Turn of Mind

was done. She had made a request—something I imagined was a humbling experience—and had been refused. There was nothing more to say.

Yet there was an odd coda to all this. Mark went off to Northwestern in the fall, as planned. Since his dorm was less than twenty minutes away, it was not as momentous a leave-taking as Fiona’s was to California four years later.

But it was traumatic for him. During the days before he left he was extraordinarily demanding. I need a study pillow. My roommate doesn’t have a TV, we need to buy one. And even, Bake me some cookies.

It was also a particularly busy time at work, and I gave most of these demands short shrift. Still, it was more draining than I had anticipated. It wasn’t until the morning after we’d dropped him off in Evanston, leaving him standing in front of his dorm, that I realized my icon was gone. A blank spot in its position of honor in the front hallway.

I immediately called Mark, but there was no answer. I left an urgent message on his machine, and paced from room to room, to the phone to call James, back to the front window, to the phone to try Mark again.

I didn’t for a minute think it could be anyone else. I had found Mark standing in front of it on more than one occasion, a bemused look on his face, his hand outstretched as if to caress the Madonna’s face. When the doorbell rang, I jumped. Amanda stood there, cradling the icon.

Look at what was on my doorstep yesterday morning, she said, and held it out.

I took it. My hands were shaking. I found I was unable to speak.

Yesterday morning? I managed to ask, finally. What took you so long to come around?

Amanda didn’t say anything. She merely smiled. I eventually answered myself.

Because you weren’t sure you were going to return it, I said.

Amanda seemed to be considering what to say.

I was touched by Mark’s gesture, she said.

And you coveted it. Badly. As badly as I had.

Yes, I did. And I asked you to give it to me. And you said no.

I said no. And I meant no, I said. I held out my hand. She handed over the icon.

I suppose I will pay in some way for that refusal, I said.

Yes, you will pay. Perhaps not in any way you can guess. But eventually, such things have repercussions, Amanda said.

Then she turned and left. My best friend. My adversary. An enigma at the best of times. Now gone, leaving me utterly bereft.

Jennifer you are having a bad day. Jennifer you have had a bad week. Jennifer this is the worst yet, ten days and counting. Dr. Tsien increased your galantamine. He increased the Seroquel. He increased the Zoloft.

When Mark calls, I lie, I say you are well, you are napping. Or I don’t answer the phone at all when I recognize his number on caller ID. Fiona knows, she is here every day. What a good daughter. How lucky you are. I will pray for you, I will say the Rosary. I will pray to Saint Daphne, patron saint of the mentally ill. Or to Saint Anthony, my favorite, the patron of lost things.

What has been lost? Your poor, poor mind. Your life.

Fiona and I go out to lunch. Chinese. My fortune: It doesn’t take a good memory to make good memories. You couldn’t make this shit up, says Fiona.

Amanda has always called me shameless. She means it as a compliment. Shame-less. Without shame. I used to lie to the priests when saying confession because I could never think of things I should be asking forgiveness for. People who take this to an extreme are called sociopaths, Amanda tells me. You have certain tendencies. You should watch them.

Bless me Father for I have sinned.

It has been forty-six years since my last confession.

My how time flies.

This always happens. I wake early, hoping to get some work done before the children start clamoring for their breakfast, but someone is up even earlier. That blond woman. Damn. Only this time she’s not alone. Another woman is with her, drinking coffee out of my favorite cup. Large bones. Short light brown hair, tucked behind her ears. Wearing a denim jacket on top of faded jeans, cowboy boots.

Jennifer! What have you done . . . ?

I beg your pardon? I ask, but the blond woman has already left the room. She returns immediately with a blue towel and places it around my shoulders. She puts her arm around mine, turns me around, takes me away from the kitchen.

I notice that I am oddly cold, that rivulets of water are dripping from my nightgown onto the wood floors, that I can see my wet footprints on the polished oak. The blond woman talks at me as she leads me upstairs.

What a morning to pull this stunt. What timing. Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I write it down in your