Turn of Mind

You don’t seem inclined to talk about it. Neither was Dad.

I’d rather not.

Because . . . ?

Because some things shouldn’t be scrutinized too closely. Some mysteries are only rendered, not solved. We found each other. And never regretted it the way others do their own youthful couplings.

The young man is picking up his soft leather satchel, leaning over me, brushing my cheek with his lips.

Bye, Mom. I’ll see you next week. Probably Tuesday, if work allows.

Yes, definitely a familiar face, one resonating on numerous levels. Later, after dinner, I finally get a name to attach to the face. James! I say, startling the Vietnam vet so that he spills his water into his bread pudding.

It is somewhat later that I realize my icon is missing. I keep my own counsel, for now.

They are telling me something, pointing to their heads. Pointing to my head. Tugging at my hair. I push their hands away.

The hairdresser. The hairdresser is here. It is your turn.

What is a hairdresser, I say.

Just come on, you’ll look and feel so much better!

I allow myself to be pulled to my feet, guided step-by-step down the hall, passing stuffed armchairs positioned strategically in little groups, as if conversing with one another. Tables laden with fresh flowers. What kind of place is this.

We enter a large room with shiny tile floors. Along one wall, tall cupboards containing plastic bins filled with yarns, colored paper, markers. A long counter along the opposite wall with a sink in the middle. Tables and chairs have been pushed to one side, and a clear plastic tarp has been laid out on the floor, a single molded plastic chair on the middle of it. A woman dressed in white, standing by.

Would you like to wash your hair before your cut? she asks, then answers herself. Yes, I see that would be a good idea.

I am turned around, and propelled gently but firmly over to the sink, and bent over. My hair and neck are ignominiously scrubbed, rinsed, then scrubbed and rinsed again. Led back and pushed into the chair, where the woman tugs a comb through my hair.

And what shall we do today? Another woman’s voice breaks in. Short, I think. Very short. We’re having some problems with grooming.

The woman in white agrees cheerfully. Very well! Short it is!

I try to protest. I’ve always been complimented on my hair, its thickness, color. James calls me “Red” when he’s feeling especially affectionate.

No, I say, but no one responds. I feel the pressure and coldness of steel against my scalp, hear the clip clip clip of the shears. Shorn like a sheep.

Other people are gathering around, looking. She looks like a man, one woman says loudly and is shushed. I wonder about that. Man. Woman. Man. Woman. The words have no meaning. Which one am I really?

I look down at my body. It is thin and spare. Androgynous. Sunken chest, chicken legs, I can see the femoral condyles and patellas through the material of my slacks. My malleoli without socks translucent and delicate, ready to snap if I put too much weight on them.

You look beautiful, says the woman doing the cutting. Like Joan of Arc. She holds up a hand mirror. See. Much better.

I don’t recognize the face. Gaunt, with too-prominent cheekbones and eyes a little too large, too otherworldly. The pupils dilated. As if used to seeing strange visions. And then, a secret satisfied smile. As if welcoming them.

Something is worrying at my ankles. A small furry thing. Dog. This is Dog. What is that joke. About the dyslexic atheist insomniac. I have turned into that joke.

I have managed not to swallow my pills this morning, so I am alert. Alive. Before depositing them under my mattress, I examine them. Two hundred milligrams of Wellbutrin. One hundred fifty milligrams of Seroquel. Hydrochlorothiazide, a diuretic. And one I do not recognize, oblong and pale beige. I make a point of crushing that one between my fingers and letting the dust fall onto the rug.

I do three laps around the great room, deliberately ignoring the brown line. I step over it, around it, never on it. Step on a crack. Around and around. I count the doors. One. Two. Three. Four. Only twenty in total, and four are unoccupied.

On my third pass I pause at the heavy metal doors at the far end of the long hallway. I can feel hot air wafting in through the crack, see the relentless sunshine beating onto the cement walkway outside through the small, thick windows. I remember those Chicago summers, heavy, oppressive, and stultifying, keeping you a prisoner in your house and your office as much as the bitter winters did.

James and I talked about escaping when we retired. Fantasized about a Mediterranean climate. Moderate temperatures, somewhere near the sea. Northern California. San Francisco. Or farther down the coast, Santa Cruz, San Luis Obispo. Lotus land. Or perhaps even the Mediterranean itself. James and I spent a month on the island of Mallorca after Fiona left for college. To forestall the empty nest blues that never came.