It's time, you say. My father, he gets so worried.
The young woman begins speaking again.
I couldn't pull the medal out of
Amanda's hand. She held it so tightly. Rigor mortis had set in. I panicked. I
was certain someone was going to walk in. Then my mother just got to work.
Cutting off the fingers.
Yes.
She went back to the house, got her scalpel and blades. Washed her hands just
as if she were performing a procedure in the OR. She found a plastic tablecloth
and a pair of rubber gloves from the kitchen. The tablecloth she positioned under
Amanda's hand. Then she inserted the first blade in the scalpel and cut off the
fingers, one at a time, changing the blade after each amputation was complete.
She had to sever all four fingers before she was able to free the medal.
And then what did you do?
Took her home, washed her, put her to bed. Came back and cleaned up. It was
easyâI just rolled up everything in the tablecloth and drove to the Kinzie Street
Bridge. Then went home to Hyde Park and waited for the police to show up. I
thought there was no way they couldn't know.
The middle-aged woman doesn't move for a moment.
Jennifer?
You wait for her to ask something else. But she seems to have run out of words.
Some things stick, you say.
Yes. Some things do.
She looks miserable. Defeated.
For myself, I don't care, you say. But Fiona.
The woman takes her hand away from you to watch Fiona, still pacing. Ten, twenty, then thirty seconds. A painful half minute. Then she makes her decision.
No. It's not necessary to mention any of this. Not to anyone. The worst has happened.
Nothing will make a difference for Amanda. Nothing will change what
will happen to your mother.
Mom.
The young woman is openly weeping. She comes over and kneels by your chair, puts her head in your lap.
Thank you,
she says to the middle-aged woman.
It's not for you. I have no loyalty to you.
No one is looking at anyone else. You reach out and touch the brightly colored head. You plunge your fingers into the hair. To your surprise, you feel something. Softness. Such silken luxury. You revel in it. To have regained your sense of touch. You stroke the head, feel its warmth. It is good. Sometimes the small things are enough.
She is not hungry. So why do they keep placing food in front of her? Tough meat, applesauce. A cup of apple juice, as though she is a baby. She hates the sticky sweet smell, but she is thirsty, so she drinks. She wants to brush her teeth afterward, but they say,
Not now, we'll do that
later.
Then, much later, the sloppy hard scrubbing, the rasp of the bristles against her tongue, the cup of water brought to her lips and then taken away too soon.
Rinse. Spit.
The bulky diaper, the shame. Take me to the bathroom.
No, I can't, we don't have the staff today, everyone's on sixteen-hour shifts.
Someone will change you later. Janice. I'll send her in when she's off break.
Jennifer, you are not eating. Jennifer, you must eat.
She shares her room with five other people. Four women and one man. The man sucks his toes like an infant. The nurses refer to them collectively as the Lady Killers.
There are no niceties. There are no soft edges. There is no salvation.
Once a day, they are let out of their room, allowed to walk around a cement courtyard. It is chilly, the season must be turning. Better than the suffocating heat. She takes care to stay away from the others, especially the contortionist, who is prone to bumping hard into people then daring them to complain.
She walks back and forth across the courtyard, head down, not seeing, not talking. It is safer that way. Sometimes her mother walks with her, sometimes Imogene, her best friend from first grade, chattering about monkey bars and ice cream. Mostly she walks it alone. She is having visions. Angels with flame-colored hair singing in that unending hymn of praise.
She's doing it again.
A voice nearby.
Stop it! Stop her!
Another voice, a smoker's voice accompanied by a cough.
The angels continue singing.
Gloria in excelsis Deo.
They are sending a savior. A very young man, but able. He will bring three gifts: The first gift she must not accept. The second gift she should give away to the first person who speaks to her kindly. The third gift is for her alone.
This
is the word of the Lord.
Her mother, her beauty known through five kingdoms, had three royal suitors. On Good Friday one brought her a rabbit, the symbol of fertility and renewal. Not to be outdone, on All Souls' Eve the second suitor gave her a black cat, emblematic of the witches' Sabbath. On the night before Christmas a donkey was found tied to a tree in the front yard. A donkey in Germantown! Let that be a lesson to you, her parents said. But she accepted none of these suitors because she was waiting. And then He came.
The laying of hands upon her, roughly.
Now Jennifer, you have to stop that
noise or we'll have to put you in solitary again. Yes. What are you wailing about
this time? Can you use your words? Not today, huh? Okay, then you can just
stay quiet. That's right. Shhh.
But when all is done, when the end is near, what is left? What is one left with? Physical sensation. The pleasure that comes from relieving one's bowels under hygienic conditions. From laying one's head on a soft pillow. The release of the straps after a long hard night of pulling and pushing. To awaken from nightmares and find that they were, comparatively, the sweetest of dreams. Now that it is over, now that it's near the end, she can think. She can allow herself to drift to places that before she would not go.
It's the visions that make the waiting possible. And what visions! In glorious color, all senses activated. Fields of blooming, perfumed flowers, gleaming sterile operating rooms ready for cutting, beloved faces that she can reach out and caress, and soft hands that caress back. Heavenly music.
Jennifer, your visitor is here. Time to get up. Let's clean you up. You know the
rules. Stay quiet, no yelling, keep your clothes on, do not grab or hit. That's right.
Here we are. Now I'll just park you here. And look here is your visitor. You have
an hour. I'll be back.
She does not know this person. Is it male or female? She cannot tell anymore. Whoever it is, they are speaking.
Mom?
She doesn't answer. She thinks something has happened, something important, but she can't remember what.
Mom? Do you know who I am?
No, not really, she says. But your voice is comforting. I believe that you are dear to me in some way.
Thank you for that.
The person takes her hand, tightly. It is reassuring. It is something tangible in a world of shadows.
She's still not sure who this young person is, but she cannot stay here too long. There are a rabbit and a cat to feed and a donkey to ride.
How are things today? I'm sorry I'm late. Work's been insane.
Yes, she knows how insane work can be. One patient after another, bones bursting out of skin, how fragile the human body is, how easily penetrated and broken, how difficult to put together again. But the work doesn't need to be so sloppy. Who made this mess? She cannot believe it. She cannot believe her eyes. Who would do such a careless job.
You didn't clean up the OR, she says.
It's Fiona, Mom, your daughter. Here to say hello. Mark wants to come, but his
work has been busy, too. He has a big case now, isn't that exciting? They finally
trusted him with an important one. He promises to come soon.
Mark is dead.
No, Mom, Mark, your son. He's very much alive. He's doing well. Much better.
You'd be proud of him.
She can't forget the OR. It is on her mind. Her vision of the day. A burning image.
You didn't adequately prep for your procedure, she says. It was a mess from start to finish! Wherever did you do your training?
My undergraduate and master's degrees at Stanford, Mom. You know that. And
then back here for my doctorate at Chicago.
Sloppy. Sloppy and inexact. Have I taught you nothing? Skull base surgeries are delicate. Under the best of conditions you must be careful. But this is unsanitary, even brutal.
Mom.
That accounts for all the blood, of course.
Mom, please keep your voice down.
Then, louder, the man-woman person addresses the blue-suited woman sitting in the corner of the room.
May we have a little privacy?
We have some matters to discuss and it is difficult with a third party in the
room.
It's against rules.
I know, but just this once? Here. Here's fifty dollars. Go have a smoke or a cup
of coffee. No one will know. Nothing will happen. You can lock us in, that's no
problem. Just give us a little privacy.
Okay, but I'll be waiting right outside.
The woman leaves the room. There is a rattling, then a click as the door is locked from the outside.
Mom, we're alone, we can talk now.
She's not sure what this person wants. She? He? has got both hands on her arms at this point, is squeezing too hard. It hurts.
Mom, are you remembering? Do you remember? What do you remember?
A botched job. Cruelty. You must never be cruel, however the temptation. And for many, it
is
a temptation.
What do you remember?
There is much pathology among surgeons. If patients knew, they'd be even more frightened of going under the knife than they already are.
Are you recalling that night?
I know some things.
What do you know?
I have these visions.
Yes?
The person is growing agitated. Their green eyes are fixed on hers.
It can be difficult, she says. She is exerting herself, trying to break through the noise, trying to see past the blood. The clumsy job. The unmoving patient.
But you are having a vision now? Mom? Are you?
Quia peccavimus tibi.
What is that? Italian? Spanish?
Miserere nostri.
Mom.
My darling girl. Of course I had to help her.
The person is crying.
Mom, please. The woman will be back soon. You must
be careful what you say.
My darling girl. And yet I didn't want her. I took one look and said, No, take her away. Get me back to work, fast. Give me my body back, free of this parasite. And she turned out to be the most important thing. The thing I'd do anything for.
Stop, Mom, you're breaking my heart.
The creature is now pacing up and down the room, beating its arms against its side, seemingly intent upon doing itself an injury.
I would have told them everything if you had remembered.
I would never have done this to you. Every day I think of turning myself
in. No. Every hour. I'll never have peace again.
It stops for a moment, takes a breath, and then continues.
Do you remember why? I want you to know why. I told you that night, but
we never spoke of it again. I didn't want to ask. I didn't want to bring up
something you may have put out of your mind. Do you want me to tell you
again? It was for us, for the family. Amanda knew. She confronted me. She
would have told.
Yes, I knew that she knew. That she would have figured it out. Too smart, my girl.
Mom, at first it was that I just couldn't make the numbers make sense. But I
didn't know for a while exactly what Dad had done. Then it all became clear.
The extent of it. It was a shock, I tell you. Dad!
The money was ours. James earned it.
You mean he stole it, Mom.
Yes.
And kept stealing. Until Amanda stopped him.
Yes.
And you told her that you had returned it. All of it. And were repaying your
debt to society by working at the clinic. But you hadn't. You managed to keep
her from knowing.
It was our secret, yes, James's and mine.
Then Dad died. And you were deteriorating. I found it all out when going through
your papers. At first I thought you didn't know about it, that it was all Dad. But
then of course I realized you must have known. And ever since I assumed financial
power of attorney, Amanda had been asking me questions. Probing. Somehow she
found out there was money. Too much money. That she had been your dupe. That
I'd been corrupted, as you had been. She couldn't stand that.
James had been right to worry about Fiona. It was too much for her.
And then she kept harassing you. Wouldn't give up. Despite your condition.
That afternoon, you'd had a fight. Magdalena told me. You were terribly upset.
She had to take you to the ER. They had to inject you to calm you down. Magdalena
called me. She was furious.
That woman has gone too far,
she said. I
wasn't able to get there until lateâI had a faculty event I couldn't get out of. So
I drove up around ten
PM
. I parked in front of your house, walked to Amanda's.
I can still see the expression on her face when she opened the door. Triumphant.
No regrets. She had wormed what she needed out of you. And set to work on me.
The things she said, horrible things. About you, Dad, and especially me.
Amanda told me,
I put a stop to it back then, and I will not have you perpetuate it now. With your father dead and your mother the way she is, you can
discover
the past crimes of your parents and make restitution. Recreate yourself as an ethical citizen.