Turn of Mind (30 page)

I am sitting in the great room. Although there are clusters of other residents in the vicinity, I am alone. I want to be left alone. I have much to think about. Much to plan.

The door to the outside world buzzes, and a woman enters. Tall, brown hair cut smartly to her jawbone, carrying a suitcase made of buttery leather. She comes straight over to me, holds out her hand to be shaken.
Jennifer,
she says.

Do I know you? I ask.

I'm your attorney,
she says.

Is this about our wills? I ask. James and I just redid them. They're in the safe-deposit box.

No,
she says.
This is not about your will. Can we move over here? Good. Let
me help you. Much better.

Dog trots over, settles himself at my feet.

How cute. Look how he loves you.
She makes herself comfortable in her seat, sets her briefcase on her lap, and opens it up.
This is not a happy
visit, I'm afraid. It's about your being a so-called
person of interest
to the
police in an investigation. I have some bad news. The DA's office has decided to
charge you. In one sense, this is just a formality. You will be examined, be found
mentally incompetent.

None of this makes sense, but her face is serious, so I make mine serious too.

The bad news is you won't be able to stay here after that. You'll be committed
to a state hospital. I'm trying to get you into Eglin Mental Health Center here
in the city. But the DA is pushing for the Retesch facility downstate, which is
substantially more restrictive.

She stops, looks at me.
I don't believe much of this is getting in.

She sighs, then continues:
I'd hoped you'd be in good enough shape today. To
understand. Legally, your son has power of attorney. But I prefer to get my clients
to sign, as well. Here. Here's a pen.

She puts something in my hand, guides it to a piece of paper, and touches its surface.

You're petitioning for acquittal for reasons of mental incompetence. The DA is
not going to fight it. As I said, the only point of contention is where you'll be
sent. I'm sorry.

Her face is mobile, expressive. Makeup expertly applied. I always wondered how to do that. I never bother myself—it rubs off, streaks my surgical mask, my glasses during surgery.

The woman is now telling me something else that I can't follow. She sighs, pats Dog absentmindedly.
I'm sorry,
she says again.

She gives the appearance of waiting, perhaps for a response from me. That she considers her words bad news there is no doubt. But I have no intention of letting them touch me.

We sit like that for several minutes. Then she slowly puts papers back in her briefcase and snaps it shut.
It's been a pleasure working for you,
she says, and then she is gone. I try to remember what I have been told. I am a
person of interest.
Of course I am. I am.

I am cunning. I get rid of Dog. I do this by kicking him in front of one of the aides. Then I pick him up and make as if to throw him against the wall. Shouts ensue. Dog is taken from me, forcibly. Taken off the ward at night, forbidden to come into my room. I miss him. But he would ruin my plans.

Mom?

I turn to see my handsome son, aged considerably but still recognizable. Someone visited this morning, a stranger to me, left abruptly when I didn't recognize her. When I wouldn't play along. A brash, unreasonable woman.

How were your exams? I ask.

My what? O, yes, they were good. They went well.

I'm not your professor. You don't have to be afraid I'll flunk you.

I'm a little
. . .
nervous
. . .
when I visit. I never know how you'll greet me.

You're my son.

Mark.

Yes.

Do you remember my last visit?

You've never come to see me here. No one has.

Mom, that's not true. Fiona comes several times a week. I come at least once. But
last time you told me you never wanted to see me again.

I would never say that. Never. No matter what you'd done. What
have
you done?

Never mind that now. I'm glad it's forgotten. You weren't exactly
. . .
sympathetic.
But all is well now.

Tell me.

No. Let's move on. Glad to see you're in good form today. I wanted to ask if you
remembered something.

Remember what?

Something that happened when I was around seventeen. Certainly older than
sixteen, because I was driving. I'd borrowed your car to take my girlfriend out
to the movies. Remember Deborah? You never liked her. You never really liked
any of the girls I dated, but Deborah, my girlfriend throughout high school, you
really hated. Anyway, you had a bunch of boxes filled with stuff. Deborah began
rooting around in them. Just curious, or maybe it was a malicious kind of curious,
because when she found it she was positively gleeful. A plastic flowered pouch
filled with what Deborah said was very expensive makeup.

Makeup? Among my things? Seems unlikely, I say.

Well, I don't know the names of all of it, but I did recognize mascara, lipstick, a
powder compact.Various brushes. Deborah said it was all well used. She showed
me a tube of magenta lipstick, half worn down. I nearly swerved off the road.
I'd never seen you wear any makeup. Not a scrap. And yet here was this tube of
magenta lipstick.

Magenta is for people with no taste. I would have been, what, fifty at that time? This is sounding increasingly implausible, I say.

Yes, I thought so. It totally disconcerted me. Like finding Dad prancing around
in one of your dresses. I realized you had secrets. That there was this side of
you that none of us knew about. Where you wore mascara and magenta lipstick
and needed to please in that way—a desire we'd never have attributed
to you.

Oh. Yes.

Now you're remembering.

Yes, I say, and am silent. There was only one time I tried to please in that particular way.

Well?

How old were you?

Like I said, probably seventeen.

Yes. That was around the time I shifted offices—they built the new facilities on Racine and I cleaned out my filing cabinets, my desk, threw everything in boxes and into my car. Probably all sorts of odd things in there from previous lives.

Is that all you're going to say?

Yes, I think so. Just history. Prehistory, as far as you are concerned. Nothing to be said about that. Now I've come up with something. My turn. I'm also going back to around that time. When you were seventeen. Same girlfriend. Deborah. The peddler's daughter.

Yes, that was your charming name for her. Because her father owned a gourmet
cookware distributorship. And I know exactly what you are going to say.

No, I don't think so.

You caught us. In flagrante delicto
.

Well, it would have been hard not to! Right in the middle of the living room, clothes everywhere, the noise! But that wasn't what was important. What interested me was that when you heard my footsteps, you turned around, almost as if expecting me. You had a look of intense satisfaction on your face that quickly changed to disappointment, before the more expected embarrassment.

Your point being?

You'd hoped for a different witness. My guess is your father.

Now why would I want that?

I don't know. Something happened between you around that time. Something after you'd interned for him when you turned sixteen, just before your senior year. You were so close until then. Then, trouble. You came home from work together one night that summer not speaking. And it lasted for years.

I'd rather not talk about it.

Even now?

Even now.

If it had something to do with a woman, you don't have to worry about telling me. I knew it all. It didn't change anything between your father and me.

Well, maybe you weren't the only one affected.

What's that supposed to mean? Who could it matter to but me?

There were two other members of our family. Two other people who were betrayed.

No, honestly. Why would it matter to you? He was still your father. There was no betrayal there.

No, not there.

Stop being so mysterious.

Oh, come on, Mom. Even you had to admit that the peddler's daughter was
pretty hot. Did you think Dad wouldn't notice? And once he noticed, what he
would try to do?

So he made a pass at your girlfriend. He made passes at everyone.

Forget it.

Or is the problem that he succeeded?

I said,
forget it.
I should have known better than to try to have a conversation with
you. I'm actually sorry you won't remember this one. Because I want it to stick.

How angry you are. You seemed to come here in a conciliatory frame of mind. And now you're burning bridges?

They'll be rebuilt. And reburned. The never-ending cycle.

Just be careful.

Why? Because you might just remember this time?

Yes. At some level, I believe you do remember these things.

He gets up and dusts something off his pants. His face changes, grows crafty. His voice is now quieter and more measured.

I think you do remember. Fiona does, too. Like what happened to Amanda.

I don't answer.

You
do
know, right now, don't you? That she is dead?

I nod.

He lowers his voice, comes even closer. Almost touching.

And do you know more than that? What
do
you remember?

Get out, I say.

Tell me
, he says. He is so close I can feel the warmth of his body.

I said, get out.

No. Not until you tell me.

I reach for the red button above my bed. He sees what I am fumbling for and his hand shoots out, grabs my wrist.

No,
he says.
You're going to deal with this.

I struggle to free myself, but his grip is strong. I give a sudden twist to my hand, free it, and slam the button. He gives a little shout of anger and grabs my wrist again, holds it against his hip. It hurts.

You know you're guilty, right? You know there's no way out. A confession won't
do any good at this point. It won't do
anyone
any good.

We hear running outside the room. He releases my wrist, stands back.

Out, I say.

Good-bye then,
he says. And he's gone.

My door is closed, but I am not alone. Although it is dim, I can see a shape flitting around the room. Dancing, even. As my eyes grow accustomed to the light, I can see that it's a young girl, thin, with spiky auburn hair, bending and shimmying, barely avoiding the furniture. Her arms are raised above her head, and her fingers are wiggling. She is clearly in high spirits. Manic, I would even say. But not a healthy state. Someone agitated beyond her ability to control it.