Turn of Mind

sandboxes. I want the hands, the fingers, the parts that connect us to the things of this world.

The straps are too tight around my legs. I can move my arms an inch perhaps. My head from side to side. There is an IV in my arm. A bitter metallic taste in my mouth.

Someone is sitting at my bedside. It is dark. Through the blinds a dull gleam illuminates the lower part of her face. She has the mouth of a ghoul, thin-lipped and grotesquely long. If she opened it she could swallow the world. What is this. She is taking my hand. No. She is raising it. No. Help me. She will bite into a vein, she will suck out what remains of my life.

Stop. Please stop. They will come if you don’t stop, the ghoul says.

She is placing something in my hand, closing my fingers around it.

What is this. A holy relic. Did they give this to you. Why am I being so honored.

It is a plastic bag containing a small metal disk, engraved. I can feel the protrusions. On a long chain. The bag is cold against my palm. I shake my head. I continue shaking it. The movement feels good.

Do you know your name?

I strain against what binds me. I do not answer.

Dr. White. Jennifer. Do you know where you are?

I do, but it is in pictures. No words. I am on a porch, sitting on the top step. A brisk morning in late October. The trees are golden. There is a line of pumpkins on the porch gazing at the world with horrified expressions. A daddy pumpkin, a mommy pumpkin, and a baby pumpkin. All agape at some terrible vision. That was my idea.

I am sixteen. There is a young man coming. I am ready. My dress is short, cut square, boldly colored with blue and red geometric shapes. My boots reach just below my knees. The step is rough against my bare thighs. These boots are made for walking. Any moment now, he will be here. I am quivering with excitement.

Dr. White?

The young man will come. I am beloved.

Dr. White, this is important. That medallion. It tested positive for type AB blood. Amanda O’Toole’s blood type.

We will be charging you with first-degree murder. You will go through a mental competency examination, plead not guilty for reason of insanity, and that will be it. But I’m not happy. Because I don’t understand. And I like understanding.

Amanda.

That’s right, Amanda. Why did she die?

Amanda, she knew.

Knew what?

She never dyed her hair. Never wore a scrap of makeup. But vain, regardless.

Vain about what?

A seducer. Not for sex. Secrets. She knew everything. I never figured out how. A dangerous woman.

Yes, I can see that. I can indeed. Would you like some water? Here let me pour you some—and here is a straw so you can drink. That’s right. Don’t strain, I’ll hold it.

I am . . .

Yes?

Frightened.

Yes.

What will happen next?

You will be examined. Declared mentally incompetent to stand trial. The judge will dismiss the case on the condition that you are committed to a state facility. Where you will likely end your days.

What are the alternatives?

Her face is becoming clearer. Not a ghoul at all. A plain, doglike face. A face you can count on.

Untie me?

I believe I will. I believe you are calm enough. Here—and I feel the pressure around my arms, then legs, slacken. I pull myself up to a sitting position in the bed, drink some more water. Feel the blood start flowing back into me.

Yes. My illness is getting worse.

And it will get worse still.

The woman is silent for a moment. Then, I want to know why Amanda died, she says.

I believe I could. Kill. There is that in me.

Yes. There is that in many people. I have a recurring dream that I have killed my sister. I am overcome by shame. And afraid. Not of the punishment. Of having people know what I really am. I think that’s why