me back right after you got home from work. You hadn’t even taken off your coat. And you just coolly accepted the facts the cops told you, didn’t punish me, didn’t bring up the subject ever again, just told me to wash my hands for dinner. I was furious, as you can imagine.
The second time was different. I’d just broken up with Colin. Because of you. I was in a panic. I’d been shown the abyss and wasn’t sure if I had leaped in or been pulled back from the precipice. It was an almost purely physical sensation, because I certainly wasn’t thinking: my heart was racing, I had trouble breathing, and I was even breaking out in odd rashes all over my body. To all of this you seemed oblivious. Just leaving in the morning and coming back at night. Mark was away at college already. Dad was . . . well, who knows where. And I thought I was dying. Everything was getting out of control and I was afraid. So I left again. But I was smarter this time. I packed a bag and went over to Amanda’s, requesting asylum. She was delighted. She had always taken her role of godmother very seriously and had always encouraged me to come to her— especially if I was having trouble with you. You probably wouldn’t be surprised to hear that she reveled in such complaints. I always adored her. I saw her hardness, the way she treated others, the face she showed the world. But I could always overcome those defenses. I took advantage of her, of course. Shamelessly. And that time was no different. I laid my grievances about you at her feet and watched her mind begin to work.
As I told you today, I think now that she’d planned this for years. She’d just been waiting for the right time. She had been watching me and calculating and hoping. Observing me change from an intense but loving child into a total freak with mother issues. Waiting for her chance. She thought she had it that time. We were sitting at her dining room table, and she had this funny look on her face. Funny for Amanda, who is usually so resolute. But I could see her trepidation when she asked me. To move in with her and Peter. To spend the rest of my teen years with them. To leave you, Mark, and Dad behind, although I’d see you, of course. She would be my foster mother. It shocked me out of my teenage angst. And attracted me. Revenge, ready-made. I asked for some time to think it over. She agreed, naturally, and told me to go home until I made up my mind. I came home that evening in a daze. You noticed something was up—I found you studying me during dinner—but didn’t say anything directly. Still, you came to my room that evening, something you rarely did. You sat on the edge of my bed and said something odd. It was as if you knew. You said, three more years. Just three more years. And you patted my arm. That’s all it took. Just one touch. Even though at that age I shrank from any physical contact, I welcomed that touch and in one instant abandoned Amanda and her well-laid plans. We never spoke about it, Amanda and I. No questions ever asked. And she never changed her attitude toward me. We continued as before, the iconoclast and the devoted godmother. Until the day she died.
And what did you say, this afternoon, when I told you all this? You smiled, and reached out and patted my arm again. Then withdrew it, sooner than I liked. For I’m no longer at a point where I don’t want to be touched. The opposite, in fact. Yet I don’t seem to be attracting much these days. I’ve spent some years in the wilderness and can’t seem to find my way out. God help me, I’d thought and didn’t realize I’d said it out loud until you said, Yes, please do.
I’m having a bad day, the kind of day when I know that believers would pray, but I just can’t allow myself to sink that low. So a single word echoes repeatedly inside my head, little pleadings to little gods. Godlets. Please. Just that one word, over and over again.
Fiona is sobbing. Her head in her hands at my kitchen table. Magdalena is standing behind, rubbing her bowed back. They can both go to hell.
I do so much! Fiona says. Day after day. Month after month. The head of the green-eyed snake tattoo is just visible from under her long-sleeved T-shirt. Her short hair is tousled from running her hands through it. We’ve been at it for some time.
Yes, you do. Indeed you do, Magdalena says. Her soothing voice does not match her expression.
And what, exactly, do you do? I ask. What have I ever asked you to do? I am inflamed, infused with the power of the injured.
I know it’s the disease speaking, but it’s still hard. So hard, Fiona says. Her voice is muffled. She has not lifted her head from her hands.
No, it’s me speaking. Stop treating me like I’m crazy. I’m forgetful, true. But just because I don’t remember where I put my car keys doesn’t make me psychotic. Don’t shake your head at me. I heard you say it. I heard you on the phone. She’s being difficult today. No, beyond difficult, psychotic. You said those words. Deny it.
Fiona just shakes her head.
The blond woman speaks up. Jennifer, the reason you can’t find your car keys is that they don’t exist anymore. Your car was sold last year. You are not allowed to drive. You are too ill.
You, too?
Yes, me, too. Everyone, too.
Everyone.
Yes, just ask. Go ahead. Go out in the street. Knock on a few doors.
Then you two have been talking about me, I say. Spreading the word.
You’re after something. You’re after my money. Fiona, you were looking through my papers. I saw that, too.
Fiona raises her head. Mom, I am your financial adviser. You gave me power of attorney. More than two years ago. When you were first diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Remember that?
She gives a snort of laughter and turns to Magdalena. I’m asking a woman with dementia if she remembers. Who’s the crazy one?
That’s it, I say. Out. Now. And leave the papers. I want to check them.
Mom, you’ve never been able to ‘check’ any numbers. You’ve said so yourself. You’re hopeless with money.
Well, then. Such people can be hired. I will hire one. I will commission an audit.
