Mark. He has turned his attention back to the Calder, so she continues.
The press has been bugging both Mark and me. There was a leak. They know Mom was taken in for questioning and released. That’s about as much as they seem to know, but I’m—and here she gives Mark another quick glance— we’re eager to avoid any undue publicity.
Magdalena jumps in. I would never say anything. You know that. I just hang up on them. Or if someone appears at the door I don’t recognize, I don’t even open it.
Mark speaks up. Yes, but they somehow got hold of Mom last week—she’d wandered out into the front yard.
What exactly do you mean—got hold of me? I ask, icily. And under what circumstances would I wander out into my own front yard? You make me sound like a two-year-old.
I see Mark smile at this, but it isn’t a smile for me. Just some private joke.
Magdalena is looking uncertain and slightly frightened. No one told me, she says.
I got a call from the reporter. Fiona did, too. Apparently Mom was in fine form that day—got it in her head that the reporter was trying to dig up dirt on Amanda and her teaching methods—remember how Amanda was always battling the PTA? Confused the hell out of the guy. It seems they talked at cross-purposes for a moment or two, then Mom dismissed him. He doesn’t quite understand what is going on.
If he’s any good he can find out about Mom’s condition from the hospital or clinic, Fiona says. And of course there’s the leak on the police end. But let’s not make it easy for him or anyone else.
My condition? I ask. I am standing now. I’ll tell you what my condition is—I’m furious.
I’m astonished that no one bothers to look at me. Excuse me, I say, clipping the words short, and deliberately lowering my voice. This invariably gets the attention of the OR. But it doesn’t work this time.
No more negligence, Mark is saying, looking at Magdalena. Do you understand? Three strikes and you’re out. We’ve started counting.
Magdalena’s breath is uneven. Yes, she says. Understood.
Even Fiona, usually so attentive toward me and gentle toward others, has hardened her features. This is now your number one priority, she tells Magdalena. Protecting the family. Nothing else matters.
We’re looking at apples. Piles and piles of apples, all different varieties, colors, sizes. Next to them, mounds of green pears, purple pears. Then oranges. Who stacks them so neatly? Who keeps them in order?
I take one of the apples, a red one, and bite it. A bitter aftertaste. I spit it out and pick up another. Try that one. A little girl is watching me. Mom, that lady is wasting food. Shhh, her mother says, but the girl persists. And why is she taking off her dress?
Jennifer! I turn around. A large blond woman is running at me. Startled, I bump against the apples, and they start tumbling down off the stand, rolling by the dozens onto my feet, onto the floor, scattering in all directions.
Put your clothes back on! But why should I? Jennifer, no, not anymore. Please leave on your underpants. Oh God, they’ll call the police again. A large man hurries over. Ma’am? he asks. The blond woman cuts him off. She has dementia. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. Here. Here’s a letter from her doctor.
The blond woman is pulling a crumpled envelope from her purse. She opens it hurriedly, thrusts a piece of paper at the man. He reads it, frowning. Okay, but get her dressed and get her out of here. What were you thinking, anyway, bringing her here when this might happen?
Usually she’s very good. It’s just on occasion . . .
Often enough that you have to carry a letter around with you!
Yes, but . . .
Just get her out.
The blond woman is pushing something over my head and down over my hips and then picking up something smaller and balling it up and putting it in her pocket. We leave the store with the cries of children rising over us. But Mommy! Mommy? Mommy, look.
My notebook: Fiona’s handwriting.
Mom, we had a discussion today. It’s one I’ve been wanting to have for years, but the time was never right. I was always afraid. But now things are so different. Even if you get mad, it doesn’t last. Revelations these days are worth shit. We quickly go back to our safe, comfortable roles. It wasn’t always this safe, of course. So it’s still a little scary to initiate a talk.
We started out talking about me at fourteen. Remember? Cantankerous, rebellious, rude. Acting everything that was age-appropriate, in fact. I ran away twice, if you recall. The first time was a fit of pure rage. One minute I was screaming at our nanny at the time—what was her name? Sophia? Daphne?—and I don’t remember anything else until I was at Union Station, trying to buy a ticket for New York. That’s when the cops picked me up. I barely look my age now. I can only imagine what I looked like at fourteen: skinny and knock-kneed with my hair cut like a boy’s and greased to stand up straight. The first of my many piercings in my ears and cheeks. Dressed in all black, of course.
What I would have done in New York is anyone’s guess. I must have had some of my wits about me, because I’d gone through Sophia’s or Daphne or Helga’s wallet and stolen what I thought was a credit card but was really a AAA membership card you’d given her in case her car broke down. Very naive I was. The cops brought
