Turn of Mind - Alice LaPlante [30]
Usually she’s very good. It’s just on occasion . . .
Often enough that you have to carry a letter around with you!
Yes, but . . .
Just get her out.
The blond woman is pushing something over my head and down over my hips and then picking up something smaller and balling it up and putting it in her pocket. We leave the store with the cries of children rising over us. But Mommy! Mommy? Mommy, look.
My notebook: Fiona’s handwriting.
Mom, we had a discussion today. It’s one I’ve been wanting to have for years, but the time was never right. I was always afraid. But now things are so different. Even if you get mad, it doesn’t last. Revelations these days are worth shit. We quickly go back to our safe, comfortable roles. It wasn’t always this safe, of course. So it’s still a little scary to initiate a talk.
We started out talking about me at fourteen. Remember? Cantankerous, rebellious, rude. Acting everything that was age-appropriate, in fact. I ran away twice, if you recall. The first time was a fit of pure rage. One minute I was screaming at our nanny at the time—what was her name? Sophia? Daphne?—and I don’t remember anything else until I was at Union Station, trying to buy a ticket for New York. That’s when the cops picked me up. I barely look my age now. I can only imagine what I looked like at fourteen: skinny and knock-kneed with my hair cut like a boy’s and greased to stand up straight. The first of my many piercings in my ears and cheeks. Dressed in all black, of course.
What I would have done in New York is anyone’s guess. I must have had some of my wits about me, because I’d gone through Sophia’s or Daphne or Helga’s wallet and stolen what I thought was a credit card but was really a AAA membership card you’d given her in case her car broke down. Very naive I was. The cops brought me back right after you got home from work. You hadn’t even taken off your coat. And you just coolly accepted the facts the cops told you, didn’t punish me, didn’t bring up the subject ever again, just told me to wash my hands for dinner. I was furious, as you can imagine.
The second time was different. I’d just broken up with Colin. Because of you. I was in a panic. I’d been shown the abyss and wasn’t sure if I had leaped in or been pulled back from the precipice. It was an almost purely physical sensation, because I certainly wasn’t thinking: my heart was racing, I had trouble breathing, and I was even breaking out in odd rashes all over my body. To all of this you seemed oblivious. Just leaving in the morning and coming back at night. Mark was away at college already. Dad was . . . well, who knows where. And I thought I was dying. Everything was getting out of control and I was afraid. So I left again. But I was smarter this time. I packed a bag and went over to Amanda’s, requesting asylum. She was delighted. She had always taken her role of godmother very seriously and had always encouraged me to come to her— especially if I was having trouble with you. You probably wouldn’t be surprised to hear that she reveled in such complaints. I always adored her. I saw her hardness, the way she treated others, the face she showed the world. But I could always overcome those defenses. I took advantage of her, of course. Shamelessly. And that time was no different. I laid my grievances about you at her feet and watched her mind begin to work.
As I told you today, I think now that she’d planned this for years. She’d just been waiting for the right time. She had been watching me and calculating and hoping. Observing me change from an intense but loving child into a total freak with mother issues. Waiting for her chance. She thought she had it that time. We were sitting at her dining room table, and she had this funny look on her face. Funny for Amanda, who is usually so resolute. But I could see her trepidation when she