Turn of Mind

The woman nods. She stretches, gets up, and starts walking around the room.

I’ve noticed a certain number of religious things around the room, she says. And your ability to quote the Bible. Are you, in fact, a religious woman?

I shake my head. I was raised Catholic, but now I just like the accessories. It’s hard to avoid some degree of biblical scholarship when you choose medieval history to specialize in for a graduate degree.

The woman stops in front of my statue.

I notice you brought this from your home. Who’s this? The mother of Jesus?

Oh no, that’s Saint Rita of Cascia. See the wound on her forehead? And the rose she’s carrying?

Who is she?

The patron saint of impossible causes.

I thought that was Saint Jude.

Yes, those two saints have very similar missions. But the feminist in me prefers Rita. She was not a passive vessel like so many of the virgin martyrs. She took action.

Yes, I can see how you would be attracted to that. Is that her medal you’re wearing around your neck?

This? No. This is Saint Christopher.

Why are you wearing this?

It’s a joke. Amanda’s idea.

What kind of joke?

Saint Christopher is not a real saint.

No?

A fraud. No, that’s not right. An implausible and unprovable legend. A fantasy of the devout. He was evicted from the host of accredited saints some time ago. But I loved him as a child. He was a protector against many things. One of them is a sudden, unholy death. The patron saint of travelers. You’ll still find people with statues of him on their car dashboards.

More accessories.

Yes.

So what does this have to do with Amanda?

She gave it to me. On my fiftieth birthday. I had just ended a tough decade.

Tough in what way?

On many fronts. So many losses. Of a very personal, rather self-involved narcissistic kind. Loss of looks. Loss of sexual drive. Loss of ambition.

That last one surprises me. You were at the top of your game when you retired.

Yes. But ambition is not success. It’s something else. It’s a striving, not an achieving. By age fifty I had gotten where I wanted to be. I didn’t know where else to go. In fact, there was nowhere I wanted to go. I didn’t want to be an administrator, join boards. I wasn’t ambitious in that way. I didn’t want to write textbooks or advice books. I didn’t want—didn’t need—more money.

And then?

Amanda helped, in her way. She told me to volunteer at the New Hope Community Medical Clinic, on Chicago Avenue, to give back to the world. Insisted on it. She had her reasons for knowing that I would comply. But the experience turned out to be extraordinarily gratifying on a number of levels. I had to become a generalist again. Think of the human body beyond the elbow. It was difficult.

And Saint Christopher? Sudden death?

Yes. If thou on any day Saint Christopher you see / Against sudden death you will protected be. In my case, death of the spirit. Against my fear, my despondency, that everything important had come to an end. The medal was Amanda’s way of saying don’t panic just because of the current darkness. That there was a way out. That by paying for past . . . transgressions . . . my mind would be at ease. That brighter things lay ahead. So she thought.

So the medal represented vanquishing spiritual trouble—nothing to do with friction between you and Amanda.

I wouldn’t say that. No. There was friction there.

She leans forward, asks, May I? and takes the medallion in her hand. Her face tightens. There’s something on the medal, she says. A stain. Do you mind if I look closer?

I shrug, reach behind, and pull the chain over my head, hand it over. She studies it.

It’s dirty, she says. Let me take it away and clean it. I’ll bring it back, don’t worry.

There is a pause. I say, Is there anything else? Because I have patients waiting. I’m surprised my nurse hasn’t interrupted us. She’s got instructions to keep me on schedule.

I beg your pardon. Yes, I’ve taken up too much of your time already. Do you mind if I stop by again?