Turn of Mind

her. You feel her hand on your shoulder, guiding you. The people part as you walk silently out of the clinic.

You’re in the front seat on the passenger’s side of a small brown car with faded upholstered green-and-cream plaid seats. The seat belt is jammed, so you just hold it across your lap. The woman looks over and smiles. Hope we don’t get stopped, she says. That would be something. She puts the car into reverse, backs up, nudges the car behind, then puts the car into first and inches away from the curb.

Your daughter has been worried about you, she says as she pulls out into traffic. It’s now getting into late afternoon, rush hour has started, and Chicago Avenue is clogged in both directions.

Fiona? you ask. Why? She knows where she can find me. I’m here every week.

Nevertheless, the woman says. She is drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. She is in the right lane, behind a red Honda minivan when she puts her blinker on, sharply turns the wheel, and pulls into the left lane. Horns blare.

Are we going to the hospital? you ask. Have I received a page?

The woman shakes her head. No, she says. She picks up a small phone lying next to the gear box. She pushes a button and brings the phone to her ear, waits and then speaks loudly into it. Hello? Fiona? This is Detective Luton. I found your mother. The New Hope Clinic—she was treating patients. I need you to come to the precinct. Call me when you get this.

And she hangs up.

Fiona is in California, you say.

Not anymore, says the woman. Just Hyde Park.

This isn’t the way home, you say.

The woman sighs. We’re not going there. Just to the station. You’ve been there before.

The words make no sense. She is your sister, your long-lost sister. Or your mother. A shape-shifter. Anything is possible.

The woman is still talking. There’s no going back to your former facility. She gives you a quick sideways glance. You’ve deteriorated quite a bit since the last time I saw you.

There is such pity in her voice that you are jolted back into a more solid world. You look around. You’re on the Kennedy now, heading south. This woman drives too fast, but expertly, taking a long off-ramp that swings around to the left and straightens out before passing directly underneath a long stone building spanning the highway. Left, then right, then a glimpse of the lake before a sharp right turn, and down into an underground garage and into a parking stall with a screech. A sudden and absolute silence. A damp smell.

You both sit in the dim light for a moment without speaking. You like it here. It feels safe. You like this woman. Who does she remind you of ? Someone you can depend on. Finally she speaks. This is highly irregular, she says. But I’ve never been one for following the rules. Neither have you, by the sound of things.

She leads the way to the elevator, pushes the up button. Something just wasn’t right about this from the beginning, she says. Nothing fit.

When the elevator comes, she shepherds you inside and punches the number 2. The doors are dented and pocked, and inside it smells of stale smoke. The whole compartment trembles and shakes before slowly beginning its ascent.

When it opens, you blink at the sudden bright light. You are in a long, cream-colored hallway humming with activity. Pipes run across the ceiling and down to the floor. Posters and flyers are tacked to the walls, ignored by the people streaming in both directions down the hall. The woman you’re with starts walking, jingling a ring of keys, and you go on for some time, getting jostled by men and women, some in uniform, some dressed as if for the office, many casually, even sloppily attired. You wonder what you look like in your white doctor’s coat, but no one gives you a glance. The woman finally stops at a door marked 218, inserts a key into the lock, opens the door, and gestures you inside.

Cool gray walls. No window. A gray steel desk, nothing on it except a cylinder holding a number of sharpened pencils and some photographs. The subjects range from faded black-and-white daguerreotypes of grim-looking men and women in clothes from a century ago to contemporary men and women, many of them holding children and many in uniform. No pictures of the woman herself, except one in the exact middle of the collection, of her and another woman, slim, with long ash-blond hair, standing next to each other, their shoulders slightly touching.

Sit down, the woman says. She pulls out a hard wooden chair. She then opens a corner cupboard, pulls out two bottles of water. She hands one to you. Here, drink this.

You gulp it down. You hadn’t realized how thirsty you were. The woman notices the bottle is now empty, takes it from your hand, and offers you the other one. You are grateful. Your legs and feet ache, so you slip off your shoes, wiggle your toes. A long day of surgery, of holding steady, of not allowing your attention to flag.

The woman settles herself on the opposite side of the desk. Do you remember anything at all of the last thirty-six hours?

I’ve been at work. First surgery, then on call. A busy week. I’ve been on my feet for fourteen hours a day.

You bend your knees and lift up your feet as though presenting evidence. She doesn’t look at them. She is intent on what she is saying.

I think you’ve been at the New Hope Clinic since this morning. But before that you were having quite an adventure.

You’re not making much sense, you say. But then you realize that nothing much does. Why are you sitting here with a stranger, wearing clothes not your own?

You look down at your feet and realize even the shoes are not yours: They are too wide and the wrong color: