Turn of Mind - Alice LaPlante [63]
It was an obsession that grew with our means, became an addiction. And sometimes there was the pain of withdrawal. There was that Chagall we saw in a Paris gallery: L’événement. Love and death, love and religion. Our favorite themes. We talked about it for years, I even dreamed about it, became the bride in the chicken’s belly, was seduced by the tunes played by the levitating fiddler, drifted in a glorious world of deep blues and warm reds. So far above us, yet like spoiled children, we longed for it.
They tried, of course, to conceive, Peter and Amanda. My guess is that no egg was tough enough to implant itself into her impenetrable womb. For she was hard through and through. A tough old bird, I overheard a neighbor say at a party. A prize bitch, was the response. But not always. No. There was how she treated Fiona. She took her role as Fiona’s godmother seriously. Even though it started as a joke.
Fiona was never baptized, we had no intention of ever doing such a thing, heathens that we were. Yet the day after I brought Fiona home, and Amanda and Peter came over with a bottle of champagne, I announced that I wanted Amanda to be Fiona’s godmother.
A fairy godmother? Peter had teased.
I dipped my fingers into my champagne glass and sprinkled some of the bubbles onto Fiona’s tiny wrinkled red forehead. She awoke and let out a piteous wail.
Amanda was taken aback by these developments.
And what if my christening gift turns out to be a curse? She did an imitation. On your sixteenth birthday, you will prick your finger . . .
We all laughed. No, give her a real blessing, James urged.
Well then, Amanda said, and cleared her throat. Became solemn, to all of our surprise. Serious she was frequently; solemn, never.
Fiona Sarah White McLennan. You will inherit the many strengths of both your mothers, she said. Both your birth mother—she raised her glass to me—and your godmother. Here she toasted herself, took a sip. And you will have the love and support of both of us no matter what happens. Nothing except death can or will separate us from you. Never forget that.
For good measure, Amanda threw another sprinkle of champagne on Fiona.
And now comes one of those moments. A shift in perception, a wave of dizziness, and an awareness. It comes to me. What Fiona was going through. Amanda already gone. Me slipping away. Every day a little death. Fiona at three days old being told she could never separate, that she would always remember. A curse indeed.
A red-haired woman sits opposite me. She knows me, she says. Her face is familiar. But no name. She tells me but it evaporates.
How are you? she asks.
Well, I don’t tell many people this, I say, but my memory is shot.
Really? That’s terrible.
Yes, it is, I say.
So I’m curious, the woman says. What do you remember about me?
I look at her. I feel I should know her. But there is something wrong.
I’m Magdalena, she says. I changed my hair color. Just felt like it. But it’s still me. She tugged at her hair. Now do you remember?
I try. I stare at her face. She has brown eyes. A young woman. Or youngish. Past child-bearing age, but not like me yet. A melancholy face. I shake my head.
Good, she says.
That surprises me. Pleasantly. Most people are distressed or get angry. Aggrieved.
I need an ear, the woman says. I want to say something, and then I want it to vanish. A kind of confession. But I don’t want it in anyone’s brain, even if they are sworn to secrecy. And I don’t want a traditional confession, to do penance for it, because I’ve already finished with that. No one has suffered more for this than I have. And I don’t even have to ask you not to tell it. That’s the beauty of it all.
I have no objections. It is a sleepy heavy day. The kids are at school. I don’t have any surgeries scheduled. I nod to continue.
She takes a deep breath. I sold drugs. To kids. I took my grandchildren