Turn of Mind

yourself in the front door. This was at approximately one thirty PM. At two PM this neighbor heard loud voices. An argument.

I shook my head.

Look, clearly she doesn’t know, Magdalena said. She won’t even remember you were here ten minutes after you’re gone. Can’t you leave her alone? How many times are you going to ask these questions?

The first man started to talk, but the woman silenced him. That evening was the last time anyone saw Amanda O’Toole, she said. She visited the drugstore, bought some toothpaste, and picked up some food items from Dominick’s around six thirty PM. But she didn’t take in her paper after that day. The timeline fits. If nothing else, Dr. White was one of the last persons to see Mrs. O’Toole before she was killed.

The world shifted sideways. Darkness descended. My body turned to stone.

Killed? Amanda? I asked. But it was true. Somehow I knew that. This was not shock. This was not surprise. This was grief, continued.

After a short silence, the woman spoke. Her voice was gentler. That must be difficult. Reliving that moment over and over again.

I willed myself to breathe, to unclench my hands, to swallow. Magdalena put a hand on my shoulder.

And why are you here today? asked Magdalena. We’ve gone over this several times. Why again. Why now? You have no evidence.

There was only silence to that.

So why are you here? Magdalena asked again. No one was looking at me.

Just routine. Trying to find out if Dr. White can help us in any way.

How could she help you?

Perhaps she saw something. Heard something. Knew something about what was going on in Amanda’s life that no one else knew about. The woman turned to me suddenly.

So, was there? she asked. Anything out of the ordinary in Amanda’s life? Anyone who had a grudge? Had reason to be . . . disgruntled?

Everyone looked at me. But I was not there. I was in Amanda’s house, at her kitchen table, we were laughing wickedly over her imitation of the head of our block’s Neighborhood Watch program, her rendition of the 911 tape in which the woman reported a dangerous intruder trying to break into the church, which turned out to be a stray Labrador urinating under a bush.

It was a humble kitchen, never renovated to the standards of the neighborhood. Peter and Amanda, schoolteacher and PhD student in religious studies, bought the house prior to the area’s gentrification.

Plain pine cupboards painted a flat white. Checkered linoleum tiled floors. A twenty-year old avocado green Frigidaire. Amanda brought out a stale Bundt cake, a leftover from a PTA function, and cut us each a dry slice. I took a bite and spitted it out at the exact moment she did the same. We started laughing again. And suddenly I ached with loss.

The female detective had been watching me intently. Enough, she said. That’s all for today.

Thank you, I said, and our eyes met for a second. Then the three of them took their leave.

March 1, according to the calendar. Our anniversary. James’s and mine. I usually forget, but James, never. He doesn’t buy me extravagant gifts on schedule—those he saves for when I least expect them—but the ones he brings on these occasions are nevertheless deliciously unusual. What will it be today? I feel doglike, capable of wearing out the carpet with my pacing. Not that I’m often in this mood. No. And not that I would let him catch me. But nevertheless, there is this excitement, this anticipation, that has not dissipated. My parasite, thriving in darkness, his essence remaining mysterious throughout the mundanity of marriage. The shared bathroom, the clothes abandoned on the floor, the crumbs under the breakfast table. Still an enigma despite all this. A gift from the gods, James was. And today, as I wait for his return from parts unknown, I give thanks to them.

I pick up the first photo album, labeled 1998–2000. The woman who helps me insists. She doesn’t understand how utterly stupefying it is to be guided through the sea of unfamiliar faces and locales. All labeled in large black capital letters as though for an idiot child. For me.

To be asked, over and over, And who is this? Do you remember her? Do you recognize this place? It’s like being forced to see someone’s holiday snapshots of places you never wanted to go.

But today I will do what the leader at our support group suggests. I will examine each photo for clues. I will think of the book as a historical document, myself as an anthropologist. Uncovering facts and formulating theories. But facts first. Always.

I have my notebook beside me as I look. To record my discoveries.

The first photo that has Amanda written in the caption is dated September 1998. Amanda and Peter. A vibrant older couple. They could be in an ad for healthy aging.

The woman with longish thick white hair caught up in a ponytail. You can tell how strong and capable she is. Her wrinkles augment this authority. You wouldn’t want to be in a subservient position to her. You’d have to hold your own or be vanquished. An executive? A politician? Someone used to controlling crowds, multitudes even.

The man next to her is a different sort altogether. Although his beard is gray, his hair still has traces of black. He stands a little behind the woman and is only very slightly taller. More humor in his smile, more kindness.

You would turn to him for help, advice. To her, for decisive action. I cannot see his left hand. Hers has a wedding band on it. If they were husband and wife, there would be no doubt who would be in charge.