The young man will come. I am beloved.

Dr. White, this is important. That medallion. It tested positive for type AB blood. Amanda O’Toole’s blood type.

We will be charging you with first-degree murder. You will go through a mental competency examination, plead not guilty for reason of insanity, and that will be it. But I’m not happy. Because I don’t understand. And I like understanding.

Amanda.

That’s right, Amanda. Why did she die?

Amanda, she knew.

Knew what?

She never dyed her hair. Never wore a scrap of makeup. But vain, regardless.

Vain about what?

A seducer. Not for sex. Secrets. She knew everything. I never figured out how. A dangerous woman.

Yes, I can see that. I can indeed. Would you like some water? Here let me pour you some—and here is a straw so you can drink. That’s right. Don’t strain, I’ll hold it.

I am . . .

Yes?

Frightened.

Yes.

What will happen next?

You will be examined. Declared mentally incompetent to stand trial. The judge will dismiss the case on the condition that you are committed to a state facility. Where you will likely end your days.

What are the alternatives?

Her face is becoming clearer. Not a ghoul at all. A plain, doglike face. A face you can count on.

Untie me?

I believe I will. I believe you are calm enough. Here— and I feel the pressure around my arms, then legs, slacken. I pull myself up to a sitting position in the bed, drink some more water. Feel the blood start flowing back into me.

Yes. My illness is getting worse.

And it will get worse still.

The woman is silent for a moment. Then, I want to know why Amanda died, she says.

I believe I could. Kill. There is that in me.

Yes. There is that in many people. I have a recurring dream that I have killed my sister. I am overcome by shame. And afraid. Not of the punishment. Of having people know what I really am. I think that’s why I became a cop. As if the trappings of good would keep me safe from that nightmare.

I pause and try to clear the thickness from my throat. It is hard to talk.

The knife in my hand always felt right. The first incision, to get inside the body, that playground beneath the flesh. But those guidelines. To know what is acceptable. Stay within parameters.

The woman stands up, stretches, sits down again.

Jennifer. I want you to help me.

How?

You know something. I want you to try. She takes the plastic bag away from me, holds it up. Do you recognize this? A Saint Christopher’s medal. With your initials engraved on the back. Can you think of any reason Amanda’s blood would be on that medal?

No.

Did you wear the medal?

Sometimes. As a reminder. A talisman.

And do you have any ideas about who killed Amanda?

I have ideas.

The woman leaned forward.

Are you protecting anyone? Jennifer, look at me.

No. No. It’s better this way.

The woman opens her mouth to talk, then looks hard at my face. What she sees there convinces her of something. She lays her hand on mine before she leaves.

I am sitting in the great room. Although there are clusters of other residents in the vicinity, I am alone. I want to be left alone. I have much to think about. Much to plan.

The door to the outside world buzzes, and a woman enters. Tall, brown hair cut smartly to her jawbone, carrying a suitcase made of buttery leather. She comes straight over to me, holds out her hand to be shaken. Jennifer, she says.

Do I know you? I ask.

I’m your attorney, she says.

Is this about our wills? I ask. James and I just redid them. They’re in the safe-deposit box.

No, she says. This is not about your will. Can we move over here? Good. Let me help you. Much better.

Dog trots over, settles himself at my feet.

How cute. Look how he loves you. She makes herself comfortable in her seat, sets her briefcase on her lap, and opens it up. This is not a happy visit, I’m afraid. It’s about your being a so-called person of interest to the police in an investigation. I have some bad news. The DA’s office has decided to charge you. In one sense, this is just a formality. You will be examined, be found mentally incompetent.

None of this makes sense, but her face is serious, so I make mine serious too.

The bad news is you won’t be able to stay here after that. You’ll be committed to a state hospital. I’m trying to get you into Eglin Mental Health Center here in the city. But the DA is pushing for the Retesch facility downstate, which is substantially more restrictive.

She stops, looks at me. I don’t believe much of this is getting in.

She sighs, then continues: I’d hoped you’d be in good enough shape today. To understand. Legally, your son has power of attorney. But I prefer to get my clients to sign, as well. Here. Here’s a pen.

She puts something in my hand, guides it to a piece of paper, and touches its surface.

You’re petitioning for acquittal for reasons of mental incompetence. The DA is not going to fight it. As I said, the only point of contention is where you’ll be sent. I’m sorry.

Her face is mobile, expressive. Makeup expertly applied. I always wondered how to do that. I never bother myself—it rubs off, streaks my surgical mask, my glasses during surgery.

The woman is now telling me something else that I can’t follow. She sighs, pats Dog absentmindedly. I’m sorry, she says again.

She gives the appearance of waiting, perhaps for a response from me. That she considers her words bad news there is no doubt. But I have no intention of letting them touch me.

We sit like that for several minutes. Then she slowly puts papers back in her briefcase and snaps it shut. It’s been a pleasure working for you, she says, and then she is gone. I try to remember what I have been told. I am a person of interest. Of course I am. I am.

I am cunning. I get rid of Dog. I do this by kicking him in front of one of the aides. Then I pick him up and make as if to throw him against the wall. Shouts ensue. Dog is taken from me, forcibly. Taken off the ward at night, forbidden to come into my room. I miss him. But he would ruin my plans.

Mom?

I turn to see my handsome son, aged considerably but still recognizable. Someone visited this morning, a stranger to me, left abruptly when I didn’t recognize her. When I wouldn’t play along. A brash, unreasonable woman.

How were your exams? I ask.

My what? O, yes, they were good. They went well.

I’m not your professor. You don’t have to be afraid I’ll flunk you.

I’m a little . . . nervous . . . when I visit. I never know how you’ll greet me.

You’re my son.

Mark.

Yes.

Do you remember my last visit?

You’ve never come to see me here. No one has.