Turn of Mind - Alice LaPlante [19]
Amanda has always called me shameless. She means it as a compliment. Shame-less. Without shame. I used to lie to the priests when saying confession because I could never think of things I should be asking forgiveness for. People who take this to an extreme are called sociopaths, Amanda tells me. You have certain tendencies. You should watch them.
Bless me Father for I have sinned.
It has been forty-six years since my last confession.
My how time flies.
This always happens. I wake early, hoping to get some work done before the children start clamoring for their breakfast, but someone is up even earlier. That blond woman. Damn. Only this time she’s not alone. Another woman is with her, drinking coffee out of my favorite cup. Large bones. Short light brown hair, tucked behind her ears. Wearing a denim jacket on top of faded jeans, cowboy boots.
Jennifer! What have you done . . . ?
I beg your pardon? I ask, but the blond woman has already left the room. She returns immediately with a blue towel and places it around my shoulders. She puts her arm around mine, turns me around, takes me away from the kitchen.
I notice that I am oddly cold, that rivulets of water are dripping from my nightgown onto the wood floors, that I can see my wet footprints on the polished oak. The blond woman talks at me as she leads me upstairs.
What a morning to pull this stunt. What timing. Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I write it down in your notebook? Didn’t we talk about it last night? I swear, sometimes I feel like I’m the one going nuts in this house.
She takes off my wet things, towels me down, dresses me in a blue skirt and a blue-and-red striped sweater, talking the whole time.
Now, behave. Just answer the questions. Keep calm. No acting up. This is just an informal visit. Very friendly. There’s no need to worry. No need to bother Fiona or that lawyer she’s got. It’s not that kind of thing, not at all. Just a few questions and off she’ll go.
The world is subdued today. Like I am behind a veil, looking out. The colors pastel and faded, my senses dulled. My vision slightly obscured by the veil. It’s not unpleasant. But it can be dangerous. You think that you are hidden from them, behind your veil, and suddenly you realize that you’ve been visible the whole time. Exposed.
It’s not that you did anything you are ashamed of. Or that you would change what you did. It’s just the thought of what you might have said or done. The breathtaking risk you’ve just taken. Now I am sitting at the kitchen table, facing the strange woman. My jaw feels wired shut. I have no energy to open it. I can barely keep my eyes open. Sleep. Sleep.
I remember turning on the shower. I remember soaping up my arms and my legs. I remember thinking that my nightdress was getting in the way. But I didn’t put it all together. Too slow. Too uncaring.
The woman is asking me questions. I’m finding it hard to pay attention.
Where were you again the week of February sixteen?
Here. I’m always here.
On February fifteen and February sixteen in particular? You were here? You didn’t leave the house?
I exert myself, reach out, and pick up my notebook. I leaf through the pages. February 13. February 14. February 18.
The blond woman interrupts.
We try to document as many of her days as possible. She likes to read over them when she’s feeling a bit down, when she’s having a bad time of it. But I guess we missed that day. Still, if anything out of the ordinary had happened, I would have made a point of writing it down. Her daughter insists upon it.
The brown-haired woman reaches out and takes the book from me. She carefully turns the pages.
I see she wandered from home several times in January.
Yes, she does that occasionally. I watch her, but sometimes she does get away.
Did that happen in mid-February?
No, not in February. Honestly, it’s a very rare occurrence.
She was seen by Helen Tighe, from Twenty-one Fifty-six, letting herself into Amanda O’Toole’s home on February fifteen. Was