Turn of Mind (23 page)

An interesting modus operandi. And why are you telling me this?

Because I want your brain. I need your brain.

I don't quite understand.

We think you know something about this. But that you don't know what you
know.

How did you know that?

Just a hunch. You see a lot in my line of work.

Yes, I've been worried. My memory. It's not what it used to be. Just this morning, I told James—my husband—that we were going to have to start eating more fish. You know, for the omega-three fatty acids. He wasn't enthusiastic. It's hard to get good fresh fish in Chicago.

Right. So you know what I'm talking about. So I'm wondering if you'll humor
me. Talk to me about your work, the memories you do have of Amanda O'Toole.
Play some word games. I want to try and trigger a reaction from that very large
brain of yours.

I'll cancel my appointments for the morning.

The woman nods gravely.
I appreciate that.

She takes out her phone.
Do you mind if I record this? I have a bit of a
memory problem myself. So, do this: Think about Amanda. Here's a picture if
it will jog your memory. No? Well then, don't worry about what she looks like.
What do you think of when I say the name
Amanda?

I think of someone tall and straight and unyielding. Someone with dignity.

How would a dignified person meet death?

It's a silly question. The only good death is a swift one. Dignity has nothing to do with it. Whether you suffer a heart attack or die due to a head trauma, it doesn't matter. As long as there's little or no suffering it's a good death.

But you do hear of people who die with honor. Not just soldiers. You know what
I mean.

It's drugs. Drugs get most people through. Without drugs our own families wouldn't wait for a more natural end. The drugs are as much for them as for us.

You're a doctor, so you're closer to death than most people. But then you don't
often deal with fatalities in your line of work, do you?

No, not many deaths due to hand trauma. I permit myself a smile.

But amputations?

Yes, a fair number.

What are the reasons you would amputate, say, a finger?

Infection, gangrene, frostbite, vascular compromise, bone infection. Cancer.

Is there ever any reason you would amputate all the fingers and leave the rest
of the hand intact?

Yes. In cases of extreme frostbite or meningococcemia, there's the possibility of gangrene, and you might well need to remove all digits.

And what, exactly, is gangrene?

A complication of necrosis, or cell death. In effect, a part of your body dies and starts to rot. Amputation is eventually required.

Have you ever had to perform an amputation due to gangrene?

Yes, occasionally. In this climate, you get some frostbite cases. It doesn't usually get to the point where amputation is necessary—when it does, it's unfortunately mostly among the poor and homeless.

But you wouldn't see homeless people, would you? Not at your practice?

I do pro bono work at the Hope Community Health Center over on Chicago Avenue, and most of my work of this kind takes place there. And occasionally you get cases of what is called wet gangrene, which is due to infection. That's more serious. If you don't do an amputation in those cases, the gangrene can spread and eventually kill the patient.

So, in other words, you cut off body parts to keep the rot from spreading?

Yes, that's one way of putting it. For the serious type of gangrene.

But there would be no reason to amputate
after
death.

No, of course not.

None?

None whatsoever.

Then why would someone do such a thing? In your opinion.

I'm not a psychiatrist. Certainly not privy to the deranged or criminal mind.

No, I realize that.

But it seems to me it might have symbolic value.

How would that work?

Well, if an amputation stops rot from spreading, then someone who was guilty of using their hands to do wrong—if their hands were, say, corrupted by unclean activities—that might be a way of sending a message. You know what Jesus says at the Last Supper:
Behold, the hand of him that
betrayeth me is with me on the table.

But why the fingers, not the hands?

That could be symbolic, too. A hand without fingers can't easily grasp, can't easily hold on to things. It could be a message for someone perceived as greedy, mercenary. Or someone who won't let go emotionally. After all, without fingers, a hand is just a paddle of bone covered with soft tissue. Good for very little.

The woman nods. She stretches, gets up, and starts walking around the room.

I've noticed a certain number of religious things around the room,
she says.
And
your ability to quote the Bible. Are you, in fact, a religious woman?

I shake my head. I was raised Catholic, but now I just like the accessories. It's hard to avoid some degree of biblical scholarship when you choose medieval history to specialize in for a graduate degree.

The woman stops in front of my statue.

I notice you brought this from your home. Who's this? The mother of Jesus?

Oh no, that's Saint Rita of Cascia. See the wound on her forehead? And the rose she's carrying?

Who is she?

The patron saint of impossible causes.

I thought that was Saint Jude.

Yes, those two saints have very similar missions. But the feminist in me prefers Rita. She was not a passive vessel like so many of the virgin martyrs. She took action.

Yes, I can see how you would be attracted to that. Is that her medal you're wearing
around your neck?

This? No. This is Saint Christopher.

Why are you wearing this?

It's a joke. Amanda's idea.

What kind of joke?

Saint Christopher is not a real saint.

No?

A fraud. No, that's not right. An implausible and unprovable legend. A fantasy of the devout. He was evicted from the host of accredited saints some time ago. But I loved him as a child. He was a protector against many things. One of them is a sudden, unholy death. The patron saint of travelers. You'll still find people with statues of him on their car dashboards.

More accessories.

Yes.

So what does this have to do with Amanda?

She gave it to me. On my fiftieth birthday. I had just ended a tough decade.

Tough in what way?

On many fronts. So many losses. Of a very personal, rather self-involved narcissistic kind. Loss of looks. Loss of sexual drive. Loss of ambition.

That last one surprises me. You were at the top of your game when you retired.

Yes. But ambition is not success. It's something else. It's a striving, not an achieving. By age fifty I had gotten where I wanted to be. I didn't know where else to go. In fact, there was nowhere I wanted to go. I didn't want to be an administrator, join boards. I wasn't ambitious in that way. I didn't want to write textbooks or advice books. I didn't want—didn't need—more money.

And then?

Amanda helped, in her way. She told me to volunteer at the New Hope Community Medical Clinic, on Chicago Avenue, to give back to the world. Insisted on it. She had her reasons for knowing that I would comply. But the experience turned out to be extraordinarily gratifying on a number of levels. I had to become a generalist again. Think of the human body beyond the elbow. It was difficult.

And Saint Christopher? Sudden death?

Yes.
If thou on any day Saint Christopher you see / Against sudden death you
will protected be.
In my case, death of the spirit. Against my fear, my despondency, that everything important had come to an end. The medal was Amanda's way of saying don't panic just because of the current darkness. That there was a way out. That by paying for past . . . transgressions . . . my mind would be at ease. That brighter things lay ahead. So she thought.

So the medal represented vanquishing spiritual trouble—nothing to do with friction
between you and Amanda.

I wouldn't say that. No. There was friction there.

She leans forward, asks,
May I?
and takes the medallion in her hand. Her face tightens.
There's something on the medal,
she says.
A stain. Do you mind
if I look closer?

I shrug, reach behind, and pull the chain over my head, hand it over. She studies it.

It's dirty,
she says. Let me take it away and clean it. I'll bring it back, don't worry.

There is a pause. I say, Is there anything else? Because I have patients waiting. I'm surprised my nurse hasn't interrupted us. She's got instructions to keep me on schedule.

I beg your pardon. Yes, I've taken up too much of your time already. Do you
mind if I stop by again?

Just make an appointment at the front desk. I hold office hours Mondays, Tuesdays, and Fridays. Wednesdays and Thursdays are my surgery days. I should see you in three weeks, to follow up on this consultation.

Yes. Thank you. You've been very helpful.

She leans down, pushes a button on her phone, and puts it in her briefcase.

Yes,
she says.
I am sure we'll be talking again, quite soon.

Fiona is here. My girl. Her green eyes are slightly reddened. She has three moon earrings arcing up the outside of her right ear.

What is it? I ask. I'm still in bed. I can't seem to find a clock to see the time.

What do you mean?
she asks, but she is palpably upset. She sits down on the chair beside my bed, stands up, sits down again, takes my hand, and pats it. I pull it away, struggle to sit up.

You seem agitated, I say.

No. Well, yes.
She stands up again, starts pacing.
Isn't it time for you to get
up? It's nearly nine o'clock.

I push myself up to a sitting position, throw off the bedclothes, lift my legs, and put my feet on the floor, steady myself. She pushes her chair back, stands to help me. I shake her hand off .

Are you okay?
she asks.

New meds, I say. Or, actually, more of the old ones. They upped the dosage of both the Seroquel and Wellbutrin. They've also been slipping me Xanax when they think I'm not paying attention.

Yes, I know. They told me.

I look more closely at her face. The nose slightly reddened in addition to the eyes. Limp hair around her ears from tugging at it. Signs of distress. I know my girl.

Tell me, I say.

She searches my face for something, appears uncertain. Then makes a decision.

We closed on the sale today
, she says.
I just came from signing the papers.

You bought a house?

No
, she says.
Well, yes. But that's not what happened today. Today I sold one.

I didn't know you owned a house. I thought you had that apartment in Hyde Park. On Ellis.

I moved, about three months ago,
she says
. That apartment was so small. I
bought a house right off campus. A brownstone, hardwood floors, exposed brick.

Her face becomes less haggard, as if reliving a fond memory, before clouding over again.
No, it was the house in Lincoln Park, on Sheffield, that
we sold,
she says
.

That's where my house is. I love that neighborhood.

Yes, I know. I loved it too, Mom.

Her eyes begin to tear up.
Mark, too. We were both born there. We've known
nothing but that house. It was really, really hard. We took sleeping bags and
spent last night over there. We stayed up all night talking and remembering. You
know how long it's been since Mark and I have spent that much time together
without fighting? When I first called he wouldn't pick up. But I kept trying and
eventually he relented.

Wait a minute. You're saying you sold my house?

Yes. Yes.

My house?

I'm so sorry.

But my things. My books. My art. The tapes of my surgeries.

Mom, we cleaned it all out months ago. You packed yourself. You decided what
you would take with you and what would go.

But what about when it's time to go home?

This is your home now.

This is a
room,
I say. I am furious.

I gesture around at the four walls. Point to the stainless-steel bathroom without a bathtub, only a shower. At the windows shuttered against the view of a parking lot.

Yes, but look. All your things are here. Your statue of Saint Rita. Your Renoir.
Your Calder. And your most beloved of all, your Theotokos of the Three Hands.