Turn of Mind (29 page)

No, I say, finally. You can ask me again when I know who we're talking about.

But that may not happen. As you yourself said, today is a good day.

No, it may not happen.

At the very least, can you not do anything that will harm him in any way?

That implies I have power over him.

You do. More than you know at this moment.

As I'm unlikely to remember this conversation either, what's the point?

Sometimes things stick. Promise?

Hypothetically I promise not to harm this person I don't remember.
Do
no harm.
If you're really a doctor, you took that oath, too. So this is an easy promise to make.

A vision. My young mother, sporting a Peter Pan–like haircut. She who always wore her dark hair long, pulled back in a ponytail during the day, loose and flowing and beautiful at night, even throughout her long decline.

She has her hands cupped around something precious. She is not wearing her wedding ring. Perhaps she is not even old enough to be married yet, although she met and married my father when she was eighteen. He was twenty-seven, and both sets of parents complained but were powerless to stop them.

But this image is so much more vivid than anything in my present life. The colors vibrant, my mother's rich chestnut hair, her milky clear complexion, the white softness of the skin on her arms, shoulders. I feel so calm looking at her. Hopeful. As if she held my future in her girlish hands and that the smile on her face was an assurance that my story would have a happy ending after all.

Never felt guilt. Never felt shame. Until I was brought to this place. Trussed like a chicken. Denied the right to move my bowels in private.
Purgatory
I heard one of the other residents call it. But no. That implies that heaven is within reach once you have paid for your sins. I suspect this is a station on the one-way road to hell.

I was fifteen, spotted with acne and smitten with Randy Busch. I was a young mother with an ever-present child at my side—Mark clung tenaciously to me until he was ten—and then I was an older pregnant woman being tested to ensure I wasn't carrying a mutant. I was a reluctant host, during that pregnancy. I pushed Fiona out and went to sleep. I had to be nudged to take her to my breast. I simply endured those first six months, the colic, the sleepless nights, those months so critical to bonding.

I went back to surgeries within two weeks. A cold vessel indeed. But somehow attachment grew. Fiona hated our nanny, Ana, so beloved by Mark, by us all. It was only me she cried for, when I left and when I returned. And so reluctantly I took her on.

Someone came in this morning and brought photographs. Lovely full-color photographs. I sit in the great room and study them.

One woman sidles over, then screams. Others come over. Others recoil. My lovely lovely pictures. One shows the excising of a tumor in the olecranon fossa. Another, a hand reattachment. I feel the twinge of muscle memory. Contrary to what people might think, the knife is not cold, the blood on latex gloves is not warm. The gloves separate you from the heat of the human body.

From the moment I opened up the arm of a cadaver and saw the tendons, the nerves, the ligaments, and the carpal bones of the wrist, I was in love. Not for me the heart, the lungs, or the esophagus—let others play in those sandboxes. I want the hands, the fingers, the parts that connect us to the things of this world.

The straps are too tight around my legs. I can move my arms an inch perhaps. My head from side to side. There is an IV in my arm. A bitter metallic taste in my mouth.

Someone is sitting at my bedside. It is dark. Through the blinds a dull gleam illuminates the lower part of her face. She has the mouth of a ghoul, thin-lipped and grotesquely long. If she opened it she could swallow the world. What is this. She is taking my hand. No. She is raising it. No. Help me. She will bite into a vein, she will suck out what remains of my life.

Stop. Please stop. They will come if you don't stop,
the ghoul says.

She is placing something in my hand, closing my fingers around it.

What is this. A holy relic. Did they give this to you. Why am I being so honored.

It is a plastic bag containing a small metal disk, engraved. I can feel the protrusions. On a long chain. The bag is cold against my palm. I shake my head. I continue shaking it. The movement feels good.

Do you know your name?

I strain against what binds me. I do not answer.

Dr. White. Jennifer. Do you know where you are?

I do, but it is in pictures. No words. I am on a porch, sitting on the top step. A brisk morning in late October. The trees are golden. There is a line of pumpkins on the porch gazing at the world with horrified expressions. A daddy pumpkin, a mommy pumpkin, and a baby pumpkin. All agape at some terrible vision. That was my idea.

I am sixteen. There is a young man coming. I am ready. My dress is short, cut square, boldly colored with blue and red geometric shapes. My boots reach just below my knees. The step is rough against my bare thighs.
These boots are made for walking.
Any moment now, he will be here. I am quivering with excitement.

Dr. White?

The young man will come. I am beloved.

Dr. White, this is important. That medallion. It tested positive for type AB blood.
Amanda O'Toole's blood type.

We will be charging you with first-degree murder. You will go through a mental
competency examination, plead not guilty for reason of insanity, and that will
be it. But I'm not happy. Because I don't understand. And I like understanding.

Amanda.

That's right, Amanda. Why did she die?

Amanda, she knew.

Knew what?

She never dyed her hair. Never wore a scrap of makeup. But vain, regardless.

Vain about what?

A seducer. Not for sex. Secrets. She knew everything. I never figured out how. A dangerous woman.

Yes, I can see that. I can indeed. Would you like some water? Here let me pour you
some—and here is a straw so you can drink. That's right. Don't strain, I'll hold it.

I am . . .

Yes?

Frightened.

Yes.

What will happen next?

You will be examined. Declared mentally incompetent to stand trial. The judge
will dismiss the case on the condition that you are committed to a state facility.
Where you will likely end your days.

What are the alternatives?

Her face is becoming clearer. Not a ghoul at all. A plain, doglike face. A face you can count on.

Untie me?

I believe I will. I believe you are calm enough. Here—
and I feel the pressure around my arms, then legs, slacken. I pull myself up to a sitting position in the bed, drink some more water. Feel the blood start flowing back into me.

Yes. My illness is getting worse.

And it will get worse still.

The woman is silent for a moment. Then,
I want to know why Amanda
died,
she says.

I believe I could. Kill. There is that in me.

Yes. There is that in many people. I have a recurring dream that I have killed my
sister. I am overcome by shame. And afraid. Not of the punishment. Of having
people know what I really am. I think that's why I became a cop. As if the trappings
of good would keep me safe from that nightmare.

I pause and try to clear the thickness from my throat. It is hard to talk.

The knife in my hand always felt right. The first incision, to get inside the body, that playground beneath the flesh. But those guidelines. To know what is acceptable. Stay within parameters.

The woman stands up, stretches, sits down again.

Jennifer. I want you to help me.

How?

You know something. I want you to try.
She takes the plastic bag away from me, holds it up.
Do you recognize this? A Saint Christopher's medal. With
your initials engraved on the back. Can you think of any reason Amanda's blood
would be on that medal?

No.

Did you wear the medal?

Sometimes. As a reminder. A talisman.

And do you have any ideas about who killed Amanda?

I have ideas.

The woman leaned forward.

Are you protecting anyone? Jennifer, look at me.

No. No. It's better this way.

The woman opens her mouth to talk, then looks hard at my face. What she sees there convinces her of something. She lays her hand on mine before she leaves.