Turn of Mind (28 page)

I am marking my calendar, as I did before my first child was born. We've tried all the latest drugs and theories of modern medicine. I have cut out dairy and wheat from my diet, filled her bottle with catnip and ginger teas, dissolved Hyland's colic tablets in milk pumped from my breasts. But nothing has worked, nothing eases her and our pain.

To save my family, every night I put the baby in the car seat and drive. I stop for gas, for a cup of coffee, and when I enter the convenience store or the café with my wailing bundle, all conversation ceases, and I am hustled to the front of the line.

Tonight is typical. I pack a thermos of coffee, put the baby in the car, and head out. I prefer the expressways, the long thin ribbons of concrete that stretch out in all directions except east, turning Chicago into a great spider.

I take the Fullerton ramp onto the Kennedy heading north, past Diversey, past Irving Park, past the Edens split and north to O'Hare. All the while the baby screeches, taking no noticeable breaths.

The noise. The noise. Sometimes we park at O'Hare and walk among the crowds there, moving in our own little bubble, everyone on their way to parts unknown, rushing a little faster now because of us.

But this night we continue north of O'Hare, proceed northwest through Arlington Heights and Rolling Meadows and farther until we hit country. The numbing ugly flatness of the Illinois landscape that I've never quite adjusted to.

The baby has not stopped her wailing. It is only 9:30 pm. Two and a half hours to go. All moisture has long ago been expelled from her tear ducts, and she's now into the dry heaves, her little motor revved to high. It will not stop until the clock strikes midnight. When the world turns right side up again.

Then, up ahead, flashing lights, a crowd of people. An accident. It looks serious. I stop, put the baby into a pouch that I buckle around my neck and waist, and go to investigate.

People scatter as I approach, Fiona's cry as painful as any siren. Above her and the expressway noise, I shout, I am a doctor! How can I help? A motorcyclist is down, a compound fracture of his leg, the bone protruding, his face as white as the bone, his eyes closed against the pain.

I stoop down, the weight of the baby making me sway a little off balance. Everyone moves away from us, even the paramedics retreat. I examine the young man, who by now is barely conscious. An open femoral shaft fracture, he will need antibiotics, an irrigation and debridement, and an intramedullary rod.

I probe his other limbs: arms and other leg, all is well, but he is growing paler. His breath is coming quicker, he is clearly distressed, he is going into shock, and so I turn to the paramedics and say, Get him to the nearest trauma center, but first administer ten milligrams of IV morphine sulfate to help control the pain.

All the while the baby continues to wail, and everyone is moving farther and farther away from us except the prone motorcyclist who manages to sort of gesture with his hands.

One of the EMS technicians seems to understand this and shouts something to me that I cannot catch because at that moment the baby emits a particularly loud burst of misery. The technician opens his mouth again, shuts it, cups his hands around his lips, and forces out words.

You've been very helpful,
he begins. He takes one step toward me, hesitates, and then retreats two.
But now could you do us all a favor?
Absolutely! I shout back. What do you need? He hesitates a moment.
We're
very appreciative!
he yells, and takes a deep breath
. But would you please
please just leave?

I turn to go but cannot move and suddenly I am back in the softness of my bed, the straps hard around my legs and arms. A small warm body is still next to me, but it is silent and furry and odorous. Dog. The silence is welcome. But I wonder. How long do I have? How long before things come full circle and I descend to that state of inarticulate rage and suffering, the state Fiona started her life in? Not long. Not long now. I open my mouth and begin.

I like tactile things. A carved wooden candlestick, from a beautiful grain, I guess mahogany. A string of prayer beads with the Turkish evil eye hanging off as a pendant. A porcelain teacup patterned in royal blue curlicues.

And there is a scarf. A plain cream-colored woolen scarf. But long. Long enough to reach from the head of my bed to the foot. Perfect for wrapping around my head and lower face to protect against the Chicago winter.

I remember winters. Once we lost heat for a week and the water in the toilet bowl froze. We had to move out. James insisted on the Ambassador East. It was a frivolous choice, as the children were still young and the luxury was wasted on us. We all slept in one bed, the baby crawling among us, her breath tickling our cheeks. That golden time! James let Mark shave, smeared menthol shaving cream all over his six-year-old face, carefully pulled the razor across his fuzzy cheeks. I painted the baby's toenails a bright magenta. We ate at the Pump Room every night, the kitchen made macaroni and cheese for the kids, and James and I ate lobster risotto and veal chops, and eggs Benedict in the mornings. The tangy half-cooked yolks, the creamy hollandaise, the asparagus that delicately scented our urine for days. Ana would show up as breakfast was ending so James and I could go to work. I'd put on layers of clothing and that woolen Irish scarf, and head off to the hospital.

All this evoked by a simple article of winter clothing. Something I won't need again. For winter doesn't exist here. No seasons at all. No heat. No cold. They've even banished darkness. They said,
Let there be light,
and there is, perpetually. A temperate climate for intemperate people.

There is a young man interested in me. A teacher crush. How we used to laugh when it happened, we women. For the men, it is no laughing matter, however. They are tempted. They fall. It is a serious thing. But for us, amusement only.

Yet this one. The way he watches me. And he is beautiful. Does that matter? Yes. He comes to my office after lectures on various pretexts. Once he pretended not to understand the basics of tendon transfer surgery. Another time he asked me about skin grafting, that most basic procedure.

Once he posed a riddle and I answered it, not realizing he was joking.
What do you say when someone tells you, Doctor, it hurts when I do this?
I absentmindedly replied,Tell them not to do it. He laughed and I looked at him for the first time.

It makes you feel
young
. It makes you feel
old
. You feel
powerful
. You are vulnerable.

It was none of those things. I felt no guilt. I felt no shame. And not because of James's own behavior. I simply wanted to take it as far as it could go, to run it into the ground. This was a new experience.

For the most part you leave doors open. Bridges unburned. You don't accept hopeless cases. You make sure to have an exit strategy. There was none in this case.

Hello, old friend.

A balding man, Asian American, with a strong Bronx accent, is standing by my chair. He is smiling familiarly at me. That is, he is smiling as if he expects to be familiar to me. He is not.

Do I know you?

I say this coldly. No more pretense. No more smiles for strangers.

Carl. Carl Tsien. We were colleagues. At Quicken St. Matthews Medical Center.
I was Internal Medicine, you were Orthopedics.

That sounds plausible, I say.

Ah, you're being cautious. Not committing yourself.
He smiles as if he has just said something witty.

So, you say we were colleagues? I ask.

Yes.

Why
were?

I am testing him, not just for knowledge but for truthfulness. Trustworthiness. He hesitates for a moment, then speaks.

You retired.

A nice euphemism.

Yes.
To his credit, he looks a little chagrined.
Well, that's what you called it
at the time. So you're aware of your disease?

On good days like this, yes, I am completely aware of how far I've sunk.

Is my face at all familiar?

No. And I can't tell you how boring it is to get asked that all the time.

Then you won't hear it from me again, old friend.

Glad to hear that, stranger. So, why are you here?

He again looks uncomfortable. Shifts a little in his chair.

As an
. . .
emissary. From Mark.
And as I look enquiringly at him,
Your
son,
he says.

I have no son.

I know you're angry with him. But let me make a case on his behalf.

You don't understand.
I have no recollection of any son.
And I'm not inclined to play along. I used to, you know. Nod and pretend. No more.

He is silent.

Well, let's talk hypothetically. Say you did have a son. And say that he had gotten
himself into a bad situation. Made some mistakes. And imposed on you—or tried to.

Imposed in what way?

Borrowed money, repeatedly. Asked for more. Hassled your friends, as well. Even
stolen, for example, your icon. He got a substantial sum for that.

I'd say, To hell with him.

Yes, but suppose he's cleaned up his act. And wants to reconcile.

I'd want to know why.

Well, you're his mother. Isn't that enough?

Since I don't know him, I don't know why it would matter one way or another to him.

It's just the idea of it. And the fact that he can't get through to you. Either you're
furious at him, or you don't remember him. Either way, he's lost his mother.

How old is he?

Maybe twenty-nine, thirty.

In other words, old enough to survive without a mother.

That's the person who doesn't know she has a son talking.

In other words, a rational person. I've noticed that people with children do irrational things. Anything to protect their young.

As you have.

How is that?

It means that you yourself have protected your young on occasion. Even beyond
what a rational person would do.

And how would you know that?

Jennifer, we've known each other for nearly forty years. Longer than most marriages
survive. There's little I don't know about you. What you've done. Or what
you're capable of doing.

Sounds tedious. Like most marriages. Once you know everything there is to know about someone, it's usually time to move on.

Well, there
is
affection.

Perhaps.

And that irrational thing that's even stronger. Love. People do strange things in
the name of love.

What exactly are we talking about here? We seem to have strayed from the subject.

Back to the subject, then. Will you forgive Mark, your hypothetical son? Under
the circumstances I just described?

I give it some thought, try to conjure up an emotion beyond bemusement at being asked to forgive and forget when I've already forgotten.