Turn of Mind

I can’t imagine that.

Believe me, it happens.

Maybe to you. But not to me.

You think not. But you don’t know.

I do know. I do. I still feel. Everything. You have no idea.

Yes, well. Apparently not. What’s that expression? Other people’s troubles are easily borne. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for you and your pain. But I’ve had enough of this morbid talk. I want to go home. Let’s go.

I start looking again for my suitcase. I had put it here. Next to the bed.

No, Mom.

What do you mean, no? I’m ready—I packed last night.

Mom, you pack every night. And every morning the aides unpack you.

Why would they do that?

Because you live here now. Because this is your home. See? Look at your things. Look at your photographs! Here’s one of all of us on Mark’s high school graduation.

Yes, I miss the children. They left one day.

Mom, we went to college.

It was more interesting when they were around. I tried not to mind, but I did.

Well, you have plenty of people to keep you company here. I saw lots of them in the dining room, eating breakfast. Laughing and talking. It’s time for you to get over there yourself. Eat something. You’ll feel better.

Yes, but it’s time to go home. I’ll eat breakfast there.

Not quite yet. You don’t want to insult your hosts, do you?

What an utterly ridiculous question. You don’t keep guests against their will. What kind of host would do that? Let’s just go. They’ll understand. I’ll write a thank-you card later. Sometimes you just have to dispense with the niceties.

Mom, I’m sorry.

What are you sorry for? I’m ready.

Mom, I can’t. You can’t. This is where you live now.

No.

Mom, you’re breaking my heart.

I give up on the suitcase and make for the door.

If you won’t take me, I’ll get a cab.

Mom, I have to go now. And you have to stay.

She is openly crying, goes to the doorway of the room, waves her arm, flags down the woman who had passed through before. I need some help here.

Suddenly there are others in the room. Not anyone I know. Unfamiliar faces. They are pulling at me, preventing me from following Fiona out the door, telling me to be quiet. Why should I be quiet? Why should I take this pill? I close my mouth tight against it. Struggle to free my arms. One is being held behind my back, the other straight out. A prick, a sting on the inside of my elbow.

I fight, but feel the strength ebbing from my body. I close my eyes. The room is spinning. I am pushed onto a buoyant surface covered with something warm and soft.

She’ll be out for a while.

Good thing! Man, she’s strong. What caused this?

I don’t know. Her daughter visited. Usually that’s a good thing. Not like when that son comes around.

Why do we put up with it?

Friends in high places. She used to be some muckety-muck doctor.

I try holding on to their words, but they evaporate. The chattering of creatures not of my species. I lift my right arm, let it flop back down. Do it again. And again. It reassures. It hypnotizes. I do it until my arm is too heavy to lift anymore. Then, blessed sleep.

I open my eyes. James. A very angry James. How unusual. Usually he expresses dissatisfaction by refusing to eat the rare dinner I’ve cooked or by strolling in late to one of our children’s birthday parties. Once he threw my favorite pair of broken-in tennis shoes outside into the garden—the ones I used for my longest and most delicate surgeries. I found them later, covered with mud and infested with earwigs.

What is it? What happened? I ask now.

But he isn’t paying attention to me. It isn’t me he’s angry with.