Turn of Mind

Something closes down in the girl’s face. And you? she asks.

You realize that you have erred. That you have forgotten the hypersensitivity of the young. Fiona and Mark were inured to it early. The cynical joking about it around the dinner table. During Mark’s teenage years, he insisted on opening up every meal with a particularly egregious lawyer joke. He was hoping to get to James, but that wasn’t the way. He’d bring his own to the table.

How can you tell the difference between a dead skunk and a dead attorney on the road? Then, after a pause, he’d triumphantly bring out the punch line: The vultures aren’t gagging over the skunk.

The girl is still waiting for your answer.

I’m a doctor, you tell her. An orthopedic surgeon.

That’s bones, right? the young man asks.

Yes. It’s more than just the bones. It’s everything to do with injuries, degenerative diseases, birth defects. I specialize in hands.

Annette does hands, too.

The girl laughs. He means I read palms. I took a Learning Annex class in psychic skills. Most of us were there as postmodern cynics. But I learned some things.

Chiromancy, you say. You’d be surprised how many believers there are. There’s been a considerable amount of research into palm creases and fingerprint whorl variations published in medical journals.

Really? The girl leans forward. She turns slightly and it’s her turn to hit the young man. See? I told you! She turns back to you. Like what?

For a long time scientists have been interested in exploring whether phenotypic markers can diagnose genetic disorders.

Can you say that in English?

Certainly. Doctors have always been interested in whether they can use the lines in your hands and the length of your fingers and even your fingerprints as a way of diagnosing illness.

Like what kind of illnesses?

Mostly genetic. For example, there turns out to be a strong correlation between a single palmar crease and aberrant fingerprints and Cri Du Chat syndrome.

Cri Du Chat? Cry of the cat? the young man asks.

Yes, because babies born with this defect mew like cats. They are usually severely mentally impaired. Then there’s Jacobsen Syndrome. Also diagnosable by the hands.Very similar to Down.

Are there any happy diagnoses you can make with the palm? Annette likes telling people they have long lives and will come into riches some day.

Unfortunately, most of the deviations from the normal in hand characteristics point to problems, often severe ones. But one researcher claims to have found a strong correlation between different ratios of finger lengths and exceptional musical ability. You pause. Of course, that’s just statistically speaking. Look. You hold out your right hand. See how my index finger is just as long as my middle finger? That’s statistically abnormal. Yet I don’t have any genetic defect that I know of.

Let me see your hand, the girl says, somewhat abruptly. You hesitate, then let her take it. She leans over your palm, frowning.

How’s my life line? you ask.

Oh, no one believes that one anymore. Good thing, too. According to your life line, you had a very short life. You’re dead, technically. But otherwise, you are intellectual rather than materialistic. You have the power to manipulate, but you choose not to exercise it. And your life has not been especially fortunate.

You’re using past tense, you say. Is that because I’m technically dead?

I’m sorry?

You didn’t say, your life will not be especially fortunate, but that it has not been.

The girl blushes. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that your life is over. You don’t act old.

You are puzzled. Why should I? you ask.

You’re right, I’m stereotyping. Blame it on the beer.

But how old do you think I am? you ask.

Oh, I’m terrible at this. Don’t ask me.

I would guess we’re about the same age. Or that I’m slightly younger.

The girl smiles. I deserved that. You know, I took that Internet test, the one that is supposed to tell you your real age, and I scored sixteen. All my friends scored older—thirty, thirty-two. Jim here is an old soul. His real age is thirty-five, according to the test. In actual years, he’s only twenty-four, of course.

I’m eighteen, you say.

Good for you! Forever young!

Not forever, you say. Although it certainly seems that way sometimes.

If I were really thirty-five, I’d want to slit my wrists, says the young man.