Turn of Mind

toward me, as though she can’t bear to let it out of her sight.

It’s in Hyde Park. On Fifty-sixth Street. Right off campus. I can bike to my office.

It’s eerie, I say. The similarity.

Yes, I thought so too. I paid too much for it, of course. It needs tons of work. But these things don’t come on the market very often. I had to act fast.

I keep gazing at the house. It could almost be my own, that could almost be my bedroom window, that could almost be the iron gate to my backyard.

When do you move in?

Well, it’s a little complicated. Closing was delayed. Because of Amanda. She had cosigned the loan for me.

And why would that be a problem? Did she change her mind?

No. No, of course not.

Well?

Fiona is silent for a moment. Then, I just decided I didn’t want to bother her with it after all.

Why didn’t you ask me? Or your father?

Fiona twists a purple lock around her index finger. I don’t know. Just didn’t want to make you feel obliged. It turned out okay. I was able to come up with enough money.

Well, you know if you ever need help . . .

Yes, I know. You’ve always been very generous.

Mark is a different matter altogether, of course. Your father and I don’t trust his judgment in money matters.

You’re a little hard on him, you know.

Perhaps. Perhaps.

I have forgotten I am still holding the photograph until she reaches out and plucks it from my hand, folds it carefully, and puts it back in her pocket. Then pulls it out and looks at it again, as if checking that it is real, the way I used to pat her little arms and legs when she slept, amazed I had produced this perfect being.

It is my home, she says, so softly I can barely make out the words. And she smiles.

From my notebook:

I watched David Letterman last night. So, in homage:

TOP 10 SIGNS YOU HAVE ALZHEIMER’S 10. Your husband starts introducing himself as your “caregiver.”9. You find an hourly activity schedule taped up on your refrigerator that includes “walks,” “crocheting,” and “yoga.”8. Everyone starts giving you crossword puzzle books.7. Strangers are suddenly very affectionate.6. The doors are all locked from the outside.5. You ask your grandson to take you to the junior prom.4. Your right hand doesn’t know what your left hand has done.3. Girl Scouts come over and force you to decorate flower pots with them.2. You keep discovering new rooms in your house.And the No. 1 sign you have Alzheimer’s is . . . It’s somehow slipped your mind.

If I could see through this fog. Break through this heaviness of limbs and extremities. Every inhalation stabs. My hands limp in my lap. Pale and impotent, they used to wield shiny sharp things, lovely things with heft and weight that bestowed power.

People would lie down and bare their naked flesh. Invite me to dismember them. And if thy hand off end thee, cut it off: it is better for thee to enter into life maimed, than having two hands to go into hell, into the fire that never shall be quenched.

Write about yourself, Magdalena urges. If it helps, write in the third person. Tell me a story about a woman who happens to be named Jennifer White.

She is a reserved person. Some would say cold. Yet others welcomed that quality, saw it as a form of integrity. She thought either was a fair assessment. Both could be attributed to her training. Surgery requires precision, objectivity.

You don’t get emotional over a hand. A hand is a collection of facts. The eight bones of the carpus, the five bones of the metacarpus, and the fourteen phalanges. The flexor and extensor tendons that maneuver the digits. The muscles of the forearm. The opposable thumb. All intertwined. Multiple interconnections. All necessary to the balance of motion that separates humans from other species.

But Amanda. She thinks of Amanda’s metacarpus, minus four sets of phalanges. A mutilated starfish. Does she cry? No. She writes it in her notebook. Amanda died. Fingerless. But the details won’t stick.

I stop, put my pen down. I ask Magdalena, Which neighbor was suspected in Amanda’s death? but she will not answer. Perhaps because I have asked and she has answered the question many times. Perhaps because she knows I will forget my question if she ignores it.

But I rarely forget that a question has been asked. When Magdalena ignores me, unfinished business lies heavy between us, disrupts our routine, hangs over us as we drink our tea. In this case, it pollutes the very air. For something is terribly wrong.