Turn of Mind (13 page)

They really thought they had you this time,
Mark says
. But all the tests they
ran were inconclusive.
He is fiddling with his watch strap. He does not seem overly concerned. I catch a quick worried frown flash across Fiona's face.

What are you talking about? I ask. I am irritable. It is not a day when I feel especially maternal. I have paperwork to complete, and I am more tired than I like to admit. A cup of coffee and a retreat to my office is what I really want, not making small talk with these young people, however closely we are related.

Never mind,
Fiona says quickly, and so I don't. Instead I look at my watch. I notice that Fiona notices, and the frown briefly reappears, but that Mark is now staring at my Calder, hanging in its usual place above the piano.

Where is your father? I ask. He'll be sorry he missed you. I begin to rise, it is my way of ending the session, which feels strangely like they are deliberately wasting my time, as if it's a ruse to keep me in the room and away from my real work.

I doubt he'll be back before we have to go,
says Mark, who doesn't budge from the couch. I don't miss the look Fiona gives him. Something is up, they are withholding information, but I am too annoyed to pursue it.

Where's Magdalena?
Fiona asks abruptly.
There's something we have to discuss
with both of you.
She begins to get out of her chair, but just then Magdalena bustles. Her eyes are slightly red.

I'm sorry, I was on the phone,
she says, adding,
Family stuff.

Fiona has settled herself back in her chair and gives the ground a little push with her right foot to set it in motion. Small and slight as she is, she resembles a child as she rocks back and forth.

We wanted to get on the same page about something,
she begins, and looks over at Mark. He has turned his attention back to the Calder, so she continues.

The press has been bugging both Mark and me. There was a leak. They know
Mom was taken in for questioning and released. That's about as much as they
seem to know, but I'm—
and here she gives Mark another quick glance— we're
eager to avoid any undue publicity.

Magdalena jumps in.
I would never say anything. You know that. I just hang up
on them. Or if someone appears at the door I don't recognize, I don't even open it.

Mark speaks up.
Yes, but they somehow got hold of Mom last week—she'd
wandered out into the front yard.

What exactly do you mean—
got hold of me?
I ask, icily. And under what circumstances would I
wander
out into my own front yard? You make me sound like a two-year-old.

I see Mark smile at this, but it isn't a smile for me. Just some private joke.

Magdalena is looking uncertain and slightly frightened.
No one told me,
she says
.

I got a call from the reporter. Fiona did, too. Apparently Mom was in fine
form that day—got it in her head that the reporter was trying to dig up dirt
on Amanda and her teaching methods—remember how Amanda was always
battling the PTA? Confused the hell out of the guy. It seems they talked at
cross-purposes for a moment or two, then Mom dismissed him. He doesn't quite
understand what is going on.

If he's any good he can find out about Mom's condition from the hospital or
clinic,
Fiona says.
And of course there's the leak on the police end. But let's not
make it easy for him or anyone else.

My condition? I ask. I am standing now. I'll tell you what my condition is—I'm furious.

I'm astonished that no one bothers to look at me. Excuse me, I say, clipping the words short, and deliberately lowering my voice. This invariably gets the attention of the OR. But it doesn't work this time.

No more negligence,
Mark is saying, looking at Magdalena.
Do you understand?
Three strikes and you're out. We've started counting.

Magdalena's breath is uneven.
Yes,
she says.
Understood.

Even Fiona, usually so attentive toward me and gentle toward others, has hardened her features.
This is now your number one priority,
she tells Magdalena.
Protecting the family. Nothing else matters.

We're looking at apples. Piles and piles of apples, all different varieties, colors, sizes. Next to them, mounds of green pears, purple pears. Then oranges. Who stacks them so neatly? Who keeps them in order?

I take one of the apples, a red one, and bite it. A bitter aftertaste. I spit it out and pick up another. Try that one. A little girl is watching me.
Mom,
that lady is wasting food. Shhh,
her mother says, but the girl persists.
And
why is she taking off her dress?

Jennifer!
I turn around. A large blond woman is running at me. Startled, I bump against the apples, and they start tumbling down off the stand, rolling by the dozens onto my feet, onto the floor, scattering in all directions.

Put your clothes back on!
But why should I?
Jennifer, no, not anymore. Please
leave on your underpants. Oh God, they'll call the police again.
A large man hurries over.
Ma'am?
he asks. The blond woman cuts him off.
She has
dementia. She doesn't know what she's doing. Here. Here's a letter from her
doctor.

The blond woman is pulling a crumpled envelope from her purse. She opens it hurriedly, thrusts a piece of paper at the man. He reads it, frowning.
Okay, but get her dressed and get her out of here. What were you
thinking, anyway, bringing her here when this might happen?

Usually she's very good. It's just on occasion
. . .

Often enough that you have to carry a letter around with you!

Yes, but
. . .

Just get her out.

The blond woman is pushing something over my head and down over my hips and then picking up something smaller and balling it up and putting it in her pocket. We leave the store with the cries of children rising over us.
But Mommy! Mommy? Mommy, look.

My notebook: Fiona's handwriting.

Mom, we had a discussion today. It's one I've been wanting to have for years, but
the time was never right. I was always afraid. But now things are so different.
Even if you get mad, it doesn't last. Revelations these days are worth shit. We
quickly go back to our safe, comfortable roles. It wasn't always this safe, of course.
So it's still a little scary to initiate a talk.

We started out talking about me at fourteen. Remember? Cantankerous, rebellious,
rude. Acting everything that was age-appropriate, in fact. I ran away twice,
if you recall. The first time was a fit of pure rage. One minute I was screaming at
our nanny at the time—what was her name? Sophia? Daphne?—and I don't
remember anything else until I was at Union Station, trying to buy a ticket for
New York. That's when the cops picked me up. I barely look my age now. I can
only imagine what I looked like at fourteen: skinny and knock-kneed with my
hair cut like a boy's and greased to stand up straight. The first of my many piercings
in my ears and cheeks. Dressed in all black, of course.

What I would have done in New York is anyone's guess. I must have had some
of my wits about me, because I'd gone through Sophia's or Daphne or Helga's
wallet and stolen what I thought was a credit card but was really a AAA membership
card you'd given her in case her car broke down. Very naive I was. The
cops brought me back right after you got home from work. You hadn't even taken
off your coat. And you just coolly accepted the facts the cops told you, didn't punish
me, didn't bring up the subject ever again, just told me to wash my hands for
dinner. I was furious, as you can imagine.

The second time was different. I'd just broken up with Colin. Because of you. I
was in a panic. I'd been shown the abyss and wasn't sure if I had leaped in or
been pulled back from the precipice. It was an almost purely physical sensation,
because I certainly wasn't thinking: my heart was racing, I had trouble breathing,
and I was even breaking out in odd rashes all over my body. To all of this
you seemed oblivious. Just leaving in the morning and coming back at night.
Mark was away at college already. Dad was
. . .
well, who knows where. And
I thought I was dying. Everything was getting out of control and I was afraid.
So I left again. But I was smarter this time. I packed a bag and went over to
Amanda's, requesting asylum. She was delighted. She had always taken her role
of godmother very seriously and had always encouraged me to come to her—
especially if I was having trouble with you. You probably wouldn't be surprised to
hear that she reveled in such complaints. I always adored her. I saw her hardness,
the way she treated others, the face she showed the world. But I could always
overcome those defenses. I took advantage of her, of course. Shamelessly. And that
time was no different. I laid my grievances about you at her feet and watched
her mind begin to work.

As I told you today, I think now that she'd planned this for years. She'd just
been waiting for the right time. She had been watching me and calculating and
hoping. Observing me change from an intense but loving child into a total freak
with mother issues. Waiting for her chance. She thought she had it that time. We
were sitting at her dining room table, and she had this funny look on her face.
Funny for Amanda, who is usually so resolute. But I could see her trepidation
when she asked me. To move in with her and Peter. To spend the rest of my teen
years with them. To leave you, Mark, and Dad behind, although I'd see you, of
course. She would be my foster mother. It shocked me out of my teenage angst.
And attracted me. Revenge, ready-made. I asked for some time to think it over.
She agreed, naturally, and told me to go home until I made up my mind. I
came home that evening in a daze. You noticed something was up—I found you
studying me during dinner—but didn't say anything directly. Still, you came to
my room that evening, something you rarely did. You sat on the edge of my bed
and said something odd. It was as if you knew. You said,
three more years. Just three more years.
And you patted my arm. That's all it took. Just one touch.
Even though at that age I shrank from any physical contact, I welcomed that
touch and in one instant abandoned Amanda and her well-laid plans. We never
spoke about it, Amanda and I. No questions ever asked. And she never changed
her attitude toward me. We continued as before, the iconoclast and the devoted
godmother. Until the day she died.

And what did you say, this afternoon, when I told you all this? You smiled, and
reached out and patted my arm again. Then withdrew it, sooner than I liked.
For I'm no longer at a point where I don't want to be touched. The opposite, in
fact. Yet I don't seem to be attracting much these days. I've spent some years in
the wilderness and can't seem to find my way out. God help me, I'd thought and
didn't realize I'd said it out loud until you said,
Yes, please do.