Turn of Mind (36 page)

Doctor?

Yes?

Was there some reason you were in with my patient?

To examine him, of course. He needs to provide a urine sample, have some blood work done.

Yes, I know. I'm surprised you found it necessary to interfere. I didn't ask for a
consult.

There is a dark young man wearing a T-shirt and blue jeans standing at the counter, surrounded by people.

There she is,
he says. He addresses you directly.
You said you would borrow
the money. Now the fare has increased. It would be even more if I were keeping
the meter running now. I turned it off. Can you please pay me? It is now
sixty-five dollars.

I don't know what you're talking about, you say.

I picked you up at Fullerton and Sheffield. In the rain. You left your purse at
home. You said you would borrow the money.

The dark-skinned doctor is now standing behind you.
Is there a problem?
he asks.

This lady owes me sixty-five dollars. I don't know why she is lying. If she really
is a doctor, she can afford it. If I lose this fare my boss will take it out on me.

The dark-skinned doctor reaches into his pocket.
I have fifty dollars. Will
that be enough?

The cab driver considers. A phone rings, he picks up his cell phone and flips it open, and speaks in an unintelligible tongue.

Okay. Fine. But I am very upset with this. You're lucky I don't call the police.

I'm glad that's settled, you say, and return to the clinical area.

You are examining a five-year-old complaining of a stomachache when someone knocks on your door. Come in, you call. In walks a heavyset woman, short dark hair. A blazer. She is holding something in her hand.

Dr. White.

Yes?

You are scribbling instructions to the lab, trying to concentrate. The child's mother is asking questions in a language you don't understand, the child is whining, and your stomach is complaining from hunger.

Please get the nurse. I need a translator.

Dr. White, you'll need to come with me, please.

I'm not done.

You consulted the clock.

I'm here until four pm. I can see you then.

Dr. White, I am Detective Luton of the Chicago police.

Yes? You don't look up.

You and I have met before.

Not that I can remember, you say. You finish writing, hand the slip to the mother, and open the door to usher her and her child out. Then you turn to face the woman directly. No, you say, we have never met.

I understand that you believe that. But we actually have what you could call a
relationship. At least I consider it so.
Her brown eyes are so dark that the pupils are almost indistinguishable from the irises. She seems to be on edge, yet is speaking in an even voice.

What is this about?

A number of things. The most immediate is that you're practicing medicine without
a license, since yours expired. Then there's some other outstanding business.

Such as? You lean against the examining table, cross your arms and your ankles. A posture that inevitably intimidated your residents. This woman doesn't appear in the least disconcerted.

There's the fact that you went AWOL from your residence yesterday afternoon.
Your children have been frantic. The police have been looking for you for more
than thirty hours. Funny, we never thought of looking here.

Why the police? you ask. I am an adult. Where I go and what I do is my own business.

I'm afraid not,
the woman said.

That's ridiculous. I just saw Amanda this morning, you say. We had breakfast together. At Ann Sather's, on Belmont. Every Friday, it's our time.

Amanda O'Toole has been dead for more than seven months now, Dr. White.

Impossible. She was sitting opposite me eating Swedish pancakes this morning, you say. She complained about the coffee to the waitress, as usual. Then left an overly generous tip. A very typical meal on a very typical day at the end of a very typical week.

You need to come with me, Dr. White.

Faces are crowding up behind the woman's from the hallway. Faces curious and not particularly friendly. You unfold your arms, stand up straight. All right. But you are interfering with some important work. A lot of the people you saw waiting in the front office won't get seen today because of you.

To this the woman says nothing, but gestures toward the door. You hesitate before exiting the room in front of her. You feel her hand on your shoulder, guiding you. The people part as you walk silently out of the clinic.

You're in the front seat on the passenger's side of a small brown car with faded upholstered green-and-cream plaid seats. The seat belt is jammed, so you just hold it across your lap. The woman looks over and smiles.
Hope we don't get stopped,
she says.
That would be something.
She puts the car into reverse, backs up, nudges the car behind, then puts the car into first and inches away from the curb.

Your daughter has been worried about you,
she says as she pulls out into traffic. It's now getting into late afternoon, rush hour has started, and Chicago Avenue is clogged in both directions.

Fiona? you ask. Why? She knows where she can find me. I'm here every week.

Nevertheless,
the woman says. She is drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. She is in the right lane, behind a red Honda minivan when she puts her blinker on, sharply turns the wheel, and pulls into the left lane. Horns blare.

Are we going to the hospital? you ask. Have I received a page?

The woman shakes her head.
No,
she says. She picks up a small phone lying next to the gear box. She pushes a button and brings the phone to her ear, waits and then speaks loudly into it.
Hello? Fiona? This is Detective
Luton. I found your mother. The New Hope Clinic—she was treating
patients. I need you to come to the precinct. Call me when you get this.

And she hangs up.

Fiona is in California, you say.

Not anymore,
says the woman.
Just Hyde Park.

This isn't the way home, you say.

The woman sighs.
We're not going there. Just to the station. You've been there
before.

The words make no sense. She is your sister, your long-lost sister. Or your mother. A shape-shifter. Anything is possible.

The woman is still talking.
There's no going back to your former facility.
She gives you a quick sideways glance.
You've deteriorated quite a bit since the
last time I saw you.

There is such pity in her voice that you are jolted back into a more solid world. You look around. You're on the Kennedy now, heading south. This woman drives too fast, but expertly, taking a long off-ramp that swings around to the left and straightens out before passing directly underneath a long stone building spanning the highway. Left, then right, then a glimpse of the lake before a sharp right turn, and down into an underground garage and into a parking stall with a screech. A sudden and absolute silence. A damp smell.

You both sit in the dim light for a moment without speaking. You like it here. It feels safe. You like this woman. Who does she remind you of ? Someone you can depend on. Finally she speaks.
This is highly irregular,
she says.
But I've never been one for following the rules. Neither have you, by
the sound of things.

She leads the way to the elevator, pushes the up button.
Something just
wasn't right about this from the beginning,
she says.
Nothing fit.

When the elevator comes, she shepherds you inside and punches the number 2. The doors are dented and pocked, and inside it smells of stale smoke. The whole compartment trembles and shakes before slowly beginning its ascent.

When it opens, you blink at the sudden bright light. You are in a long, cream-colored hallway humming with activity. Pipes run across the ceiling and down to the floor. Posters and flyers are tacked to the walls, ignored by the people streaming in both directions down the hall. The woman you're with starts walking, jingling a ring of keys, and you go on for some time, getting jostled by men and women, some in uniform, some dressed as if for the office, many casually, even sloppily attired. You wonder what you look like in your white doctor's coat, but no one gives you a glance. The woman finally stops at a door marked 218, inserts a key into the lock, opens the door, and gestures you inside.

Cool gray walls. No window. A gray steel desk, nothing on it except a cylinder holding a number of sharpened pencils and some photographs. The subjects range from faded black-and-white daguerreotypes of grim-looking men and women in clothes from a century ago to contemporary men and women, many of them holding children and many in uniform. No pictures of the woman herself, except one in the exact middle of the collection, of her and another woman, slim, with long ash-blond hair, standing next to each other, their shoulders slightly touching.

Sit down,
the woman says. She pulls out a hard wooden chair. She then opens a corner cupboard, pulls out two bottles of water. She hands one to you.
Here, drink this.

You gulp it down. You hadn't realized how thirsty you were. The woman notices the bottle is now empty, takes it from your hand, and offers you the other one. You are grateful. Your legs and feet ache, so you slip off your shoes, wiggle your toes. A long day of surgery, of holding steady, of not allowing your attention to flag.

The woman settles herself on the opposite side of the desk.
Do you
remember anything at all of the last thirty-six hours?

I've been at work. First surgery, then on call. A busy week. I've been on my feet for fourteen hours a day.

You bend your knees and lift up your feet as though presenting evidence. She doesn't look at them. She is intent on what she is saying.

I think you've been at the New Hope Clinic since this morning. But before that
you were having quite an adventure.

You're not making much sense, you say. But then you realize that nothing much does. Why are you sitting here with a stranger, wearing clothes not your own?

You look down at your feet and realize even the shoes are not yours: They are too wide and the wrong color: red. You never wore anything but sneakers and plain black pumps. Still, you slip them back on, struggle to stand up, fight the comfort of having firm wood support your thighs and buttocks.

It is time to go. Home again, home again, jiggity jig. You have a vision of a train speeding past a small plot of parched earth, of a clothesline strung between wooden poles from which hang a man's trousers, a woman's housedress, and some frilly dresses that belong to a young girl.

A tall dark man, a sweet melancholy face, kneeling by your side as you dig a hole in the dirt. He puts his hand in his pocket, brings out a fistful of coins, opens his hand, and lets them fall into the hole. Then he helps you push dirt over them, pat it down so there's no trace.

Buried treasure!
he says, and laugh lines appear around his eyes.
But you
know what you need?
he asks.
A map. To remind you, so you can retrieve the
treasure when you need it.
I won't forget, you say, I never forget anything, and this time he laughs out loud.
We'll come back in a year and see if you
can find it,
he says. But you never did.

It's time, you say, and begin to push yourself up.

The woman leans over, puts a hand on your arm, and gently but firmly pulls you back to a sitting position.
You went away for a minute,
she says.

I was remembering my father, you say.

Good memories?

Always.

That's something to be grateful for.
She sits for a moment, motionless, then shakes her head.