Turn of Mind - Alice LaPlante [65]
I can more easily tell you about what happened fifty years ago, I say. I struggle out of my bed, holding on to the rails for support. Wrapping my gown around me in some semblance of modesty, I sit myself in the chair he has vacated.
So tell me. Something I don’t know.
And who are you again?
Mark. Your son. Your favorite son.
My favorite?
That was just a joke. Not a lot of competition for that honor.
You do remind me of someone I know.
Glad to hear it.
A boy living in the graduate dorm at Northwestern. Dark like you. Restless like you.
The man stops. I have his attention. Tell me more about him, he says.
Not much to tell, really. A bit of a ladies’ man. More than a little of a pest. Always knocking on my door, trying to entice me to put down my books and come out to play.
Which I am sure you would not do. This was when you were in medical school?
No. Before that. When I still wanted to be a medieval historian. I smiled at my words, so implausible.
What changed your mind? The man has settled down, is leaning against the door frame, his fingers drumming against his chest.
My thesis. The conflict in the medieval medical community between applying traditional folkloric remedies and following the precepts found in Avicenna’s Canon of Medicine.
Whew. Glad I asked.
I had a double undergraduate degree in history and biology. My thesis was a way of combining both my passions. But I fell in love with the Canon. I spent more and more time at the medical school, interviewing professors and students, observing. The dissections especially captivated me. I wanted a scalpel so badly. One of the students noticed. He allowed me to shadow him, took me down into the lab after hours, showed me the procedures he was learning, put the knife in my hand, and guided my first incisions.
Dr. Tsien?
Yes. Carl.
Is that how you met? I never knew.
My first mentor.
I’ve always wanted to know, was there anything between you? Anything romantic, I mean?
No, never. He just recognized a fellow addict. He was the first person I told that I was quitting the PhD program to apply for medical school. My biggest supporter when I chose orthopedic surgery. The medical establishment was not exactly friendly to the idea of a woman in that role.
And what about that guy, that party animal in your dorm? The man is smiling wryly.
Oh. Yes. Him. Another unexpected detour. My life was full of surprises around then. By that I mean I surprised myself. So many about-faces. So many disruptions of well-laid plans.
You and Dad didn’t talk much about your early years. I got the impression that both of you spent them in a bit of a daze. Him in law school, you beginning medical school. And by all accounts completely besotted with each other. Dr. Tsien spoke about it sometimes, with a bit of envy, I always thought.
Yes. It was that.
You don’t seem inclined to talk about it. Neither was Dad.
I’d rather not.
Because . . . ?
Because some things shouldn’t be scrutinized too closely. Some mysteries are only rendered, not solved. We found each other. And never regretted it the way others do their own youthful couplings.
The young man is picking up his soft leather satchel, leaning over me, brushing my cheek with his lips.
Bye, Mom. I’ll see you next week. Probably Tuesday, if work allows.
Yes, definitely a familiar face, one resonating on numerous levels. Later, after dinner, I finally get a name to attach to the face. James! I say, startling the Vietnam vet so that he spills his water into his bread pudding.
It is somewhat later that I realize my icon is missing. I keep my own counsel, for now.
They are telling me something, pointing to their heads. Pointing to my head. Tugging at my hair. I push their hands away.
The hairdresser. The hairdresser is here. It is your turn.
What is a hairdresser, I say.
Just come on, you’ll look and feel so much better!
I allow myself to be pulled to my feet, guided step-by-step down the hall, passing stuffed armchairs positioned strategically in little groups, as if conversing with