Turn of Mind

I don’t understand the boy’s words, so I concentrate on his expression. Is he friend or foe? I think friend, but I am not certain. I feel uneasy. There is a trace of hostility in his eyes, tenseness in his shoulders, that could be remnants of old injuries, old suspicions.

I am sitting at a table with two young people. They are getting up to leave. The girl had retreated somewhere, was no longer mentally present. Then she suddenly comes back.

Mom, I hope you’ll forgive us. There are tears in her eyes.

Fiona, she won’t even remember. This conversation was pointless. I told you that.

The girl is pulling on her sweater, wiping her eyes. And then there’s Magdalena. She’s been so important to us over the eight months. That is hard, too.

The boy shrugs. She’s an employee. It was a business relationship. A quid pro quo.

Ass, says the girl. Then a pause. I’m still glad we came, she says. Funny, I never knew how she felt when she realized what was happening to her. How she figured it out. That part was always a mystery.

Well, she’s never exactly been one for sharing feelings.

No, but I feel . . . honored somehow.

She has squatted down beside my chair.

Mom, I know you’ve checked out. I know you won’t remember this. And it’s all so very sad. But there have been moments of grace. This was one of them. I thank you for that. Whatever happens, know that I love you.

I’ve been listening to the rise and fall of her soft voice, paying attention to the cadence. Wondering who she is. This brightly colored bird in my kitchen. This beautiful girl with the face of an angel who is leaning over to brush her lips against my hair.

The boy is looking amused. You’ve always been sentimental, he says.

And you’ve always been an ass.

She gives him a little push as they walk toward the door. The end of an epoch, I hear the boy say as he closes it behind him.

The end, I echo, and the words hang in the now-empty house.

TWO

The woman with no neck is screaming again. A distant buzzer and then the muffled sound of soft-soled shoes on thick carpet hurrying past my door.

Other noises emerge from other rooms on the floor. The calls of incarcerated animals when one of their own is distressed. Some recognizable words like help and come here but mostly cries that swell and converge.

This has happened before, this descent from one circle of hell into the next. How many times? The days have morphed into decades in this place. When did I feel the warmth of the sun? When did a fly or mosquito last land on my arm? When was I last able to go to the bathroom at night without someone materializing at my side? Tugging my nightgown down around my hips. Gripping me so hard I look for the bruise after.

The screaming, although subdued, hasn’t stopped, so I get up. I can stop this. Prescribe something. One of the benzodiazepines. Or perhaps Nembutal. Something to relieve the anxiety, stop the noise, which is now coming from all different directions. I’ll order a round. Drinks are on me! Anything to prevent this place from descending into true bedlam. But arms are pulling at me, not gently. Heaving me to my feet before I am ready.

Where are you going. To the bathroom? Let me help. In the dim light I can barely make out the speaker’s face. Female, I think, but I find that increasingly difficult to tell. Unisex white scrubs. Hair short or tightly pulled back from the face. Impassive features.

No. Not the bathroom. To that poor woman. To help. Leave me alone. I can get out of bed myself.

No, it’s not safe. It’s the new meds. They make you unsteady. You could fall.

Let me fall then. If you’re going to treat me like a child, then treat me like an actual child. Let me pick myself up when I fall.

Jen, you could really hurt yourself. Then I would get into trouble. And you wouldn’t want that, would you?

It’s Dr. White. Not Jenny. Absolutely not Jen. And I wouldn’t care if you were fired. Another would just take your place. You’re interchangeable enough.

Dozens of people come and go, some lighter, some darker, some speaking better English than others, but all their faces blending into one another.

Okay, Dr. White. No problem.

She doesn’t let go of my arms. With a grip that could subdue a 250-pound man she pulls me to a standing position, puts one hand on the small of my back and the other at my elbow.

Now we can go together and see what’s happening, she says. I bet you could be of service to Laura! She sure needs it sometimes!

Still holding on to my arm, she walks me into the hall. People are milling aimlessly, as if after a fire drill.

Oh good, see, all over! Would you like to go back to bed now or have some hot milk in the dining room?

Coffee, I say. Black.