Turn of Mind - Alice LaPlante [48]
The girl reaches out and takes my other hand. This is not comforting, this is awkward, having both my hands held captive by these nameless people. I disengage from both, place my hands safely in my lap.
That must be very scary for you, the girl says.
The boy gives me a half smile. You’re a tough old bird, he says. You’re going to wrestle this disease to the ground and break its arm before it takes you.
You don’t seem surprised.
No, says the girl.
You’ve noticed?
A little hard not to! says the boy.
Shh! says the girl. Actually, this kind of brings us to why we came here today, Mom.
Not only are we not surprised, says the boy, in fact it’s gotten so bad that it’s time to make a change. Sell the house. Move into a more . . . suitable . . . living situation.
What do you mean, sell the house? I ask. This is my home. This will always be my home. When I walked into it twenty-nine years ago— pregnant with you, by the way—I said, at last I found the place I can die in. Just because I mislay my keys every once in a while . . .
It’s not just the keys, Mom, says the boy. It’s the agitation. The aggression. The wandering. Your inability to use the bathroom, take care of basic sanitary needs. Refusing your medications. It’s too much for Magdalena.
Who is Magdalena?
Magdalena. Right here. See? You don’t even remember the woman who lives with you. Who takes care of you. Wonderful care. You don’t even remember that Dad is dead.
Your father is not dead! He’s just at work. He’ll be home—what time is it?—very shortly.
The boy turns to the girl. What’s the use? Let’s just do what we planned. We have all the documentation we need. It’s the right thing. You know it is. We’ve considered all the options—including you moving in here to help Magdalena. That idea was lunacy.
The girl nods slowly.
We could have a trained nurse. Start using the locks we installed on the doors. But that upset her so much, it did more harm than good. And she’s deteriorating so fast. It’s just not safe for her to be in anything but a closely controlled environment.
The girl does not answer. The blond woman abruptly gets up and leaves the room. Neither the girl nor boy seems to notice.
I don’t understand the boy’s words, so I concentrate on his expression. Is he friend or foe? I think friend, but I am not certain. I feel uneasy. There is a trace of hostility in his eyes, tenseness in his shoulders, that could be remnants of old injuries, old suspicions.
I am sitting at a table with two young people. They are getting up to leave. The girl had retreated somewhere, was no longer mentally present. Then she suddenly comes back.
Mom, I hope you’ll forgive us. There are tears in her eyes.
Fiona, she won’t even remember. This conversation was pointless. I told you that.
The girl is pulling on her sweater, wiping her eyes. And then there’s Magdalena. She’s been so important to us over the eight months. That is hard, too.
The boy shrugs. She’s an employee. It was a business relationship. A quid pro quo.
Ass, says the girl. Then a pause. I’m still glad we came, she says. Funny, I never knew how she felt when she realized what was happening to her. How she figured it out. That part was always a mystery.
Well, she’s never exactly been one for sharing feelings.
No, but I feel . . . honored somehow.
She has squatted down beside my chair.
Mom, I know you’ve checked out. I know you won’t remember this. And it’s all so very sad. But there have been moments of grace. This was one of them. I thank you for that. Whatever happens, know that I love you.
I’ve been listening to the rise and fall of her soft voice, paying attention to the cadence. Wondering who she is. This brightly colored bird in my kitchen. This beautiful girl with the face of an angel who is leaning over to brush her lips against my hair.
The boy is looking amused. You’ve always been sentimental, he says.
And you’ve always been an ass.
She gives him a little push as they walk toward the door. The end of an epoch, I hear the boy say as he closes it behind him.
The end, I echo, and the