Turn of Mind (26 page)

They tried, of course, to conceive, Peter and Amanda. My guess is that no egg was tough enough to implant itself into her impenetrable womb. For she was hard through and through.
A tough old bird,
I overheard a neighbor say at a party.
A prize bitch,
was the response. But not always. No. There was how she treated Fiona. She took her role as Fiona's godmother seriously. Even though it started as a joke.

Fiona was never baptized, we had no intention of ever doing such a thing, heathens that we were. Yet the day after I brought Fiona home, and Amanda and Peter came over with a bottle of champagne, I announced that I wanted Amanda to be Fiona's godmother.

A fairy godmother?
Peter had teased.

I dipped my fingers into my champagne glass and sprinkled some of the bubbles onto Fiona's tiny wrinkled red forehead. She awoke and let out a piteous wail.

Amanda was taken aback by these developments.

And what if my christening gift turns out to be a curse?
She did an imitation.
On your sixteenth birthday, you will prick your finger
. . .

We all laughed.
No, give her a real blessing,
James urged.

Well then,
Amanda said, and cleared her throat. Became solemn, to all of our surprise. Serious she was frequently; solemn, never.

Fiona Sarah White McLennan. You will inherit the many strengths of both your
mothers,
she said
. Both your birth mother—
she raised her glass to me—
and
your godmother.
Here she toasted herself, took a sip.
And you will have the
love and support of both of us no matter what happens. Nothing except death
can or will separate us from you. Never forget that.

For good measure, Amanda threw another sprinkle of champagne on Fiona.

And now comes one of those moments. A shift in perception, a wave of dizziness, and an awareness. It comes to me. What Fiona was going through. Amanda already gone. Me slipping away. Every day a little death. Fiona at three days old being told she could never separate, that she would always remember. A curse indeed.

A red-haired woman sits opposite me. She knows me, she says. Her face is familiar. But no name. She tells me but it evaporates.

How are you?
she asks.

Well, I don't tell many people this, I say, but my memory is shot.

Really? That's terrible.

Yes, it is, I say.

So I'm curious,
the woman says
. What do you remember about me?

I look at her. I feel I should know her. But there is something wrong.

I'm Magdalena,
she says.
I changed my hair color. Just felt like it. But it's still
me.
She tugged at her hair.
Now do you remember?

I try. I stare at her face. She has brown eyes. A young woman. Or youngish. Past child-bearing age, but not like me yet. A melancholy face. I shake my head.

Good,
she says.

That surprises me. Pleasantly. Most people are distressed or get angry. Aggrieved.

I need an ear,
the woman says.
I want to say something, and then I want it
to vanish. A kind of confession. But I don't want it in anyone's brain, even if
they are sworn to secrecy. And I don't want a traditional confession, to do penance
for it, because I've already finished with that. No one has suffered more
for this than I have. And I don't even have to ask you not to tell it. That's the
beauty of it all.

I have no objections. It is a sleepy heavy day. The kids are at school. I don't have any surgeries scheduled. I nod to continue.

She takes a deep breath.
I sold drugs. To kids. I took my grandchildren to
the playground at the middle school. I sold lots of stuff. Pot, of course. But also
Ecstasy, speed, even acid.

She stops and looks at me.
No shock,
she says.
That's a good beginning.

She continues:
Then, one day, one of my grandkids got into my stash. Swallowed
some LSD. She was just three years old. Three! I didn't know what
to do. I couldn't take her to the hospital. So I didn't. I just sat with her in
a dark room and held her hand while she screamed. Screamed and screamed.
Hours of it.

The red-haired woman covers her eyes with her hands. I am patient. I will hear this out.

She was calmer when my daughter came to pick her up, but not enough. My
daughter was already suspicious. She knew I had been a user. She knew I had
friends, still. And so that was the end. She didn't turn me in. It was close, but she
didn't. She said I needed to get help, get off the stuff, and if I did she wouldn't
report me. But she also wouldn't speak to me again. So I did it. Went to rehab.

But despite that, lost my family anyway.

I don't say anything. At the clinic, strung-out teenagers are a dime a dozen. And occasionally we get children. Mostly children who had gotten into their parents' bottom drawers. Behind the socks or underwear. Occasionally one that had been given the stuff on purpose. I treated everyone, let the staff deal with the legal and moral issues, which didn't concern me.

But why tell me this? I ask.

I've needed someone to pass this on to. Someone who wouldn't be shocked and
wouldn't wince at the stink of me. You've got a practical and resilient kind of
morality. You forgive trespasses.

No, I say. I wouldn't call it forgiveness.

No? What is forgiveness but the ability to accept what someone has done and
not hold it against them?

But to forgive, something has to touch you personally. This hasn't touched me. That's why I stopped believing in God. Who could worship someone that narcissistic, who takes everything anyone does as a personal affront?

You don't really believe that. I know you don't.
She gestures toward the statue of Saint Rita.
You have faith. I've seen it.

What is your name?

Magdalena. And do you remember what else I've told you?

I pretend to think, although I already know the answer. No, I say finally. I wait for the exclamations, the reminder, the subtext of blame. But it doesn't come. Instead, relief. No, something more. Release.

Thank you,
she says, and takes her leave.

A man is in my room. Hyperactive. Hopped up on something. Eyes dilated, jittery, moving around too fast. Fingering my things, picking them up, and putting them back down again. My comb. The photo of the man and woman and boy and girl. He grimaces at the latter and puts it down again.

He is wearing black trousers, a pressed white and blue shirt, a tie. He does not look completely comfortable.

We were apparently in the middle of a conversation, but I have lost the thread.

And so I told her, it's time for a truce. No more squabbling. After all, we used to
be so close. And she agreed. But with reservations, I could tell. Always so cautious.
Always playing it safe.

What are you talking about? I ask. I see, with alarm, that he is tracing his finger around the edge of my Renoir, his fingers coming perilously close to the young woman's red hat.

Oh, never mind. Just babbling. Trying to keep the conversation going. So. You do
your part. You tell me something.
He's now opening and shutting the top drawer of my bureau, sliding it in and out, in and out.

Like what? His movements are making me dizzy. Now he is on the move again, flitting from one object to another, examining everything with great interest.

He seems especially fascinated by my paintings. He moves from the Renoir to the Calder, from the left side of the room to the right, and then to the center, where my Theotokos of the Three Hands glows from its place above the door frame.

There is some connection here, something that tickles about this man and this particular piece. History.

Tell me what you did today.
He sits down briefly on the chair next to my bed, then quickly stands up again, continues pacing.

I can more easily tell you about what happened fifty years ago, I say. I struggle out of my bed, holding on to the rails for support. Wrapping my gown around me in some semblance of modesty, I sit myself in the chair he has vacated.

So tell me. Something I don't know.

And who are you again?

Mark. Your son. Your favorite son.

My favorite?

That was just a joke. Not a lot of competition for that honor.

You do remind me of someone I know.

Glad to hear it.

A boy living in the graduate dorm at Northwestern. Dark like you. Restless like you.

The man stops. I have his attention.
Tell me more about him,
he says
.

Not much to tell, really. A bit of a ladies' man. More than a little of a pest. Always knocking on my door, trying to entice me to put down my books and come out to play.

Which I am sure you would not do. This was when you were in medical school?

No. Before that. When I still wanted to be a medieval historian. I smiled at my words, so implausible.

What changed your mind?
The man has settled down, is leaning against the door frame, his fingers drumming against his chest.

My thesis. The conflict in the medieval medical community between applying traditional folkloric remedies and following the precepts found in Avicenna's
Canon of Medicine
.

Whew. Glad I asked.

I had a double undergraduate degree in history and biology. My thesis was a way of combining both my passions. But I fell in love with the
Canon.
I spent more and more time at the medical school, interviewing professors and students, observing. The dissections especially captivated me. I wanted a scalpel so badly. One of the students noticed. He allowed me to shadow him, took me down into the lab after hours, showed me the procedures he was learning, put the knife in my hand, and guided my first incisions.

Dr. Tsien?

Yes. Carl.

Is that how you met? I never knew.

My first mentor.

I've always wanted to know, was there anything between you? Anything romantic,
I mean?

No, never. He just recognized a fellow addict. He was the first person I told that I was quitting the PhD program to apply for medical school. My biggest supporter when I chose orthopedic surgery. The medical establishment was not exactly friendly to the idea of a woman in that role.

And what about that guy, that party animal in your dorm?
The man is smiling wryly.

Oh. Yes. Him. Another unexpected detour. My life was full of surprises around then. By that I mean I surprised myself. So many about-faces. So many disruptions of well-laid plans.

You and Dad didn't talk much about your early years. I got the impression that
both of you spent them in a bit of a daze. Him in law school, you beginning
medical school. And by all accounts completely besotted with each other. Dr.
Tsien spoke about it sometimes, with a bit of envy, I always thought.

Yes. It was that.

You don't seem inclined to talk about it. Neither was Dad.

I'd rather not.

Because
. . .
?

Because some things shouldn't be scrutinized too closely. Some mysteries are only rendered, not solved. We found each other. And never regretted it the way others do their own youthful couplings.

The young man is picking up his soft leather satchel, leaning over me, brushing my cheek with his lips.

Bye, Mom. I'll see you next week. Probably Tuesday, if work allows.

Yes, definitely a familiar face, one resonating on numerous levels. Later, after dinner, I finally get a name to attach to the face.
James!
I say, startling the Vietnam vet so that he spills his water into his bread pudding.