Alice LaPlante - Turn of Mind

We save some of them, but most are limp cold bodies to be flushed down the toilet. His rapture is not dimmed, he stares fascinated as the last of the red gold tails gets sucked out of sight. Even when his sister discovers her loss he is unrepentant. No. More than that. Proud. Perpetrator of a dozen tiny slaughters on an otherwise quiet Tuesday afternoon.

This-man-who-they-say-is-my-son settles himself in the blue armchair near the window in the living room. He loosens his tie, stretches out his legs, makes himself at home.

Magdalena tells me you’ve been well, he says.

Very, I say, stiffly. As well as a person in my condition can be.

Tell me about that, he says.

About what? I ask.

About how aware you are of what’s happening to you.

Everyone asks that, I say. They are astonished that I can be so aware, so very . . .

Clinical , he says.

Yes.

You always were , he says. He has a wry smile, not unappealing. When I broke my arm, you were more interested in my bone density than in getting me to the hospital.

I remember someone breaking his arm, I say. Mark. It was Mark. Mark fell out of the maple tree in front of the Janeckis’.

I’m Mark.

You? Mark?

Yes. Your son.

I have a son?

Yes. Mark. Me.

I have a son! I am struck dumb. I have a son! I am filled with ecstasy. Joy!

Mom, please, don’t . . .

But I am overwhelmed. All these years! I had a son and never knew it!

The man is now kneeling at my feet, holding me.

It’s okay, Mom. I’m here.

I hold on to him tightly. A fine young man and, wondrous of all, conceived by me. There is something not quite right about his face, a flaw in his beauty. But to my eyes, this makes him even more beloved.

Mom, he says after a moment. His arms around me loosen, he pulls back.

I miss the warmth immediately but reluctantly let go and sit back in my chair.

Mom, I had something really important to say. It’s about Fiona. He is standing now, and his face is back to the dark, watchful look he wore when he entered. I know that look.

What about her? I ask. My tone is not welcoming.

Mom, I know you don’t want to hear this, but she’s gone off again. You know how she gets.

I do know, but I don’t answer. I have never encouraged this telling of tales.

This time it’s bad. Really bad. She won’t talk to me. You used to be able to talk her down. Dad, sometimes. But she listened to you. Do you think you could speak to her? He pauses. Do you understand what I’m saying?

Where have you been, you bastard? I ask.

What?

After all these years, you come here and say these things?

Shhh, Mom. It’s okay. I’m right here. I never left.

What do you mean? I’ve been alone. All alone in this house. Eating dinner alone, going to bed alone. So alone.

That’s just not true, Mom. Until just last year there was Dad. And what about Magdalena?

Who?

Magdalena. Your friend. The woman who lives with you.

Oh. Her. She’s not my friend. She gets paid. I pay her.

That doesn’t mean she’s not your friend.

Yes, it certainly does. Suddenly I’m angry. Furious! You bastard! I say. You abandoned me!

The man slowly gets to his feet and sighs heavily. Magdalena! he calls.

Did you hear me? Bastard!

I heard you , Mom . He looks around, searching for something. My coat, he says. Have you seen my coat?

A woman hurries into the room. Blond. A woman of heft. Better go, she says. Quickly. Here’s your coat. Yes. Thanks for coming.

Well, I won’t pretend it’s been fun, the man says to me, and turns to go.

Get out!

The blond woman puts up her hand. She moves slowly toward me. No, Jennifer. Put that down. Please put that down. Now, really, did you have to do that?

What has happened. There has been an accident. The phone lies in the hallway amid shattered glass. Cold air sweeps past me, the curtains blow wildly. Outside, a car door slams, an engine starts. I feel alive, vindicated, ready for anything. There’s so much more where this came from. O yes, much much more.

From my notebook:

A good day. Excellent day, my brain mostly clear. I performed a Mini-Cog test on myself. Uncertain of the year, month, and day, but confident of the season. Not sure of my age, but I recognized the woman I saw in the mirror. Still a touch of auburn in the hair, deep brown eyes unfaded, the lines around the eyes and forehead, if not exactly laugh lines, at least indicating a sense of humor.

I know my name: Jennifer White. I know my address: 2153 Sheffield. And spring has arrived. The smell of warm, wet earth, the promise of renewal, of things emerging from a dormant state. I opened the windows and waved at the neighbor across the street, already turning over his raised beds, preparing for the glorious array of angel’s trumpets, blood flowers, blue butterfly bushes.

Went into the kitchen and remembered how to make the strong, bitter coffee I love: how to shake the beans into the grinder, how to sniff the rich scent as the blades slash through the hard shells, how to count the scoops of fragrant deep brown coarse particles into the coffeemaker, how to pour the fresh cold water into the receptacle.

Then Fiona stopped by. Ah, my girl delights me! With her short pixie haircut and upper right arm entwined by a red and blue rattlesnake tattoo. Usually she keeps it hidden, and only a chosen few in her current life know about it, about her wilder days.

She came to collect my financial statements, go over some numbers that I will not understand. No matter. I have my financial genius. My monetary rock. Graduated from high school at sixteen, from college at twenty, and at twenty-four, the youngest female tenure-track professor at the U of C business school. Her area of specialization is international monetary economics—she routinely gets calls from Washington, London, Frankfurt.

After James died, once I was certain of my prognosis, I signed over financial power of attorney. Her I trust. My Fiona. She places paper after paper in front of me, and I sign without reading. I ask her if there is anything I should pay special attention to, and she says no. Today was different, however. She had no papers but just sat at the table with me and held my hand in hers. My remarkable girl.

At our Alzheimer’s support group today, we talk about what we hate. Hate is a powerful emotion, our young leader says. Ask a dementia patient who she loves, and she draws a blank. Ask her who she hates, and the memories come flooding in.

Hatred. Hate. The word resonates. My stomach contracts, and bile rises in my throat. I hate. I find my hands clenched into fists. Faces turn to look at me. Some men, mostly women. A variety of races, of creeds. A United Nations of the despised, of the despicable. I cannot make out their features exactly. An anonymous mob.

It is becoming hard to breathe. What is that noise. Is it me. Who are you staring at.

Our leader is coming over. Our leader is leaving the room, he returns with a youngish woman, bleached blond hair, too much makeup. She comes straight over to me.

Dr. White, the woman says. Jennifer. We’re going home now. Shhh. No yelling. No. Please stop. Stop. You’re hurting me. No, don’t call, I can handle this. Jennifer. Come now. That’s right. We’re going home. Shhh. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s me, look at me. At me, Magdalena. That’s right. We’re going home.