Turn of Mind - Alice LaPlante [44]
They arrived home, unpacked the car. The women kissed each other, kissed each other’s husbands. The husbands shook hands. They went into their respective houses. And continued as if nothing had happened.
So your marriage wasn’t over, says Magdalena. It is not a question.
Peter speaks.
It may have suffered a temporary hiccup. But no one moved out. No one served papers. The younger man and woman continued to exhibit the same respectful camaraderie. If it was an act, they performed it well. No one ever saw a crack in it.
What happened to the money? I take it that the . . . theft . . . or whatever it was, stopped, asks Magdalena.
Yes. There was never any scandal, no trial, no prison. But the couple ceased going on expensive trips, buying costly furnishings, rugs, artwork. Still, they continued to live seemingly happy lives.
And what about the two women? asks Magdalena.
The same. It was as if the day had never happened. As if a group memory had been erased. A folie en quatre dissipated.
The bearded man speaks up. And you remember, he says to me. Of all things, this story survives. He sighs heavily. It’d be best if this conversation hadn’t taken place, he says.
He gets up to leave, and something about the way he stands, favoring his right leg, causes something to spark. You’re Peter, I say.
He sits down again. That’s right, he says. That’s right. He smiles. It is a lovely smile.
Peter! My dear, dear friend! I lean over and hug him. No, hold him. I have trouble letting go.
It’s been years! I say. What made you stay away so long?
Actually, it’s been just eighteen months since I left. But it’s seemed like a long time. I didn’t have much reason to come back here. Not until . . . recent events.
You mean Amanda being murdered?
He gives a short laugh. Yes, that.
How are you holding up?
Not great. Thanks for asking. It’s funny—well, not funny, but naive—for people to think that just because there’s been a split all emotional connection is broken.
I know. I saw it all the time at the hospital. The divorced couples had the most touching scenes in the recovery room.
Magdalena touches my arm. I flinch and draw away. It’s time to get dressed, she says.
I look down and realize I am still in my nightgown. I blush. Of course, I say. I’ll be right down.
But something happens. At the top of the stairs I lose my bearings. There was an idea in the back of my mind. Some intent. Now gone. Just a dim hallway, lit only by light coming from open doors.
Through them I glimpse neatly made beds, sun streaming through windows. I feel a vein throbbing in my neck. I cannot get enough air. I reach my arms out straight, touch a wall, make contact with a rectangular plastic plate. I know this. The light switch. I flick it on. Royal blue walls. Photographs of smiling people. How can so many people be so happy all the time?
I flip down the switch, plunge everything into shadow. Up, illumination, down, despair. Up down. The satisfying, familiar click. I know what this is. I know what it does. My body begins to feel comfortable again, my breathing evens out. I continue what I’m doing until the blond woman comes and leads me away.
Some things do stick. I do what my neurologist friend Carl suggests and scan my memory. Just see what pops up, he says. See where it leads you. Exercise those neurons.
Surprising things. Not what I expected. No weddings, no funerals. No births, no deaths. Small moments. My cat, Binky, up a tree when I was five. A pair of my underwear blowing off the clothesline in the wind and into Billy Plenner’s yard next door when I was in seventh grade— something that he never let me forget. Finding a five-dollar bill on the floor of the roller-skating rink and feeling rich. Rolling in the grass in Lincoln Park with Fiona, nine years old.
The day after my fiftieth birthday, after a party James had thrown for me. Wondering if things were shredded for good this time.
It had been an evening of joy. People crowded in the living room, over-flowing