Turn of Mind

I cannot get enough air. I reach my arms out straight, touch a wall, make contact with a rectangular plastic plate. I know this. The light switch. I flick it on. Royal blue walls. Photographs of smiling people. How can so many people be so happy all the time?

I flip down the switch, plunge everything into shadow. Up, illumination, down, despair. Up down. The satisfying, familiar click. I know what this is. I know what it does. My body begins to feel comfortable again, my breathing evens out. I continue what I’m doing until the blond woman comes and leads me away.

Some things do stick. I do what my neurologist friend Carl suggests and scan my memory. Just see what pops up, he says. See where it leads you. Exercise those neurons.

Surprising things. Not what I expected. No weddings, no funerals. No births, no deaths. Small moments. My cat, Binky, up a tree when I was five. A pair of my underwear blowing off the clothesline in the wind and into Billy Plenner’s yard next door when I was in seventh grade— something that he never let me forget. Finding a five-dollar bill on the floor of the roller-skating rink and feeling rich. Rolling in the grass in Lincoln Park with Fiona, nine years old.

The day after my fiftieth birthday, after a party James had thrown for me. Wondering if things were shredded for good this time.

It had been an evening of joy. People crowded in the living room, over-flowing into the kitchen, some sitting on the stairs. Drinking the excellent wine selected by James. My colleagues from the hospital. Dear Carl, and my assistant, Sarah, and, naturally, the orthopedics team: Mitch and John. Cardiovascular was there in force, as was Psych. And my family. Mark, fifteen, looking his most handsome, wrapping his arm around my shoulder, leaving it there as he guided me to the table laden with bottles and wonderful treats. Hugging me before pouring me a glass of wine.

Buddies. Fiona darting among the partyers, emerging occasionally to touch my arm. And James. Thrilling to know he was in the room. We sometimes met in the crowd. Each time he gave me a quick hard kiss on the lips. As if he meant it. Bliss.

But then, the downward plunge, the slide into hell. I was looking for James, he had disappeared. I searched the kitchen, the living room, dining room, even knocked on the bathroom door. No James.

Suddenly the room felt too crowded, too hot. I opened the front door and escaped to the stoop, to feel the cool May evening air. But then I heard sharp voices. Peter and Amanda. So intent on each other that they didn’t notice me.

You crossed the line, Peter was saying. He was speaking in a low tone but was clearly enraged.

But I did nothing . . . Amanda’s voice was cool and controlled.

Nothing? You never do nothing. Never. And now, a lie. On top of such cruelty. Like I said, you crossed the line.

The moon was bright enough to see their faces. From both, righteousness shone. A battle between two avenging angels.

It is time James knows, time he understands that his little family has some anomalies, some . . . unconventional antecedents. That he has a cuckoo’s egg in his nest. That he is in fact a cuckold. That he was not the only one who had wandered. He was holding Fiona’s hand. He had been joking about how she was a changeling, so different from himself. It was the perfect opportunity, one I have been waiting for. An opportunity to be seized. The truth must out.

And you were simply truth’s vehicle?

I didn’t say anything. I just looked. Just gave a look. That was all James needed. He was ninety percent there. How could he not be?

So you were lying when you said you did nothing.

Peter was having trouble modulating his voice and was breathing heavily. I had never experienced him like this. Usually so slow to anger, the sleeping giant.

I never lie. I didn’t say a word, after all. Not a word. So no. I never lie.

Except in extremis, that’s true.

What’s that supposed to mean?

It means that when it’s important enough to you, when it comes to protecting yourself against some intolerable consequence, you’re like the rest of us mortals.

Name one time I lied. Just one. Other than this supposed incident.

I have to go back fifty years. But it happened, and I have a long memory. Peter was calmer now, in control. He spoke deliberately. The philosophy test in 1966, he said.

Silence. Amanda didn’t move. I heard nothing but the cars streaming down Fullerton.

How did you know about that?

I was a research assistant for Professor Grendall. I was waiting outside his office. The door was half open. And you denied everything. That you’d cheated, plagiarized. You lied then.

Of course I did. It was necessary.

And then, after you left, Professor Grendall walked out, saw me, shook his head, and said, What a woman. What ruthlessness. She’ll go far.

And you said?

Be careful. That’s my future wife you’re talking about.