Turn of Mind (31 page)

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.

She is trying to keep a somber face as she tells me this, but the edges of her lips keep tugging up. Still, I would diagnose her state as one of fevered, rather than healthy, excitement.

I believe I should call in a consult, I say. I'm concerned. But your condition is not in my area of expertise.

The young woman gives off a little shriek of laughter. Borderline hysterical.

Oh, Mom,
she says.
Always the clinician.

Then she takes a breath, runs her hands down the sides of her body, smoothes out her dress. She sits down next to me.

I'm sorry,
she says.
It's a combination of excitement and relief. Some time off to
enjoy the fruits of my labors, which as you know I very rarely take. But it hit me
yesterday:Why not? And so I booked a trip to the Bahamas. You and Dad took
us to New Providence a couple of times, remember? I'm not going back there. I've
been doing a little too much revisiting of the past. And the future is so grim. You.
Mark on the verge of going under. I don't want to think about these things. So
it's five days of now. Which is something you should understand.

I'm having trouble holding on to her words. Her face is slipping away.

Yes, just go back to sleep. It's late. I didn't mean to wake you, just wanted to say
good-bye. And it's only a few days. I'll be back next Wednesday and will come
by Thursday. They have my contact info here.

She gets up to go, still electric with energy.

Bye, Mom. I'll see you again before you even realize I'm gone.
She gives a little snort of laughter as she says it, and then the door bangs and my room is empty.

I need to get to the hospital. I was paged. Where are my clothes. My shoes. I just have time to splash some water on my face, I'll grab a cup of coffee at the Tip Top diner on Fullerton. Now. My purse and car keys.

Jennifer? Why are you up? It's three o'clock in the morning. My goodness, you're
dressed oddly. Where are you going?

No time to chat. There's a trauma coming in.

A young woman, in light green scrubs speaks soothingly.
No need to
hurry. We've got everything under control. The emergency has been taken care of.
I'm not convinced. Her name tag reads simply erica. No letters after it, no credentials. A bit slovenly, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Asleep on the job? It hardly seems possible. Still some of the urgency is dissipating. I am beginning to wonder why I am standing here, with a red skirt over my nightgown and a wool scarf around my head and neck.

I heard a noise, I say.

Did you? The only thing I heard was you thumping around.

No, it was outside. A car door slamming.

There isn't any downstairs here, sweetie. Just the one level.

Dr. White.

Excuse me?

It's Dr. White.

I'm sorry. I don't mean anything by it. You're really a sweet lady, that's why!

It was Mark, I think. He keeps coming by. Asking for money. I don't know why he'd come over now, in the middle of the night. Only to leave again without saying anything. I tried to wake up James, but he sleeps so soundly. When I went to the window, all I saw was a figure heading down the street, walking quickly.

Dr. White, you were having a dream.

No. I heard the door slam. The footsteps. The figure.

I know. Now time to go back to sleep.

I can't. I'm up now.

Dr. White, there's nowhere to go.

I need to walk. If I can't walk, I will scream. You will regret it.

Okay, okay. No need for that. Just behave yourself. Don't get me in trouble.

No, I just need to walk. See? Just walk.

And I begin to make my nightly rounds, to walk until my ankles can't support me any longer.

I sit in the great room, tears streaming down my face. Dog is trying to lick them off, but I push him away. This is what I remember: my son Mark on the table, his chest open. Flatlining. Everyone has left the OR, the lights have been turned off. I can barely see, but I know it's him. A coronary artery bypass grafting gone awry, a simple procedure, but one I am not qualified to perform. This was not a dream. I have not been asleep. That I have done something terribly, terribly wrong is beyond a doubt. The gallery is full of people, no one I recognize. All sitting in judgment. All in possession of knowledge beyond my reach.

My pills sit untouched on the bedside table. I will not take them. Not today. I want to see clearly. I have a plan. I awoke with it fully formed in my mind. It grows stronger as the day progresses.

At breakfast we are reminded that the Girl Scouts are coming today and we will stuff cambric squares with lavender to make sachets.
Your
clothes will smell so nice!
the gray-haired woman says encouragingly. I am remembering today. I recall Girl Scouts, their fresh faces and forced smiles. How they enunciate. They are at the cruelest age. They do not call Fiona. They do not invite her to their parties. They do not know how much I hate them for this. How I want revenge.

A little later, the painters arrive. Not just a touch-up. All the walls in the great room are being redone, painted the inevitable green. The door opens and closes as they bring in equipment, buckets of paint, tarps. They set up a barrier of tape, wet paint signs hanging from it.

This does not prevent incidents. A new arrival to the floor plunges his cupped hands into a bucket of paint, begins drinking it like water. Attendants run toward him, emitting cries of dismay. There are calls for the doctor, and the man is grabbed by the arms and hustled toward the front desk. I see my chance.

I go to my room. I put on my most comfortable shoes. Is it summer or winter? Hot or cold? I don't know, so I struggle into an extra shirt just in case. If it is winter it will be hard, but I will make it. I will go home. My mother and father are worried. They always worry.

I wasn't allowed to have a driver's license. I had to learn secretly during college. Even though I was still living at home, my boyfriend taught me in the parking lot of St. Pat's, and took me to the testing facility. When my mother went through my purse looking for contraceptives, she found the license. A greater betrayal, in their eyes, a worse sin against them, such an unexpected rebellion.
Honor thy father and mother.
I did, I do. I must get back to them. I hurry back to the scene, where the painters are all standing around in confusion. None of them speaks English. They are waiting for something, someone. I edge toward the door, hidden among the workers. There is a banging on the door. An attendant runs over, punches the code, and the door swings open wide, admitting a man dressed in white like the others, except clean, not spattered with paint.

I catch the door with my foot just before it closes. I take one look back. The man in the clean clothes is talking to a tall gray-haired woman, gesturing with his hands. Old people are crowding around them, attendants trying to entice them away. I open the door wider, feel the rush of hot air. I won't have to worry about frostbite, at least. One more step, and I am through. I let the door fall behind with a click.

THREE

The sun is blinding. How long since you were so bombarded with un-filtered light? Overpowering heat, the air thick and foul-smelling from the fumes of softened asphalt under your feet. It gives as you step, makes a dark, sucking sound with each move. Like walking on a tarry moon.

You tread carefully over the sticky black surface. Sweat trickles down your neck, your bra is already soaked. You pause to take off your sweater but then are confronted with the problem of what to do with it. You hang it carefully on the antenna of a small blue car parked nearby and keep walking. There is some urgency to move, some sense that there are conspiracies afoot, that lightning will strike multiple times if you stand in one spot.

You are in a lot filled with cars of all makes, models, and colors. Which one is yours. Have you been here before. Where is James, he has the keys. And your purse? You must have left it at the hospital. Your phone. It should be embedded in your flesh so critical is it to your ability to function.

Fiona once threw your pager down the toilet and flushed. Mark, not nearly as competent, merely buried it in the back garden, and you heard it chirp at dinner. You didn't punish either of them, understood that they were merely playing out their Darwinian destinies. Who will inherent the earth? Not any scion of your flesh.

You are nearly at the street. Placards everywhere, violators will be towed. A gate, a gatekeeper adjusting a waist-high sign, lot full. He nods to you.

The sidewalks are crowded with people, mostly the young, dressed in as little as possible. Girls in short summer dresses with spaghetti straps holding insubstantial fabrics against small breasts. Young men in oversize shorts that reach below the knee, falling from their slight hips. Sidewalk cafés, umbrellaed tables encroaching upon the sidewalks, forcing people out into the street. Cars honking. Planters that trail flowers too bright and perfect to be real. Yet you see a woman pick off a blossom and put it in her hair. Waiters hefting trays over their heads. Colorful red and pink and blue cocktails in large v-shaped glasses. People sipping from small white cups. Enormous salads.

Everything as it should be. Everything in its place. Where is your place. Where do you belong.

You realize that you are impeding the flow of traffic. People are politely navigating around you, but you are inconveniencing them. One man bumps your elbow as he passes and stops briefly to apologize. You nod and say, not at all, and begin moving again.

Summer in the city. How exciting when your mother and father allowed you to begin coming here by yourself, away from the row houses of Germantown, the concrete schoolyards and industrial storefronts, the glazier shops and printing presses. Away from the grime-colored house with the trains running through the backyard. Your mother and her gypsy charm. Black Irish, full of magic.

In your teens you turned yourself to stone to withstand her. You vowed to never rely on trickery to bind others to you. Not a difficult vow to keep, as you had no such tricks at your disposal. Your charm nonexistent. Your beauty minimal.