sure. Amanda was going to tell.
Tell who? Your father was dead. Who else would care?
Me. How ironic. My mother killed to protect me. Or some idea she had about how I wouldn’t be able to handle the truth. Or perhaps it was Amanda pushing things one inch too far.
And so you cleaned it up, the older woman says.
And so I cleaned it all up, says the younger woman. She is even calmer now. Almost relieved.
What did you do with the fingers?
I wrapped them up and tossed them into the Chicago River, off the Kinzie Street Bridge.
You did a good job of it. What about the scalpel?
You mean the scalpel blades? I threw them out with the fingers. I tried to take the scalpel handle, too. But my mother wouldn’t let me. She took it home, along with the unused blades. You know the rest about those.
The older woman has been pacing. Back and forth, between the wall and the desk. Yes, she says. We know the rest. She is now looking at you again. They are both looking at you. You are now visible again. You are not sure that you like that. You felt safer floating in the ether.
But the fingers, says the older woman, suddenly. What about the fingers?
The younger woman shudders. She turns away from you, as if she can’t bear what she sees. She answers the older woman without looking at her, either.
I don’t know, she says. I haven’t a clue about that. It was just the way Amanda was when I found her.
The older woman is quiet for a moment. Then she comes over, sits down next to you, and takes your hand.
Were you able to follow this, Dr. White?
There are pictures in my head, you say. Not gentle visitations. The other kind.
Is that the way it happened?
A horrifying tableau.
Yes. Indeed it was. Can you tell us now why you dismembered her hand?
She had something I needed. She wouldn’t give it up.
The woman is suddenly alert, her hand reaching out and taking hold of your arm. What did you say? she asks in a soft voice that belies the strength of her grip. What did she have?
The medal.
The medal? The older woman is not expecting this. The Saint Christopher medal?
The young woman sits up. She has a look on her face.
Mom.
You wave her away.
Amanda had the medal. She wouldn’t give it up, you say.
But I don’t understand. Why would she have your medal?
Mom . . .
There are voices outside the door, a shadow in the smoked glass at the top half of it. Then a loud knock— rat-tat-tat-tat. The woman gets out of the chair and reaches the door just as it is opening. She stops it with her foot, not letting whoever it is step inside. She speaks a few quiet words, then shuts and locks the door before sitting down again.
You were saying, she says. About the medal.
You do not know what she is talking about. The medal, you repeat.
Yes, the medal. She sounds frustrated. You were about to tell me about the medal. About Amanda and the medal. What did that have to do with the fingers? She gets up again, comes around the desk, reaches out as if to grab your shoulders. To shake it out of you. But what? You are no use to her. You shake your head.
The young woman opens her mouth to talk, hesitates, then speaks up.
Amanda had the medal clutched in her hand. She must have grabbed it from my mother’s neck during the struggle. Then rigor mortis set in.
The older woman backs away from you, faces the younger woman. Her face is a study.
And so she cut open her hand to get it back.
Fiona, you say.
Yes, Mom, I’m here.
