something to calm you down.
I don’t remember any of this.
I know you don’t. The next morning you wanted to go over to Amanda’s—to catch up, you said, because you hadn’t seen her in a while. I pretended to call her, hung up, and told you she wasn’t home.
And I fell for it?
You did. And it turned out that the previous afternoon was the last time we saw her. She was still alive—they were able to trace her steps around town, to a meeting, to the store. But the next day she stopped taking in her Tribunes, and about a week after that Mrs. Barnes checked on her and found the body.
Did you explain all this to the police?
Yes, many times.
Why do they want to see me, then? I won’t be able to tell them anything.
They’re still trying. Ever since they got your scalpel handle and blades. Your lawyer says they’re hoping that if they ask enough, and in enough different ways, they’ll get a different response.
Didn’t someone once say that that is the embodiment of madness? Doing the same thing over and over and hoping for a different effect?
Well, sometimes you do remember things. Surprise us all. Like the other day. Out of the blue, you asked me about my elbow—the one I landed on when I tripped on the sidewalk. That had happened a few days earlier, but you were very clear, remembered that you had examined me and determined nothing was broken or torn. One of the perks of working for a doctor—good thing, too, because my insurance is so lousy.
I don’t recall. Things come and go. For example, what is your name?
Magdalena. Look—it’s written right here. On this poster.
How long have you been here?
You hired me almost exactly eight months ago. Last October. Just before Halloween.
I love Halloween.
I know. It was the most fun I’d had since my kids were small. You insisted that we both dress up. Witches. The only dignified costume for crones, you said. You decorated the house spectacularly. You bought the kind of candy that kids fight over and won’t trade. And you insisted on opening the door yourself and making a fuss over the costumes. You really surprised me. The first of many surprises.
Yes, Halloween excites me. That whole time of year, autumn, I find exhilarating. A passionate season. The others are so bland. In the fall, you see opportunities for change. Real change. Possibilities present themselves. None of the renewal and redemption cliches of spring. No. Something darker and more primal and more important than that.
You paced that night until three AM. You certainly were excited. But not in a bad way. It was the first time I saw you do that. Back and forth, all night. I fell asleep in my chair in the living room. You ended up on the couch. Both of us still in our witch costumes.
I always liked dressing up. Giving out the candy. Assuming my proper guise for a night.
Yes, your costume suited you. The white pancake makeup contrasting with the dark-ringed eyes, the long gray-black wig flowing over your shoulders. The fake mole to the right of your mouth drawing attention to those high cheekbones. A peculiar sort of Sleeping Beauty, but nevertheless a beauty. You opened your eyes to find me studying you. Wicked debauchery, you whispered.
Mark’s in a good mood. It doesn’t make this mother’s heart glad. It makes it suspicious. The euphoria. The fast-talking wit. The notable appreciation of the inferior egg salad sandwich Magdalena presented as our lunch. His inability to recognize that the living room curtains are the same shade of glorious red they’ve always been. His wanting a heart-to-heart.
How are you, Mom?
How much do you want? I ask.
He doesn’t hesitate. As much as you can give me.
Is it that bad?
Worse.
You’re being direct for once. Is it because you’re high?
Possibly. I find you hard to take under any other condition.
You’ll have to ask your sister.
What?
I don’t even have a checkbook anymore. Even when I want one. Fiona takes care of everything.
But certainly you can write one check.
I don’t have even one to write. Fiona was very thorough.
But you wrote me a check six months ago.
