Turn of Mind - Alice LaPlante [28]
And what should be the punishment for corruption?
She was playing with me, and I knew it. A dangerous game.
As I said, pure corruption is pure evil. Something to be eradicated.
Do you mean it deserves death?
Yes, when it manifests itself in its purest form.
Yet you’re against the death penalty. You’ve marched with me. Held candlelight vigils.
Our courts aren’t the way to adjudicate good and evil.
What is?
Aren’t we getting pretty far from the point? We started out talking about betrayal and trust. And now you’re laughing at me.
Never.
Always.
You’re right. Always.
The memory fades out, like the end of a movie. I can no longer hear Amanda’s voice, but I can see certain words as though they had been written in the air. Respect. Innocence. Death. Clearer than my current reality. I sit in the dark and try not to listen to the house breathe.
James was very angry last night. Someone had been in his sock drawer, taking all his clean pairs, he said. Someone had stolen his favorite comb. Someone had been using his razor. He sounded like Papa Bear. Who’s been eating my porridge? We both knew who, of course. Fiona is thirteen and in a danger zone.
Need. I hate the word. I hate the very idea. Certain needs are unavoidable. I need oxygen. I need nutrients. I need to exercise this vessel, my body. I can accept all these things. But my hunger for companionship, that’s something else altogether. The camaraderie of the OR, of the locker room, of sharing coffee with Amanda at her or my kitchen table.
Since I cannot go out to get this companionship, it is brought to me. I don’t see money exchange hands anymore. That’s done behind my back, a sleight of hands, since I signed my financial power of attorney over to Fiona. We pretend now. We pretend that Magdalena is my friend. That she is here voluntarily, that I invited her into my home.
So here we live, such an odd couple. The woman without a past. And the woman desperately trying to hold on to hers. Magdalena would like a clean slate, while I am mourning the involuntary wiping of mine. Each with needs the other can’t fulfill.
How mortifying to be pregnant at forty. How mortifying not to suspect until a naive coworker congratulates you on your changing shape. But you haven’t had a regular period in your life. It took six years to conceive Mark. You’d given up. Almost agreed to get the dog for James. Never used birth control again. And now this.
How will James react? Will he guess? How will you react when the shock has worn off ? You’re still staring at the white stick with the pink plus sign on the end of it. You’ve just peed onto a stick and changed your life forever.
We are sitting in the living room, Mark, Fiona, and I. I vaguely recall some recent trouble between Mark and Fiona, some estrangement that had distressed Fiona considerably. Mark, as far as I could tell, had been unaffected. But there appears to have been some kind of reconciliation. Mark is lolling on the long leather-cushioned Stickley couch, and Fiona is sitting on the rocker smiling at him, remnants of little-sister adoration shining from her face.
They really thought they had you this time, Mark says. But all the tests they ran were inconclusive. He is fiddling with his watch strap. He does not seem overly concerned. I catch a quick worried frown flash across Fiona’s face.
What are you talking about? I ask. I am irritable. It is not a day when I feel especially maternal. I have paperwork to complete, and I am more tired than I like to admit. A cup of coffee and a retreat to my office is what I really want, not making small talk with these young people, however closely we are related.
Never mind, Fiona says quickly, and so I don’t. Instead I look at my watch. I notice that Fiona notices, and the frown briefly reappears, but that Mark is now staring at my Calder, hanging in its usual place above the piano.
Where is your father? I ask. He’ll be sorry he missed you. I begin to rise, it is my way of ending the session, which feels strangely like they are deliberately wasting my time,