I don’t even bother to respond.
What day is it?
Going-to-the-doctor day.
Clever reply. What month is it?
Winter.
Can you be more specific?
March?
Close. Late February.
What is this?
A pencil.
What is this?
A watch.
What is your name?
Don’t insult me.
What are your children’s names?
Fiona and Mark.
What was your husband’s name?
James.
Where is your husband?
He is dead. Heart attack.
What do you remember about that?
He was driving and lost control of his car.
Did he die of the heart attack or the car accident?
Clinically it was impossible to tell. He may have died of cardiomyopathy caused by a leaky mitral valve or from head trauma. It was a close call. The coroner went with cardiac arrest. I would have gone the other way, myself.
You must have been devastated.
No, my thought was, that’s James: a perpetual battle between his head and his heart to the end.
You’re making light of it. But I remember that time. What you went through.
Don’t patronize me. I had to laugh. His heart succumbed first. His heart! I did laugh, actually. I laughed as I identified the remains. Such a cold, bright place. The morgue. I hadn’t been in one since medical school, I always hated them. The harsh light. The bitter cold. The light and the cold and also the sounds— rubber-soled shoes squeaking like hungry rats against tile floors. That’s what I remember: James bathed in unforgiving light while vermin scuttled.
Now you’re the one patronizing me. As if I couldn’t see past that.
The doctor writes something in a chart. He allows himself to smile at me.
You scored a nineteen, he says. You’re doing well today. I don’t see any agitation and Magdalena says the aggression has subsided. We’ll continue the same drug therapy.
He gives me a look. Do you have a problem with that?
I shake my head. Okay, then. We’ll do everything we can to keep you in your home. I know that’s what you want.
He pauses. I must tell you, Mark has been urging me to make a statement that he can use to declare you mentally incompetent to make medical decisions, he says. I have refused. The doctor leans forward. I would recommend that you not let yourself be examined by another doctor. Not without a court order.
He takes a piece of paper out of his file. See—I have written it all down for you. Everything I just said. I will give it to Magdalena and tell her to keep it safe. I have made two copies. Magdalena will give one to your lawyer. You can trust Magdalena, I believe. I believe she is trustworthy.
He waits for my answer, but I am fixated on the photo of the naked woman. There is doubt and suspicion in her eyes. She is looking at the camera. Behind it. She is looking straight at me.
I can’t find the car keys, so I decide to walk to the drugstore. I will buy toothpaste, some dental floss, shampoo for dry hair. Perhaps some toilet paper, the premium kind.
Normal things. I’m inclined to pretend to be normal today. Then I will go to the supermarket and pick out the plumpest roast chicken for dinner. A loaf of fresh bread. James will like that. Small comforts—we share our love of these.
But I must go quickly. Quietly. They will try to stop me. They always do.
