Turn of Mind (11 page)

Yet this boy—this young man—Mark's freshman-year roommate from Northwestern, saw possibilities. I had always been alert for predators, but Eric slipped below my radar. Too sallow, too diffident, without any of the charm or resentment I associated back then with successful seducers.

What happened between them I don't know. Fiona wouldn't tell me. Was her heart broken? Did she catch a venereal disease? Did she have an abortion? Any of those were likely, but I think it was probably something less melodramatic. I thought at the time she was merely helping him through a statistics course. Amanda thought something similar. She thought Fiona had taken pity on him for his social clumsiness. It didn't occur to either of us that Fiona needed anything from Eric. It just wasn't what one thought about Fiona.

I ended it one night, after I caught them together sitting on the front steps. I wasn't spying, hadn't even thought about them, just opened the door and there they were. He had a petulant look on his face, the kind of don't-you-love-me face that young men like to pull. Not one I would have thought Fiona would be susceptible to. Then I saw her expression. Not love. No. Something worse. A kind of despairing responsibility. A tortured acceptance of a heavy burden.

It took every ounce of my strength not to kick that young man in his bony buttocks. I can still picture his aggrieved shoulders as he leaned toward Fiona, willing her to give him some of her strength. And she looked back at me, saw that I saw, and the weight seemed to evaporate from her body as I shook my head. No.

Later that night she accused me, in tears, of ruining her life. And so we played out that particular mother-daughter scene with a gusto that fooled both James and Mark. But we knew what was going on. A timely rescue, met with gratitude.

I find a letter next to my morning pills and juice. My name on it, no address. No stamp. Two pages of unlined notepaper, tiny cramped writing. I read it through once, then again.

Mom:

I'm sorry my last visit didn't end so well. I never even got to the real reason I
came over. But, in fact, the episode just proves the point I wanted to make. It's
really time to sell the house and move into assisted living.

What's more, it's time for me to exercise the medical power of attorney. I know
you don't want this. You value your independence. With Magdalena's help, 65
percent of the time you do well. But the other 35 percent of the time!

The ongoing investigation into Amanda's death is a real worry. The fact that it's
even a question that you might have been involved—not that I believe that, of
course—is reason enough to make this move.

Do I believe that you are a danger to others? No. Do I believe you are a danger
to yourself ? Yes, I do. I suspect I don't hear everything. I suspect that Magdalena
and Fiona keep things from me.

You gave me this power. I didn't ask for it. But, having been given it, I intend
to fulfill my duties. You could take it away, of course. You could do what Fiona is
trying to convince you to do (yes, I read through your notebook last time I was
there) and strip me of this power. But I think you know it would be a mistake.

About Fiona. I worry about her. Almost as much as I worry about you. As I said
when I saw you, you know how she gets. How she does really well for long periods
of time, but then things can go south—very very quickly. Remember that time
at Stanford? When Dad had to go get her so she could decompress in a safe place?

Anyway, I know Fiona tells you otherwise, but I truly have your best interests
at heart. The police have had you in for questioning multiple times. I know
that if they had anything at all on you they wouldn't hesitate to try you as a
competent adult.

I worry about you a lot. I know I don't always express it in the most diplomatic
way. As we've discussed many times, I'm not Dad. I'm not the silver-tongued
corporate finance lawyer, just a grunt. But I do care.

Legally, as you once knew (and maybe still do when your mind is clear),
incapacity has to be established for each separate task. You may no longer be
competent to dress yourself, but you may be competent to make a decision about
where you want to live. I accept that.

The fact that you decided to give Fiona financial control was on one hand a
wise one. You recognized that you could no longer act in your own best interest
financially. You have substantial assets, and you should not risk them. That was
the right thing to do—almost.

This is a long-winded way of saying that I would like to declare you mentally
incompetent to get some legal protection for you. Just in case.

And an equally long-winded way of saying that I'm not sure that Fiona is the
best person to control your money. She's certainly capable. But is she trustworthy?
I would feel more comfortable if I were also getting copies of your account
statements. Can we perhaps arrange this?

Try to read this letter knowing of my concern for your well-being. Mental
competency is a label. It doesn't have anything to do with your actual abilities.
You won't suddenly deteriorate because some court of law has ruled. You'll still
be the same person. But you may possibly avoid a lot of trouble and expense by
making this move now rather than waiting until you are pulled in again by the
police or even charged.

I'll come by tomorrow and try again. Believe me, I truly wish to be of service.

Your loving son,

Mark

Today my mother died. I am not crying, it was her time. So it goes. So it always goes.

Oh Mary!
My father would say when my mother did something outrageous—danced the cancan on top of a chair at a formal dinner party, stoned a pigeon to death in front of horrified passersby.
Oh Mary!
Their love duet.

Such a lovely man, my father. He had a quiet mind, as Thoreau would say. How did he end up with my mother? She flirted with homosexual priests, told audacious lies, uncorked the whiskey at four o'clock every day. And now, finally, gone.

My flight to Philadelphia is delayed, and so when I arrive at the hospice the bed is already empty—someone failed to pass on the news that I was coming. I sit on the stripped bed. Does it matter? No. I don't know if she would have known me in any case.

She wandered at the end. A devout Catholic always, in the last months of her life she forsook Christ and the Blessed Mother for the virgin martyrs. Theresa of Avila, Catherine of Siena, and Lucy were her constant companions. She would giggle, swat at the air with a Kleenex, offer them bits of food. A hungry, witty lot, to judge from the constant feeding they required and my mother's constant laughing at their repartee.

She retained her mischievousness. She never lost that. Once, she secreted a ketchup package from her lunch tray and dotted it on her wrists at the lunocapitate joints, on her ankles at the talonaviculars. Bitter, vinegary stigmata. The nurse's assistant screamed, to my mother's obvious delight. She gave a high five to an invisible coconspirator.

Ultimately what did her in was a fall. An innocuous one. Her knees buckled as she hobbled from her bed to the toilet. She collapsed onto the floor, was helped up, and that was the end of her.

That evening, she was running a high fever. Throughout the night she remained deep in conversation with her saints. It was a different kind of delirium than usual: She was saying her good-byes. She kissed the virgins good-bye, gave them long, loving embraces. She waved goodbye to the doctors, the nurses, the orderlies. She waved to the hospice visitors passing by in the hall. She asked for, and received, a large glass of Scotch whiskey. She was given her last rites. Good-bye, good-bye.

My father wasn't mentioned. I wasn't either.

She was a lover of practical jokes until the end. When the orderlies came to remove her body, one noticed an oddly shaped lump between her breasts. Gingerly fishing his hand down the front of her hospital gown, he gave a shriek, jumped back, and shook his hand.
Something bite
you?
his coworker said, grinning. Yes, indeed: my mother's false teeth. A beautiful woman when younger, she had never stopped believing in her allure. So one of her last acts was to spring a trap where she apparently still believed someone would want to go.

The nurse told me all this, and I smiled. I wonder what will remain in my mind, at the end. What basic truths will I return to? What tricks will I play and on whom?

Jennifer.

Someone is shaking me. The nurse.

Jennifer, it's time for your pills.

No. I must call the funeral home. Make arrangements for the cremation. Because I cannot bear the thought of a funeral. Ashes to ashes, that is all that is required. The plot is paid for. My father is already there. Beloved husband and father. All that is necessary is to finish carving the double headstone. I can arrange for that tomorrow and be on an evening plane. Back to my surgery, to James and the children.

Jennifer, you are in Chicago. You are home.

No. I am in Philadelphia. At Mercy Hospice. With the body of my mother.

No, Jennifer, your mother died a long time ago. Years and years.

No, not possible.

Yes. Now take your pills. Here's your water. Good. Now. How about a walk?
She holds out her hand. I take it. I study it. When I cannot sleep, when I am confused, I label things. I try to remember what matters. And I use their right names. Names are precious things.

I run my fingers across the hand I am holding. This is the
hamate
. This is the
pisiform
. The
triquetrum
, the
lunate
, the
scaphoid
, the
capitate, trapezoid,
trapezium
. The
metacarpal
bones, the
proximal phalanges
, the
distal phalanges
. The
sesamoids
.

You have a gentle touch. You were a good doctor, I suspect.

Perhaps. But not necessarily a good daughter. When did you say it happened?

More than twenty years ago. You've told me the stories.

Did I mourn?

I don't know. I wasn't around then. Perhaps. You're not one to display much.

I continue holding her hand, stroking the fingers with my own. The things that matter. The truths we hold on to until the end.
These are
things that make life as we know it possible,
I used to say in my lectures, pointing to each phalange in turn.
Treat them with the utmost reverence.
Without them, we are nothing. Without them, we are hardly human.

The beautiful one would leave by the back door as James came in the front. Duplicity. Making rounds with him and needing to be stern. He was so young. Reprimanding him for poorly executed sutures.
But
we saw the patient's symptoms and functions improve after I reconstructed the
traumatized joint
, he argued once, almost whining. Not attractive in that context. No.