Alice LaPlante - Turn of Mind

Another woman, older, is thinking hard. She is looking at the young woman, but she is not seeing her. She is seeing images play out in her mind, images that are telling her some sort of story.

And the third woman, oldest of all, is dreaming. Not really present. Although she knows she is wearing clothes, sitting on a hard chair, that material is pressed against her skin, she cannot feel any of it. Her body is weightless. The atmosphere has thickened. It is difficult to breathe. And time has slowed. An entire life could be lived between heartbeats. She is drowning in air. Soon, scenes will begin appearing before her eyes.

The woman, the one that is neither old nor young, is opening her mouth. The words drop out, hang motionless in the congealing atmosphere.

At last, something is making sense, she says. A beat of silence. Then another. Perfect sense, she says. She stands up. She is working something out. Even if your mother were capable of killing, it’s unlikely that she would have been able to cover her tracks so thoroughly. Not without help.

The younger woman’s hands are now still, but they are gripping each other so tightly that all blood has drained from the knuckles. She closes her eyes. She doesn’t speak.

The middle-aged woman’s voice is getting louder. She is coming alive as the young and old women shut down. That’s one of the things that saved your mother from being charged for so long. Her capacity for that kind of act was so obviously not there. But if she had assistance . . . Yours . . .

When the young woman finally speaks, her voice is so low you can scarcely hear it. What are you going to do? she asks.

I don’t know , says the middle-aged woman . First I have to understand.

Understand? What is there to understand? The young woman is speaking faster now, agitatedly. Her voice is higher, pleading. She tugs at the edges of her shorn hair. Almost whining. You do not find it attractive. What does it remind you of ? Stop that. Stop it now. She did it, the young woman says, loudly . I found out. I helped her cover it up.

Not so fast, the middle-aged woman says. I need to understand. She picks up something from the table, runs her fingers across it, puts it down before continuing. Did she give you any indication that she was angry at Amanda? That she was thinking about doing something like this?

Absolutely not. The young woman almost interrupts, she is so eager to answer. She places her hands in her lap, one on top of the other, like stacking bundles of kindling. Willing them not to move.

Then how did you know to go over there? The older woman’s voice is rising. She is losing control even as the younger woman is regaining it. They are focused entirely on each other. One tamping down emotions, the other escalating them.

I went home to check up on her. I’d been worrying. And I couldn’t sleep that night. I thought I’d spend the night there, give Magdalena a break.

Why didn’t you tell us this?

Because one thing would lead to another and you would ask too many questions.

And so . . . ?

I pulled up into the parking space next to the garage. Behind the house. And saw my mother coming down the alley. She was spattered with blood. All I could get out of her was one word: Amanda. So I took her there. And found her.

Did your mother say why?

She said it was blackmail.

Blackmail?

Yes.

About what?

About me. The circumstances of my birth. That my mother didn’t know who my father was. Not for sure. Amanda was going to tell.

Tell who? Your father was dead. Who else would care?

Me. How ironic. My mother killed to protect me. Or some idea she had about how I wouldn’t be able to handle the truth. Or perhaps it was Amanda pushing things one inch too far.

And so you cleaned it up, the older woman says .

And so I cleaned it all up, says the younger woman. She is even calmer now. Almost relieved.

What did you do with the fingers?

I wrapped them up and tossed them into the Chicago River, off the Kinzie Street Bridge.

You did a good job of it. What about the scalpel?

You mean the scalpel blades? I threw them out with the fingers. I tried to take the scalpel handle, too. But my mother wouldn’t let me. She took it home, along with the unused blades. You know the rest about those.

The older woman has been pacing. Back and forth, between the wall and the desk. Yes, she says. We know the rest. She is now looking at you again. They are both looking at you. You are now visible again. You are not sure that you like that. You felt safer floating in the ether.

But the fingers, says the older woman, suddenly. What about the fingers?

The younger woman shudders. She turns away from you, as if she can’t bear what she sees. She answers the older woman without looking at her, either.

I don’t know, she says. I haven’t a clue about that. It was just the way Amanda was when I found her.

The older woman is quiet for a moment. Then she comes over, sits down next to you, and takes your hand.

Were you able to follow this, Dr. White?

There are pictures in my head, you say. Not gentle visitations. The other kind.

Is that the way it happened?

A horrifying tableau.

Yes. Indeed it was. Can you tell us now why you dismembered her hand?

She had something I needed. She wouldn’t give it up.

The woman is suddenly alert, her hand reaching out and taking hold of your arm. What did you say? she asks in a soft voice that belies the strength of her grip. What did she have?

The medal.

The medal? The older woman is not expecting this. The Saint Christopher medal?

The young woman sits up. She has a look on her face.

Mom.

You wave her away.

Amanda had the medal. She wouldn’t give it up, you say.

But I don’t understand. Why would she have your medal?

Mom . . .

There are voices outside the door, a shadow in the smoked glass at the top half of it. Then a loud knock— rat-tat-tat-tat . The woman gets out of the chair and reaches the door just as it is opening. She stops it with her foot, not letting whoever it is step inside. She speaks a few quiet words, then shuts and locks the door before sitting down again.

You were saying, she says. About the medal.

You do not know what she is talking about. The medal , you repeat.

Yes, the medal. She sounds frustrated. You were about to tell me about the medal. About Amanda and the medal. What did that have to do with the fingers? She gets up again, comes around the desk, reaches out as if to grab your shoulders. To shake it out of you. But what? You are no use to her. You shake your head.

The young woman opens her mouth to talk, hesitates, then speaks up.

Amanda had the medal clutched in her hand. She must have grabbed it from my mother’s neck during the struggle. Then rigor mortis set in.

The older woman backs away from you, faces the younger woman. Her face is a study.

And so she cut open her hand to get it back.

Fiona, you say.

Yes, Mom, I’m here.

Fiona, my girl.

The older woman’s voice is cold. A fine little actress. She pauses, addresses the young woman. You know, we could charge you as an accessory.