Turn of Mind

So when you approached me in the quad that year?

I’d already decided.

There was a silence. Amanda took a step back, put her hand on the iron railing surrounding the front garden, and wrapped her fingers around one of the iron spikes.

Well. You certainly know how to win an argument.

I wasn’t looking to win.

The Peter I knew began to appear again. The tension left his shoulders, and he put his hand to his head and stroked his hair—a gesture of appeasement often used when with Amanda.

No, you never are. I saw her fingers slowly unwind from the gate. She, too, touched her hand to her head, but as if it were aching.

So why did you do it? Peter asked. Make him aware of Fiona’s . . . ambiguous . . . paternity. About Jennifer’s single instance of straying, about what everyone else has known for nine years. As I said, you never would lie unless you were in extremis. What is going on?

Again, nothing but the sound of traffic.

Peter was speaking slower now, working it out.

The party. It’s something to do with the party. But what? We’re celebrating— that’s a happy thing. And honoring your best friend. You helped James organize it. And it’s gone splendidly. I’ve seldom seen Jennifer so delighted. She’s so difficult to please. But you pulled it off. You must have seen that. Jennifer and James so openly affectionate. Mark so proud of his mother, a kind of miracle at his age. Fiona taking brave forays out into the crowd before running back to Jennifer or James for safety. So what?

Amanda was rigid. She was not going to help him.

Peter stopped stroking his hair, his hand resting on the back of his head. He raised his other hand and extended it toward Amanda. Almost pointed but at the last second closed it into a loose fist.

That’s it, isn’t it. Too much happiness. You’re envious. A foul-weather friend.

That’s when I quietly turned and went back into the house, into the warmth and light. James was not to be found. I smiled and nodded until my face and neck muscles ached and the last guest had left. I put Fiona to bed and kissed Mark good night. Then lay sleepless in my own bed until morning.

The next day, James declined to go to the park with Fiona and me. He took Mark to the zoo. He rejected the idea of a family dinner, and he and Mark went to McDonald’s. For a month after that, he bit his words back into his throat every time I addressed him. He showed his back in bed. He turned his cheek when Fiona attempted her good-night kiss.

And then, after a month or so, the trouble passed. As it always did between James and me. You learn, you grieve, you forgive, or at least you accept. That’s why we’ve lasted. That’s how we’ve endured. The secret of a happy marriage: not honesty, not forgiveness, but acceptance that is a kind of respect for the other’s right to make mistakes. Or rather, the right to make choices. Choices you can’t be sorry for, because they were the right ones. So I never apologized. And so the matter died between us, but with it something else. Not enough to bring down the tree of our marriage, but a bough did fall that didn’t grow back.

Mark and Fiona felt it, of course. As children do, they acted out. Mark was sullen and rude to James. Me he treated with distance. But Fiona—it was hardest on her. She would sit on the couch between James and me as we watched a movie, placing her hand on each of our arms, as if she could be a conduit. Of what? Affection was still there. Delight in each other’s company, if slightly dampened. But respect— yes, that was the problem. There was now the taint of distain when James talked to me, a roughness in his embraces. In bed he was insistent and aggressive. Not necessarily a bad thing, for me. But Fiona took the change in our household very hard. She swung wildly between attempts at reconciliation and fits of rage. When she was good, she was very very good. But then the episodes. Too early to blame on adolescent hormones. Although as she got closer to puberty, they increased in intensity. She spent a lot of time with Amanda. When I couldn’t find her in the living room or her bedroom I would walk the three doors down to retrieve her. Amanda standing at the door, waving in a way that was both a beckoning and a farewell. Fiona, a recalcitrant and obstinate stranger. Then, after hours behind her closed door, the other Fiona would appear, offering to do the dishes, to help Mark with his math homework.

Those were strange, difficult years. I took on extra shifts, accepted new patients I didn’t have time for. Published articles. Began working at the free clinic. Busied my mind and body but emotionally descended into despair. It was Amanda, of course, who noticed and slowly patched me together again. The inflictor and healer of my pain, both.

I open the door, and there they are. My two children. The boy and the girl. Older, looking more careworn, especially the boy. I pull them both close, one arm around each, my cheek resting halfway on my daughter’s shoulder.

Why did you ring the bell? I ask. This is your home! You’re always welcome. You know that!

They both smile in unison. It looks almost choreographed. They seem relieved. Oh, we didn’t want to sneak up on you! says my son, my handsome, handsome boy. Even before his voice changed, the girls started calling.

Well, come in! I say. My friend and I just made some cookies. The blond woman has come up behind me. She smiles at the young man and woman.

We settle ourselves around the kitchen table. The blond woman offers coffee, tea, cookies. They both decline, although the boy accepts a glass of water. The blond woman takes a seat, too. There are undercurrents.

How have you been? the boy asks me.

Quite well, I say.

The boy looks at the blond woman. She shakes her head slightly.

Are you sure? You seem a little . . . excited. Overwrought, even.