Turn of Mind

How long have you been here?

Six years. My name is Laura.

I like your necklace, I say. A word comes to me. Opal?

Yes. A present from my husband.

My husband is out of town, I say. Somehow I know this. In San Francisco, at a conference. He travels.

You must miss him, then.

Sometimes, I say. And then suddenly the words come more easily.

Sometimes I like rolling over in the bed, to find a place where the sheets are still cool. And he can take up a lot of psychic space.

But it seems that you have great affection for him. You talk about him a lot.

What is that you are holding?

A knife.

What is it for?

To cut.

I remember that. Can I have one?

No.

Why not?

It’s not safe.

For whom?

For yourself, mostly.

Just mostly?

There is a concern.

That I might hurt others?

Yes. There is that.

But I am a doctor, I say.

And you’ve taken a solemn oath.

I am gifted with a vision. A framed script hanging on a wall. I quote what I see written there. I swear by Apollo, Asclepius, Hygieia, and Panacea, and I take to witness all the gods, all the goddesses . . . the image leaves me before I can finish.

Impressive words. Frightening, even.

Yes, I’ve always thought so, I say.

And of course, there’s the part everyone knows, about never doing harm, the gray- haired woman says.

I’ve always fulfilled that oath, I say. I believe I have.

Believe?

There is this thing that nags.

Oh?

Yes. It has to do with the thing you’re holding.

The knife.

Yes, the knife.

The woman leans forward. Are you remembering? No. Let me rephrase that. If you are remembering, keep it to yourself. Don’t tell me.

I don’t understand, I say.

No, not today. It is not your day to understand. But you might remember tomorrow. Or the day after. Memory is a funny thing. It might be a good thing not to try too hard. That’s all I’m saying.

And with that, she leaves, taking the lovely shiny sharp thing with her. Knife.

One living creature still trembles at my command. A small dog, a mutt that has somehow become attached to me. I’ve never been fond of dogs. The opposite, in fact. The children’s pleas counted for nothing.

At first I kicked the thing away. But it persevered, haunted me morning until night. The other residents attempt to entice it away at every turn, but it always returns to me after devouring a treat or being subjected to a trembling petting session.

I’m unclear who it belongs to. It wanders the halls at will and is a general favorite. But I am the one it pursues relentlessly. Despite the fact that it has a bed in the television lounge, bowls of food and water in the dining room, it sleeps with me. Shortly after I go to bed I feel a thump, of dog that I always hated. But gradually I have found