Turn of Mind (39 page)

The person is deep into the story and startles when spoken to.

Keep an eye on Fiona, James told me when she was still very young. Not even ten years old. You know what worried him the most?

What, Mom?

All the caretaking. Of her brother. Giving it all away and leaving herself defenseless.
She's at risk,
he told me.
Watch her carefully.

Amanda was going to report me, Mom. It would have been the end of us, our family,
what little was left. And she told me such things. About Dad, about you. Nasty
things. Amanda at her worst, her supercilious morality on full display. She
would
recreate me in her image, she said. A righteous image. I was so distraught, so angry. I
pushed my way past her into the house. I had no plans. But somehow I found myself
shaking her by the shoulders—I had to reach up, she is so tall. She laughed at me—
at my ineffectiveness, at my—my weakness. So I gave her a hard shove. And she fell
backward, hitting her head on the corner of that oak table in her hallway. So much
blood! And the world just stopped turning. I knelt down, tried to feel for a heartbeat:
nothing. I was desperate. Bloodied and shaking with the chills and the horror of it all.
I couldn't think clearly. I just ran—got in my car and began driving home, driving
too quickly. It's amazing I didn't get stopped. I was past Armitage when I realized I
didn't have my Saint Christopher medal. Your medal. It was there in Amanda's hand
when I got back, but rigor mortis had already set in. I must have been sitting there for
some time when you found us. I was just out of my mind.

All my beloved, gone. Except the one, the girl.

I didn't know you were there until you came up behind me, knelt down. You
held me for a moment. Then you took me by the arm, pulled me up, and moved
me away from the body.

A botched job. A cruel job.

I was out of my mind.

But that terrible tableau. There on the floor. All the blood. But worst of all, the look on her face. Horror, yes, but something else. Satisfaction.

You know the rest, and after, how I scrambled to remove any evidence.

An unwelcome vision. It keeps visiting me. But is it true?

The person covered its face.

The two people you love most in the world. And it's not the death that matters, but the look on your darling's face. The dark joy. Unbearable.

You never hesitated. You just set to work. No recriminations, no questions. You
protected me. You saved me.
The person is quiet for a moment.
I guess you
could say we managed to have a moment of grace in the midst of the horror.
The person reaches out a hand.

Mom? What's wrong?

No. I will not go that far. I am not that far gone.

The person is starting to cry again.
Mom? What are you saying?

She thinks then. She can still think sometimes. She knows this person. She knows what this person is capable of. She now knows. So this is how it ends. So this is what it feels like to get beyond pain. You
can
get beyond it.

Mom, please.

So this is how it ends.

Mom. This is not how I imagined things would be.

Each day slower than the one before it. Each day more words disappear. The visions alone endure. The playground. The white Communion dress. Playing kickball in the streets. James burning toast. The babies. The one she had to learn to love. The one she thought she couldn't love under any circumstances.

And that second one is all that matters now.

The large woman in blue is back, rattling her keys.
Visiting hours are over.

Yes, I have to go anyway.
The person is wiping its eyes. It is getting up.
Mom, I'm going to have to skip tomorrow. You know it's a teaching day. But
certainly on Thursday. I'll see you then.

What matters at the end are the visions. There is no one to hold up the books anymore, to ask if she remembers. But it doesn't matter. She doesn't need the photos now. Now they come directly to her. Her mother, her father. They have news for her, jokes. James, holding back at first, then allowing himself to be drawn in. And Amanda. Amanda is there, too, whole and strong. She is angry; who wouldn't be? But after her anger burns itself out, there will be something left.

Nurse, she's doing it again.

There is a good place here. It is possible to find it. With such dear friends. Even with the silent ones. Then there are the ones that have risen again. Sent by God.

Nurse, can you shut her up?

Accepting what you have done. Accepting the visions. Waiting it out in their company. In the end, that is enough.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My heartfelt thanks to friends who commented on early drafts of this work, especially Marilyn Lewis, Jill Simonsen, Mary Petrosky, Carol Czyzewski, Christie Cochrell, Diane Cassidy, Marilyn Waite, Judy Weiler, Connie Guidotti, and Florence Schorow. I was thrilled to get the chance to work with Grove/Atlantic's legendary editor, Elisabeth Schmitz, whose insight and generosity of spirit made this a much better book than it otherwise would have been. My thanks also to Morgan Entrekin for his encouragement and support, and to Jessica Monahan, who held things together through the editorial process. My special gratitude goes to dear old friend Dr. Mitch Rotman for his invaluable advice on medical matters; however, any errors there are mine, not his. I can't thank enough my agent, Victoria Skurnick, of the Levine-Greenberg Literary Agency, whose utter professionalism was matched only by her extraordinary personal warmth: I know now why she is beloved throughout the industry. And of course I couldn't have done it without my family, who, after much debate, let me have the comfy chair to write in: David and Sarah, much love to you.