Turn of Mind (14 page)

I'm having a bad day, the kind of day when I know that believers would pray,
but I just can't allow myself to sink that low. So a single word echoes repeatedly
inside my head, little pleadings to little gods. Godlets.
Please.
Just that one word,
over and over again.

Fiona is sobbing. Her head in her hands at my kitchen table. Magdalena is standing behind, rubbing her bowed back. They can both go to hell.

I do so much!
Fiona says.
Day after day. Month after month.
The head of the green-eyed snake tattoo is just visible from under her long-sleeved T-shirt. Her short hair is tousled from running her hands through it. We've been at it for some time.

Yes, you do. Indeed you do,
Magdalena says. Her soothing voice does not match her expression.

And what, exactly, do you
do?
I ask. What have I ever asked you to do? I am inflamed, infused with the power of the injured.

I know it's the disease speaking, but it's still hard. So hard,
Fiona says. Her voice is muffled. She has not lifted her head from her hands.

No, it's
me
speaking. Stop treating me like I'm crazy. I'm forgetful, true. But just because I don't remember where I put my car keys doesn't make me
psychotic.
Don't shake your head at me. I heard you say it. I heard you on the phone.
She's being difficult today. No, beyond difficult,
psychotic.
You said those words. Deny it.

Fiona just shakes her head.

The blond woman speaks up.
Jennifer, the reason you can't find your car keys
is that they don't exist anymore. Your car was sold last year. You are not allowed
to drive. You are too ill.

You, too?

Yes, me, too. Everyone, too.

Everyone.

Yes, just ask. Go ahead. Go out in the street. Knock on a few doors.

Then you two have been talking about me, I say. Spreading the word.

You're after something. You're after my money. Fiona, you were looking through my papers. I saw that, too.

Fiona raises her head.
Mom, I am your financial adviser. You gave me power
of attorney. More than two years ago. When you were first diagnosed with Alzheimer's.
Remember that?

She gives a snort of laughter and turns to Magdalena.
I'm asking a woman
with dementia if she remembers. Who's the crazy one?

That's
it,
I say. Out. Now. And leave the papers. I want to check them.

Mom, you've never been able to ‘check' any numbers. You've said so yourself.
You're hopeless with money.

Well, then. Such people can be hired. I will hire one. I will commission an audit.

Fiona lifts her head.
An audit? What for?

Why does one do an audit? To make sure everything is in order. Call it a second opinion.

But you've always trusted me. Always.

Be a professional. Do I throw a tantrum every time a patient wants a consult? What kind of doctor would I be if I did?

This is different.

How. How
? What do you have to hide?

Nothing! Mom, get a grip.

I have a grip. I have a tremendous grip. And I will not be betrayed. Get out.
And stay away.
From this point on, I have no daughter, I say.

I feel a burden rise as I say this. No daughter! No husband! No son! No encumbrances! I will pack my bags. I will depart for parts unknown. I will take leave from work. I am owed the vacation time. I have the willpower.

I remember the statements Fiona was perusing so intently. And I have the money. No one will know where I am going. No one can follow me. No longer a prisoner in my own house. No longer being watched and followed from room to room. Ah, glorious freedom.

Jennifer. You don't mean any of this,
Magdalena says. She has completely failed to control her face. There is no doubt of her expression. Secret triumph.

You stay out of this. Actually, you're in it already, aren't you? You're a part of this conspiracy. Okay, you're fired. Both of you, out. I have things to do.

Magdalena puts her hands on her hips.
You can't fire me.

What?

You can't fire me. You're not my boss.

If I'm not your boss, who is?

Magdalena gestures to Fiona.
She is. Along with your son. They hired me.
They signed the agency paperwork. The money comes from them.

No. It's my money. This I know.

It's not your name on the check every month.

A sleight of hand, that's all. Robbing Peter to pay Paul. Besides, you forget. This is my house. I decide who comes and who goes.

Fiona speaks again. Her jaw is quivering.
Not for long,
she says.

Excuse me?

This won't be your house for long. Mark and I agree.

Since when are you and Mark friends?

We talk. We cooperate. When necessary. And we will not hesitate to have you
declared mentally incompetent and put you into assisted living. We have ample
evidence. Multiple nine-one-one calls. Emergency room visits. Eye-witness accounts.
Not to mention the ongoing investigation.

So you're all in this together.

Yes, all of us,
Magdalena says.
The whole world!
She goes to the stove, puts the kettle on.
Time for some tea,
she says.
Then a walk. We have
some shopping to do. Help me make a list. Milk, for sure. And pasta. We'll
have pasta for dinner. I'll make my marinara sauce if we can find fresh basil.
If not, we'll just grate some parmesan on top. That's something else we need.
Also we're almost out of salt. See, here's the list. Anything to add? Anything
I forgot?

I take the list. I look at the markings on it. Chicken scratches. Nothing that makes sense. I nod intelligently to show I understand. Something nags at me. The kettle whistles. Tea. Milk. Sugar. What just happened? And why is Fiona wiping red eyes, refusing to look at me?

Yes, that's right. Calm down. It's time to calm down. We'll have a cup of tea and
we'll talk and then we'll go to the grocery store.
She addresses Fiona.
You go
home now. It'll be all right. She's already past it. She won't remember any of
this tomorrow. Or even in an hour.

But she's never turned on me this way. Mark, yes, but never me.

Actually that's not true. You just haven't been here. The stories I could tell you. The situation is deteriorating.

That's what Dr. Tsien says. He says she's entered the worst stage. The next one will
be easier. Much sadder, but easier. It's almost time. Our options are running out.

I listen carefully, I think this is important, but the words disappear into the ether the moment they are spoken.

I accept a cookie from a plate. I bite into its sweetness. I drink the hot wet liquid in the cup that is in front of me. And I ignore the two women who are in my kitchen, two of the multitude of half-familiar strangers who have been intruding, who take such liberties with my house, my person.

Even now, one is leaning over my chair, hand outstretched, trying to pat me on the head. Pet me. No. Stop. I am not a wild thing to be soothed by touch. I will not be soothed.

There is one picture of James that I like and only one. It is James at his most pompous, his most self-promoting, self-gratifying. He could have a crown and a leopard robe about his shoulders and he wouldn't look more ridiculous.

I love it because it is honest. I love it because it is true. In his other photos he appears spontaneous, open,
game.
But that was the pose. In reality, he has too high an opinion of himself to accept most people as equals. That I see this about him doesn't make me love him any less.

I call for Amanda. I close the door behind me, put the key in my pocket. All is quiet. I fumble, find the light switch, flip it upward, and the hallway is flooded with light. Hey there! I say, louder this time. Nothing. Perhaps she is out of town? But she would have told me. Reminded me to water her plants, take in her mail, feed Max.

That reminds me. Max! I call. Good kitty! But no jangling bell, no skittering of claws across hardwood.

Yellow tape has been strung across the entrance to the living room: police line do not cross. I walk into the kitchen, which I know as well as my own. Something is wrong. None of the noises of a living household. No electric hum from the refrigerator. I open the door. The inside is dark and rank smelling. The water pipes that give Amanda perpetual insomnia, silent. No squeaking floorboards.

Yet something is here, something that wants congress with me. I do not believe in the supernatural. I am not a fanciful woman, nor a religious one. But this I know: Revelation is near. For I am not alone.

And from the shadows she comes, barely recognizable, so brilliant is her complexion, so golden her hair. She is dressed in a plain blue suit, sheer stockings, low-heeled shoes. I have never seen her attired like this, like a seventies-style junior executive intent on ascending the organizational ladder. Corporate angel. But her face is twisted in pain, and her hands are bandaged. She holds them out to me.

I take hold of her right wrist and gently begin to unwrap the coarse cotton from her hand. Around and under and around until it is revealed: perfect, white, and soft to the touch. The unblemished hand of a good child. I compare it to my own liver-spotted ones. Those of the witch that lures the child into the forest, fattens her up to eat. The hands of a sinner.

Suddenly Amanda and I are not alone. My mother is there with her virgin martyrs. And my father, too, wearing, oddly enough, a motorcycle helmet and jacket, when he was too terrified to ever get a driver's license. And James, of course, and Ana and Jim and Kimmy and Beth from the hospital and Janet and Edward and Shirley from the neighborhood.

Even Cindy and Beth from college and Jeannette from before that. My grandmother O'Neill. Her sister, my great aunt May. People I haven't thought of in decades. The room is full of faces I recognize, and if I don't love them, at least I know their names, and that is more than enough. Perhaps this is my revelation? Perhaps this is heaven? To wander among a multitude and have a name for each.