Turn of Mind

junk. It is James’s and my don’t-but-can’t place. As in I don’t-know-what-to-do-with-it-but-can’t-throw-it-away-yet. Receipts for purchases we might want to return someday. Knobs that fell off things. Unmatched socks.

I dig down. Past old prescription reading glasses, batteries that may or may not have charges, New Yorker magazines. Until I hit bottom. And pull it out, loosely wrapped in a linen napkin.

My special scalpel handle. Shiny. Alluring. Begging to be used. My name engraved on it, along with the date I finished my surgical residency. What do they say about me at the hospital? Get a second opinion. She’s the best there is, but she’s a hammer looking for a nail. She’ll operate on a torn cuticle if you let her.

Some plastic packages fall out of the napkin. Each one holding a glinting sharp blade, ready to be inserted into my scalpel handle. Ready to slice. Both women are standing nearby, watching me closely. The blond one closes her eyes. The brown-haired one reaches out her hand. I’ll have to take those, ma’am, she says. And I’m afraid you’ll have to come with me.

We are in a car. I am sitting in the back, behind a driver with short brown hair. I cannot tell if it is a man or a woman. The hands on the wheel are strong, coarse even. Androgynous.

Magdalena is next to me. She is on her phone. Speaking urgently to one person, then hanging up, dialing another. It is cold. Snow is in the air. Yet the trees are budding. I roll down the window to feel the wind in my face. A typical Chicago spring.

I like being able to use that word, typical. Usually is another good one. And most of the time. Anything that’s relative. Any way of comparing future events to past occurrences.

We are in a room. Empty except for a table and one chair—the chair I am sitting in. There is no one in the room I know. Four men. No Magdalena. I am read something from a piece of paper. I am asked if I understand. With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to me?

I am firm. No. I want my lawyer. There is a large mirror taking up an entire wall. Otherwise, a barren, forsaken place. A place to keep one’s counsel.

Your lawyer is coming.

Then I will wait.

My scalpel handle and the blades on the table in a plastic baggie. The men talk quietly among themselves, but no one can keep their eyes off the items and me.

I amuse myself by thinking how, in the movies, this room would be filled with cigarette smoke. Unshaved haggard men drinking cold weak coffee out of Styrofoam cups. Yet these men are close shaven, well dressed, dapper even. Two are drinking foamy drinks out of paper cups. One is holding an energy drink, the other a plastic water bottle. No one offers me anything.

A bustle at the door, and in sweep three women. Three tall striking women. Amazons! My daughter or perhaps my niece; the nice woman who helps me; and another one I may have seen before.

This last one, the one I am most uncertain about, holds out her hand, grips mine hard, and smiles. Nice to see you again, she says. Although I wish it were under better circumstances. She searches my face, smiles again, and says, Joan Connor. Your lawyer. To whom you are paying very big bucks indeed.

My daughter/niece comes straight over and puts her arm around my shoulders. It’s okay, Mom, she says. They can’t do anything to you. This is America. They still have to have some kind of proof.

The third woman, the blond one, just stands in the back, near the door. She is sweating profusely. Her color is curiously high. I reach into my jacket pocket for my stethoscope. Then I remember.

I am retired. I have Alzheimer’s. I am in a police station because of my blades. My mind won’t take me beyond these facts. My diseased mind. Yet I have never felt more alert. I am ready for anything. I smile at my daughter/niece, who does not smile back.

The lawyer turns to the men. Whereas before they had been standing casually apart from one another, now they are in a line, their shoulders nearly touching, their beverages on the table, forgotten. Men on guard. Against the enemy.

Are you charging Dr. White?

We just have a few questions. She refused to talk without you.

As is her right.

As we explained to her. Can we proceed now?

My lawyer nods. Please, a few more chairs.

The men break rank, two leave the room and come back with four more folding metal chairs, another one returns with two cups of water. He silently offers one to me, one to the young woman.

The lawyer sits down to my right, my daughter/niece to my left. She keeps her arm around my shoulders. The blond woman remains standing near the door, waves off a man when he gestures to an empty chair.

Where were you on February sixteen and seventeen?

I don’t remember.

My lawyer interrupts.

She has been asked this time and time again. She has answered to the best of her ability. As you are aware, Dr. White has dementia. She will not be able to answer many of your questions.