Turn of Mind

Just make an appointment at the front desk. I hold office hours Mondays, Tuesdays, and Fridays. Wednesdays and Thursdays are my surgery days. I should see you in three weeks, to follow up on this consultation.

Yes. Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.

She leans down, pushes a button on her phone, and puts it in her briefcase.

Yes, she says. I am sure we’ll be talking again, quite soon.

Fiona is here. My girl. Her green eyes are slightly reddened. She has three moon earrings arcing up the outside of her right ear.

What is it? I ask. I’m still in bed. I can’t seem to find a clock to see the time.

What do you mean? she asks, but she is palpably upset. She sits down on the chair beside my bed, stands up, sits down again, takes my hand, and pats it. I pull it away, struggle to sit up.

You seem agitated, I say.

No. Well, yes. She stands up again, starts pacing. Isn’t it time for you to get up? It’s nearly nine o’clock.

I push myself up to a sitting position, throw off the bedclothes, lift my legs, and put my feet on the floor, steady myself. She pushes her chair back, stands to help me. I shake her hand off .

Are you okay? she asks.

New meds, I say. Or, actually, more of the old ones. They upped the dosage of both the Seroquel and Wellbutrin. They’ve also been slipping me Xanax when they think I’m not paying attention.

Yes, I know. They told me.

I look more closely at her face. The nose slightly reddened in addition to the eyes. Limp hair around her ears from tugging at it. Signs of distress. I know my girl.

Tell me, I say.

She searches my face for something, appears uncertain. Then makes a decision.

We closed on the sale today, she says. I just came from signing the papers.

You bought a house?

No, she says. Well, yes. But that’s not what happened today. Today I sold one.

I didn’t know you owned a house. I thought you had that apartment in Hyde Park. On Ellis.

I moved, about three months ago, she says. That apartment was so small. I bought a house right off campus. A brownstone, hardwood floors, exposed brick.

Her face becomes less haggard, as if reliving a fond memory, before clouding over again. No, it was the house in Lincoln Park, on Sheffield, that we sold, she says.

That’s where my house is. I love that neighborhood.

Yes, I know. I loved it too, Mom.

Her eyes begin to tear up. Mark, too. We were both born there. We’ve known nothing but that house. It was really, really hard. We took sleeping bags and spent last night over there. We stayed up all night talking and remembering. You know how long it’s been since Mark and I have spent that much time together without fighting? When I first called he wouldn’t pick up. But I kept trying and eventually he relented.

Wait a minute. You’re saying you sold my house?

Yes. Yes.

My house?

I’m so sorry.

But my things. My books. My art. The tapes of my surgeries.

Mom, we cleaned it all out months ago. You packed yourself. You decided what you would take with you and what would go.

But what about when it’s time to go home?

This is your home now.

This is a room, I say. I am furious.

I gesture around at the four walls. Point to the stainless-steel bathroom without a bathtub, only a shower. At the windows shuttered against the view of a parking lot.

Yes, but look. All your things are here. Your statue of Saint Rita. Your Renoir. Your Calder. And your most beloved of all, your Theotokos of the Three Hands.

There were others. Many others. Where are they?

Safely stored.

My furniture?