Turn of Mind

Fiona lifts her head. An audit? What for?

Why does one do an audit? To make sure everything is in order. Call it a second opinion.

But you’ve always trusted me. Always.

Be a professional. Do I throw a tantrum every time a patient wants a consult? What kind of doctor would I be if I did?

This is different.

How. How? What do you have to hide?

Nothing! Mom, get a grip.

I have a grip. I have a tremendous grip. And I will not be betrayed. Get out. And stay away. From this point on, I have no daughter, I say.

I feel a burden rise as I say this. No daughter! No husband! No son! No encumbrances! I will pack my bags. I will depart for parts unknown. I will take leave from work. I am owed the vacation time. I have the willpower.

I remember the statements Fiona was perusing so intently. And I have the money. No one will know where I am going. No one can follow me. No longer a prisoner in my own house. No longer being watched and followed from room to room. Ah, glorious freedom.

Jennifer. You don’t mean any of this, Magdalena says. She has completely failed to control her face. There is no doubt of her expression. Secret triumph.

You stay out of this. Actually, you’re in it already, aren’t you? You’re a part of this conspiracy. Okay, you’re fired. Both of you, out. I have things to do.

Magdalena puts her hands on her hips. You can’t fire me.

What?

You can’t fire me. You’re not my boss.

If I’m not your boss, who is?

Magdalena gestures to Fiona. She is. Along with your son. They hired me. They signed the agency paperwork. The money comes from them.

No. It’s my money. This I know.

It’s not your name on the check every month.

A sleight of hand, that’s all. Robbing Peter to pay Paul. Besides, you forget. This is my house. I decide who comes and who goes.

Fiona speaks again. Her jaw is quivering. Not for long, she says.

Excuse me?

This won’t be your house for long. Mark and I agree.

Since when are you and Mark friends?

We talk. We cooperate. When necessary. And we will not hesitate to have you declared mentally incompetent and put you into assisted living. We have ample evidence. Multiple nine-one-one calls. Emergency room visits. Eye-witness accounts. Not to mention the ongoing investigation.

So you’re all in this together.

Yes, all of us, Magdalena says. The whole world! She goes to the stove, puts the kettle on. Time for some tea, she says. Then a walk. We have some shopping to do. Help me make a list. Milk, for sure. And pasta. We’ll have pasta for dinner. I’ll make my marinara sauce if we can find fresh basil. If not, we’ll just grate some parmesan on top. That’s something else we need. Also we’re almost out of salt. See, here’s the list. Anything to add? Anything I forgot?

I take the list. I look at the markings on it. Chicken scratches. Nothing that makes sense. I nod intelligently to show I understand. Something nags at me. The kettle whistles. Tea. Milk. Sugar. What just happened? And why is Fiona wiping red eyes, refusing to look at me?

Yes, that’s right. Calm down. It’s time to calm down. We’ll have a cup of tea and we’ll talk and then we’ll go to the grocery store. She addresses Fiona. You go home now. It’ll be all right. She’s already past it. She won’t remember any of this tomorrow. Or even in an hour.

But she’s never turned on me this way. Mark, yes, but never me.

Actually that’s not true. You just haven’t been here. The stories I could tell you. The situation is deteriorating.

That’s what Dr. Tsien says. He says she’s entered the worst stage. The next one will be easier. Much sadder, but easier. It’s almost time. Our options are running out.

I listen carefully, I think this is important, but the words disappear into the ether the moment they are spoken.

I accept a cookie from a plate. I bite into its sweetness. I drink the hot wet liquid in the cup that is in front of me. And I ignore the two women who are in my kitchen, two of the multitude of half-familiar strangers who have been intruding, who take such liberties with my house, my person.

Even now, one is leaning over my chair, hand outstretched, trying to pat me on the head. Pet me. No. Stop. I am not a wild thing to be soothed by touch. I will not be soothed.

There is one picture of James that I like and only one. It is James at his most pompous, his most self- promoting, self-gratifying. He could have a crown and a leopard robe about his shoulders and he wouldn’t look more