As I told you today, I think now that she’d planned this for years. She’d just been waiting for the right time. She had been watching me and calculating and hoping. Observing me change from an intense but loving child into a total freak with mother issues. Waiting for her chance. She thought she had it that time. We were sitting at her dining room table, and she had this funny look on her face. Funny for Amanda, who is usually so resolute. But I could see her trepidation when she asked me. To move in with her and Peter. To spend the rest of my teen years with them. To leave you, Mark, and Dad behind, although I’d see you, of course. She would be my foster mother. It shocked me out of my teenage angst. And attracted me. Revenge, ready-made. I asked for some time to think it over. She agreed, naturally, and told me to go home until I made up my mind. I came home that evening in a daze. You noticed something was up—I found you studying me during dinner—but didn’t say anything directly. Still, you came to my room that evening, something you rarely did. You sat on the edge of my bed and said something odd. It was as if you knew. You said, three more years. Just three more years. And you patted my arm. That’s all it took. Just one touch. Even though at that age I shrank from any physical contact, I welcomed that touch and in one instant abandoned Amanda and her well-laid plans. We never spoke about it, Amanda and I. No questions ever asked. And she never changed her attitude toward me. We continued as before, the iconoclast and the devoted godmother. Until the day she died.
And what did you say, this afternoon, when I told you all this? You smiled, and reached out and patted my arm again. Then withdrew it, sooner than I liked. For I’m no longer at a point where I don’t want to be touched. The opposite, in fact. Yet I don’t seem to be attracting much these days. I’ve spent some years in the wilderness and can’t seem to find my way out. God help me, I’d thought and didn’t realize I’d said it out loud until you said, Yes, please do.
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.
It is dark here in my house. I bump into something with a sharp edge, bruise my hip. I put out my hands and feel a wall, a door frame, a closed door. I try the knob. It will not open. I need the bathroom, badly. Where is the light. I want to go home. Home to Philadelphia. I’ve been here long enough. A prisoner.
What crime have I committed? How long have I been incarcerated? It’s often safer to be in chains than to be free. Who said that? The pressure in my bladder is too great. I squat. I pull up my nightgown, pull down my pants. Let go. Spatter my bare ankles, my feet. No matter.
The relief ! Now I can sleep. Now I can go to sleep. I lie down where I am. There is softness under me, not a bed but acceptable. I hug my body for warmth. If I lie here, still, I will be safe. If I revel in my chains I will be free.
Inside is not safe. Too dark, and the house breathes. It breathes, and strangers appear and touch you. Tug at your clothes. Force open your mouth and fill it with foul pills. Out here it is brighter, the moon and the streetlights conjoining to cast a soothing aura over the sidewalks, the gardens just awakening from the winter.
Everything is where it should be. Even the squat object made of metal and painted bright red is a beautiful sight. It has always been there, in front of the house. It will always be there. There may be things lurking in the shadows, but they come in peace. They let me sit here, unmolested, on this patch of grass.
I can look to the right and see the church at the end of the block. To the left, the Bright and Easy Laundry. And upward, the stars. Bright pinpricks, most staying in their places, but others blinking, transmitting signals as they crawl across the vast darkness.
If only I could interpret this message. I want my friend. She would understand. She is safety. She is comfort. Her features remain constant, her voice does not rise or get loud. She does not reach for the phone. She does not make me drink tea, swallow small round bitter objects. I’m walking now. I’m opening the gate. Down three houses. I count carefully. Three is the magic number, my friend says.
That gate sticks, but I get it open. The brick path is uneven, so I proceed carefully to the white stone statue of the laughing Buddha that presides over the front garden. Buddha holds the key, my friend says. And you know you are always welcome, day or night.
I take the key from under the Buddha’s rotund cheeks and let myself in. I will find my friend. She will explain everything. She knows everything. She knows it all.
It is apparently my birthday today. May 22. Magdalena did the math for me: I’m sixty-five. Fiona and Mark are taking me out to dinner at Le Titi. In the afternoon, my old assistant Sarah stopped by. Remarkable for her to remember. I wouldn’t know her birthday under the best of circumstances. Even in my prime. I wouldn’t even have asked. Sarah presented me with a gift from the hospital: a three-foot-tall statue of Saint Rita of Cascia. Eighteenth century. A beauty.
You share a birthday, Sarah said.
Technically, the day of her death and of my birth are the same, yes. But we share more than that.
That’s right—you were often called the doctor of last resort.
You’re up on your hagiography.
A natural result of working for you for more than fifteen years. Anyway, everyone felt cheated by not being able to give you a retirement party. You left so suddenly. So we all put our heads together. Here. Here’s the card.
I’m honored.
And I was. Extraordinarily touched.
We all felt the same. It was an honor working with you.
I reached out and touched the statue, traced the gilt crown, the lines of the robe from her shoulders to the floor.
Sarah pointed to the statue. Why does she have a cut in the middle of her forehead?
According to the Saint Rita legend, she asked God to let her suffer the same way he did, and a thorn fell off a crucifix that was hanging on the wall and wounded her.
What about the rose she’s carrying?
When she was dying, her cousin asked if there was anything she wanted. She requested a rose from her garden. Even though it was winter, a rose was blooming there.
I just love these old legends, don’t you?
Some are more interesting than others. I don’t find Rita’s story particularly compelling. The cruel father, the drunken husband, the disobed
ient sons. Trite stuff. I like the idea that there’s someone you can go to when all else has failed.
Have you ever invoked her? Just curious.
No. No. On those rare occasions when I needed help, there were others I could ask.
You’re talking about human intervention. I’m talking about something else.
You mean, a higher power?
I mean . . . your diagnosis. Sarah said this tentatively. We’ve never discussed this. Officially, no one at the hospital knows why I retired early. Unofficially is another matter, I suspect.
I won’t say I didn’t hope there was a mistake.
No praying for a miracle?
None whatsoever.
How about just plain hope?
None of that, either.
How can you go on? I don’t understand.
What is there to understand? I have a degenerative disease. There is no cure for that disease. That is the condition facing hundreds of thousands of people around the world.
You’re so clinical about it. This is your life, not some hypothetical patient.
And whatever choice do I have, my dear Sarah?
I’m sorry. I’m prying. I guess I’m just wondering. How you keep going.
At some point we die. Except under unusual circumstances, we usually get some advance warning. Some of us know sooner than others. Some of us will suffer more than others. You’re asking, how do you endure that interval between when you know you’re dying and when you actually die?
Yes, I guess so.
I suppose everyone is different. To get her through, Saint Rita wanted the impossible: a rose in midwinter.
And you?
I was stymied. No one asks me such things anymore. They ask me if I want tea. If I’m cold. If I want to listen to some Bach. Avoidance of the big questions.
My deathbed wish?
Well, not deathbed! But do you think you’ll stay as practical as time progresses? Or will you ever be tempted to ask for the impossible?
Part of my condition is that the line between those two things is increasingly blurred. I was looking through my notebook this morning, and apparently on some days I still have my parents with me. Magdalena has recorded some long talks I have with them. I don’t remember any of this, of course. But I like the idea very much.
Turn of Mind Page 8
