Turn of Mind - Alice LaPlante [37]
Yes, Halloween excites me. That whole time of year, autumn, I find exhilarating. A passionate season. The others are so bland. In the fall, you see opportunities for change. Real change. Possibilities present themselves. None of the renewal and redemption clichés of spring. No. Something darker and more primal and more important than that.
You paced that night until three AM. You certainly were excited. But not in a bad way. It was the first time I saw you do that. Back and forth, all night. I fell asleep in my chair in the living room. You ended up on the couch. Both of us still in our witch costumes.
I always liked dressing up. Giving out the candy. Assuming my proper guise for a night.
Yes, your costume suited you. The white pancake makeup contrasting with the dark-ringed eyes, the long gray-black wig flowing over your shoulders. The fake mole to the right of your mouth drawing attention to those high cheekbones. A peculiar sort of Sleeping Beauty, but nevertheless a beauty. You opened your eyes to find me studying you. Wicked debauchery, you whispered.
Mark’s in a good mood. It doesn’t make this mother’s heart glad. It makes it suspicious. The euphoria. The fast-talking wit. The notable appreciation of the inferior egg salad sandwich Magdalena presented as our lunch. His inability to recognize that the living room curtains are the same shade of glorious red they’ve always been. His wanting a heart-to-heart.
How are you, Mom?
How much do you want? I ask.
He doesn’t hesitate. As much as you can give me.
Is it that bad?
Worse.
You’re being direct for once. Is it because you’re high?
Possibly. I find you hard to take under any other condition.
You’ll have to ask your sister.
What?
I don’t even have a checkbook anymore. Even when I want one. Fiona takes care of everything.
But certainly you can write one check.
I don’t have even one to write. Fiona was very thorough.
But you wrote me a check six months ago.
Yes. I found an old checkbook in my bureau. And as soon as it cleared, Fiona went through all my drawers and confiscated it.
The bitch.
A chip off the old block.
You said it.
He taps his fingers on the table in an almost recognizable rhythm. Dahdah-dah day-day-dah dah-DAH-dah-dahdah.
You’re sharp today.
Yes.
Interesting how it comes and goes.
Interesting isn’t the word I’d use.
We are in the den because the cleaners are here, and they’ve chased us out of the living room and the kitchen, our usual haunts, and we can hear the approaching roar of the vacuum, the rattle of mops and pails as they work their way toward this final room.
I’m curious. Will you even remember this conversation tomorrow? Mark is standing by the television, idly clicking through James’s DVD collection of classic movies. There wasn’t a noir film that James didn’t know by heart.
I may. I may not. It all depends, I say. I watch as Mark pulls out Du rififichez les hommes, rejects it in favor of White Heat.
So I shouldn’t say anything I might regret? He flips open the plastic case, takes out the silver disk, places his finger in the center hole, and spins it around.
It depends on the source of regret. Would you regret it because it was a cruel or otherwise despicable thing to say, or because I would remember you saying it? I ask.
Probably the former. I tend not to have regrets unless there are repercussions. He smiles at this, puts down the DVD on top of the television, and takes a seat opposite me. His jitters seem to be subsiding. How about you? he asks. Any regrets? Although his tone is derisive, I get the feeling he really wants to know.
I was the opposite, I say. I never let the possibility of repercussions influence any decisions I made.
What about your medical decisions? Weren’t you concerned that decisions you made could have certain effects? Like, for instance . . . death? His dark face is exaggeratedly solemn. He is waiting to catch me out in something. I won’t let him.
Those are outcomes. Outcomes