Turn of Mind - Alice LaPlante [76]
Dr. White, you were having a dream.
No. I heard the door slam. The footsteps. The figure.
I know. Now time to go back to sleep.
I can’t. I’m up now.
Dr. White, there’s nowhere to go.
I need to walk. If I can’t walk, I will scream. You will regret it.
Okay, okay. No need for that. Just behave yourself. Don’t get me in trouble.
No, I just need to walk. See? Just walk.
And I begin to make my nightly rounds, to walk until my ankles can’t support me any longer.
I sit in the great room, tears streaming down my face. Dog is trying to lick them off, but I push him away. This is what I remember: my son Mark on the table, his chest open. Flatlining. Everyone has left the OR, the lights have been turned off. I can barely see, but I know it’s him. A coronary artery bypass grafting gone awry, a simple procedure, but one I am not qualified to perform. This was not a dream. I have not been asleep. That I have done something terribly, terribly wrong is beyond a doubt. The gallery is full of people, no one I recognize. All sitting in judgment. All in possession of knowledge beyond my reach.
My pills sit untouched on the bedside table. I will not take them. Not today. I want to see clearly. I have a plan. I awoke with it fully formed in my mind. It grows stronger as the day progresses.
At breakfast we are reminded that the Girl Scouts are coming today and we will stuff cambric squares with lavender to make sachets. Your clothes will smell so nice! the gray-haired woman says encouragingly. I am remembering today. I recall Girl Scouts, their fresh faces and forced smiles. How they enunciate. They are at the cruelest age. They do not call Fiona. They do not invite her to their parties. They do not know how much I hate them for this. How I want revenge.
A little later, the painters arrive. Not just a touch-up. All the walls in the great room are being redone, painted the inevitable green. The door opens and closes as they bring in equipment, buckets of paint, tarps. They set up a barrier of tape, wet paint signs hanging from it.
This does not prevent incidents. A new arrival to the floor plunges his cupped hands into a bucket of paint, begins drinking it like water. Attendants run toward him, emitting cries of dismay. There are calls for the doctor, and the man is grabbed by the arms and hustled toward the front desk. I see my chance.
I go to my room. I put on my most comfortable shoes. Is it summer or winter? Hot or cold? I don’t know, so I struggle into an extra shirt just in case. If it is winter it will be hard, but I will make it. I will go home. My mother and father are worried. They always worry.
I wasn’t allowed to have a driver’s license. I had to learn secretly during college. Even though I was still living at home, my boyfriend taught me in the parking lot of St. Pat’s, and took me to the testing facility. When my mother went through my purse looking for contraceptives, she found the license. A greater betrayal, in their eyes, a worse sin against them, such an unexpected rebellion. Honor thy father and mother. I did, I do. I must get back to them. I hurry back to the scene, where the painters are all standing around in confusion. None of them speaks English. They are waiting for something, someone. I edge toward the door, hidden among the workers. There is a banging on the door. An attendant runs over, punches the code, and the door swings open wide, admitting a man dressed in white like the others, except clean, not spattered with paint.
I catch the door with my foot just before it closes. I take one look back. The man in the clean clothes is talking to a tall gray-haired woman, gesturing with his hands. Old people are crowding around them, attendants trying to entice them away. I open the door wider, feel the rush of hot air. I won’t have to worry about frostbite, at least. One more