Turn of Mind

Quickly. Here’s your coat. Yes. Thanks for coming.

Well, I won’t pretend it’s been fun, the man says to me, and turns to go.

Get out!

The blond woman puts up her hand. She moves slowly toward me. No, Jennifer. Put that down. Please put that down. Now, really, did you have to do that?

What has happened. There has been an accident. The phone lies in the hallway amid shattered glass. Cold air sweeps past me, the curtains blow wildly. Outside, a car door slams, an engine starts. I feel alive, vindicated, ready for anything. There’s so much more where this came from. O yes, much much more.

From my notebook:

A good day. Excellent day, my brain mostly clear. I performed a Mini-Cog test on myself. Uncertain of the year, month, and day, but confident of the season. Not sure of my age, but I recognized the woman I saw in the mirror. Still a touch of auburn in the hair, deep brown eyes unfaded, the lines around the eyes and forehead, if not exactly laugh lines, at least indicating a sense of humor.

I know my name: Jennifer White. I know my address: 2153 Sheffield. And spring has arrived. The smell of warm, wet earth, the promise of renewal, of things emerging from a dormant state. I opened the windows and waved at the neighbor across the street, already turning over his raised beds, preparing for the glorious array of angel’s trumpets, blood flowers, blue butterfly bushes.

Went into the kitchen and remembered how to make the strong, bitter coffee I love: how to shake the beans into the grinder, how to sniff the rich scent as the blades slash through the hard shells, how to count the scoops of fragrant deep brown coarse particles into the coffeemaker, how to pour the fresh cold water into the receptacle.

Then Fiona stopped by. Ah, my girl delights me! With her short pixie haircut and upper right arm entwined by a red and blue rattlesnake tattoo. Usually she keeps it hidden, and only a chosen few in her current life know about it, about her wilder days.

She came to collect my financial statements, go over some numbers that I will not understand. No matter. I have my financial genius. My monetary rock. Graduated from high school at sixteen, from college at twenty, and at twenty-four, the youngest female tenure-track professor at the U of C business school. Her area of specialization is international monetary economics—she routinely gets calls from Washington, London, Frankfurt.

After James died, once I was certain of my prognosis, I signed over financial power of attorney. Her I trust. My Fiona. She places paper after paper in front of me, and I sign without reading. I ask her if there is anything I should pay special attention to, and she says no. Today was different, however. She had no papers but just sat at the table with me and held my hand in hers. My remarkable girl.

At our Alzheimer’s support group today, we talk about what we hate. Hate is a powerful emotion, our young leader says. Ask a dementia patient who she loves, and she draws a blank. Ask her who she hates, and the memories come flooding in.

Hatred. Hate. The word resonates. My stomach contracts, and bile rises in my throat. I hate. I find my hands clenched into fists. Faces turn to look at me. Some men, mostly women. A variety of races, of creeds. A United Nations of the despised, of the despicable. I cannot make out their features exactly. An anonymous mob.

It is becoming hard to breathe. What is that noise. Is it me. Who are you staring at.

Our leader is coming over. Our leader is leaving the room, he returns with a youngish woman, bleached blond hair, too much makeup. She comes straight over to me.

Dr. White, the woman says. Jennifer. We’re going home now. Shhh. No yelling. No. Please stop. Stop. You’re hurting me. No, don’t call, I can handle this. Jennifer. Come now. That’s right. We’re going home. Shhh. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s me, look at me. At me, Magdalena. That’s right. We’re going home.

On some days, blessed clarity. Today is one of those days. I walk through the house taking joy in claiming things. My books. My piano, which James played endearingly clumsily. My Calder lithograph, purchased by James for me in London, 1976, its lines as fresh as ever. My artifacts, the seventeenth-century santos and the ex-votos, doubtless stolen from churches, which we bought from roadside peddlers in Jalisco and Monterrey: all the trappings of the devout without the burden of faith. I touch everything, rejoicing in the feel of leather, mahogany, canvas, porcelain, tin.

Magdalena is what I can only describe as sullen. She breaks a plate, curses, sweeps up the pieces, and drops them again while struggling with the lid of the trash can. Her job cannot be fun. I suspect, however, that she needs the money badly. Her car is at least a dozen years old, with dented rear fenders and a cracked windshield.

She dresses simply, in faded blue jeans and a white man’s button-down shirt that hangs over her substantial hips. She bleaches her dark hair, not very competently—you can see the roots. Thick eyeliner and mascara that make her eyes appear small.

Her age: perhaps forty, forty-five. I catch her writing in my notebook. A very good day for Jennifer. A not-so-good day for me. I ask her why, and she shrugs. Her face is haggard, and she has circles under her eyes.

Why should I explain again? she says. You’ll just forget anyhow.

I wonder if she is always this rude. I wonder many things. How long has it been raining? How did my hair get so long? Why does the phone keep ringing, yet never seems to be for me? Magdalena picks it up, and her face closes in secrecy. She whispers into the receiver as if to a secret lover.

I am in the middle of a street. Dirty snow has been pushed to either side, but still treacherous going, I have to