Alice LaPlante - Turn of Mind

Mom, that’s not true. Fiona comes several times a week. I come at least once. But last time you told me you never wanted to see me again.

I would never say that. Never. No matter what you’d done. What have you done?

Never mind that now. I’m glad it’s forgotten. You weren’t exactly . . . sympathetic. But all is well now.

Tell me.

No. Let’s move on. Glad to see you’re in good form today. I wanted to ask if you remembered something.

Remember what?

Something that happened when I was around seventeen. Certainly older than sixteen, because I was driving. I’d borrowed your car to take my girlfriend out to the movies. Remember Deborah? You never liked her. You never really liked any of the girls I dated, but Deborah, my girlfriend throughout high school, you really hated. Anyway, you had a bunch of boxes filled with stuff. Deborah began rooting around in them. Just curious, or maybe it was a malicious kind of curious, because when she found it she was positively gleeful. A plastic flowered pouch filled with what Deborah said was very expensive makeup.

Makeup? Among my things? Seems unlikely, I say.

Well, I don’t know the names of all of it, but I did recognize mascara, lipstick, a powder compact.Various brushes. Deborah said it was all well used. She showed me a tube of magenta lipstick, half worn down. I nearly swerved off the road. I’d never seen you wear any makeup. Not a scrap. And yet here was this tube of magenta lipstick.

Magenta is for people with no taste. I would have been, what, fifty at that time? This is sounding increasingly implausible, I say.

Yes, I thought so. It totally disconcerted me. Like finding Dad prancing around in one of your dresses. I realized you had secrets. That there was this side of you that none of us knew about. Where you wore mascara and magenta lipstick and needed to please in that way—a desire we’d never have attributed to you.

Oh. Yes.

Now you’re remembering.

Yes, I say, and am silent. There was only one time I tried to please in that particular way.

Well?

How old were you?

Like I said, probably seventeen.

Yes. That was around the time I shifted offices—they built the new facilities on Racine and I cleaned out my filing cabinets, my desk, threw everything in boxes and into my car. Probably all sorts of odd things in there from previous lives.

Is that all you’re going to say?

Yes, I think so. Just history. Prehistory, as far as you are concerned. Nothing to be said about that. Now I’ve come up with something. My turn. I’m also going back to around that time. When you were seventeen. Same girlfriend. Deborah. The peddler’s daughter.

Yes, that was your charming name for her. Because her father owned a gourmet cookware distributorship. And I know exactly what you are going to say.

No, I don’t think so.

You caught us. In flagrante delicto .

Well, it would have been hard not to! Right in the middle of the living room, clothes everywhere, the noise! But that wasn’t what was important. What interested me was that when you heard my footsteps, you turned around, almost as if expecting me. You had a look of intense satisfaction on your face that quickly changed to disappointment, before the more expected embarrassment.

Your point being?

You’d hoped for a different witness. My guess is your father.

Now why would I want that?

I don’t know. Something happened between you around that time. Something after you’d interned for him when you turned sixteen, just before your senior year. You were so close until then. Then, trouble. You came home from work together one night that summer not speaking. And it lasted for years.

I’d rather not talk about it.

Even now?

Even now.

If it had something to do with a woman, you don’t have to worry about telling me. I knew it all. It didn’t change anything between your father and me.

Well, maybe you weren’t the only one affected.

What’s that supposed to mean? Who could it matter to but me?

There were two other members of our family. Two other people who were betrayed.

No, honestly. Why would it matter to you? He was still your father. There was no betrayal there.

No, not there.

Stop being so mysterious.

Oh, come on, Mom. Even you had to admit that the peddler’s daughter was pretty hot. Did you think Dad wouldn’t notice? And once he noticed, what he would try to do?

So he made a pass at your girlfriend. He made passes at everyone.

Forget it.

Or is the problem that he succeeded?

I said, forget it. I should have known better than to try to have a conversation with you. I’m actually sorry you won’t remember this one. Because I want it to stick.

How angry you are. You seemed to come here in a conciliatory frame of mind. And now you’re burning bridges?

They’ll be rebuilt. And reburned. The never-ending cycle.

Just be careful.

Why? Because you might just remember this time?

Yes. At some level, I believe you do remember these things.

He gets up and dusts something off his pants. His face changes, grows crafty. His voice is now quieter and more measured.

I think you do remember. Fiona does, too. Like what happened to Amanda.

I don’t answer.

You do know, right now, don’t you? That she is dead?

I nod.

He lowers his voice, comes even closer. Almost touching.

And do you know more than that? What do you remember?

Get out, I say.

Tell me , he says. He is so close I can feel the warmth of his body.

I said, get out.

No. Not until you tell me.

I reach for the red button above my bed. He sees what I am fumbling for and his hand shoots out, grabs my wrist.

No, he says. You’re going to deal with this.

I struggle to free myself, but his grip is strong. I give a sudden twist to my hand, free it, and slam the button. He gives a little shout of anger and grabs my wrist again, holds it against his hip. It hurts.

You know you’re guilty, right? You know there’s no way out. A confession won’t do any good at this point. It won’t do anyone any good.

We hear running outside the room. He releases my wrist, stands back.

Out, I say.

Good-bye then, he says. And he’s gone.

My door is closed, but I am not alone. Although it is dim, I can see a shape flitting around the room. Dancing, even. As my eyes grow accustomed to the light, I can see that it’s a young girl, thin, with spiky auburn hair, bending and shimmying, barely avoiding the furniture. Her arms are raised above her head, and her fingers are wiggling. She is clearly in high spirits. Manic, I would even say. But not a healthy state. Someone agitated beyond her ability to control it.

Hello? I ask.

She stops twirling and is suddenly at my bedside. She takes one of my hands but remains standing despite the chair next to her.

Mom! Oh Mom, you’re awake! She stops and looks at my face. Mom, it’s Fiona. Your . . . oh, never mind. I stopped by to say hi. Her words come out staccato—even now she can barely control her limbs, she is in such a state, waving and gesturing as she speaks. I’m sorry I haven’t been here this week—it’s been midterms. But now I have some time off. And I’m going to take a little break. Only a week, then classes start again. But I’m flying out this afternoon. Five days in paradise! Don’t worry, I’ll be in touch. I know you don’t talk on the phone anymore, but I’ll check in with Laura twice a day. And Dr. Tsien has agreed to keep an eye on you while I’m gone.