Turn of Mind - Alice LaPlante [81]
Cri Du Chat? Cry of the cat? the young man asks.
Yes, because babies born with this defect mew like cats. They are usually severely mentally impaired. Then there’s Jacobsen Syndrome. Also diagnosable by the hands.Very similar to Down.
Are there any happy diagnoses you can make with the palm? Annette likes telling people they have long lives and will come into riches some day.
Unfortunately, most of the deviations from the normal in hand characteristics point to problems, often severe ones. But one researcher claims to have found a strong correlation between different ratios of finger lengths and exceptional musical ability. You pause. Of course, that’s just statistically speaking. Look. You hold out your right hand. See how my index finger is just as long as my middle finger? That’s statistically abnormal. Yet I don’t have any genetic defect that I know of.
Let me see your hand, the girl says, somewhat abruptly. You hesitate, then let her take it. She leans over your palm, frowning.
How’s my life line? you ask.
Oh, no one believes that one anymore. Good thing, too. According to your life line, you had a very short life. You’re dead, technically. But otherwise, you are intellectual rather than materialistic. You have the power to manipulate, but you choose not to exercise it. And your life has not been especially fortunate.
You’re using past tense, you say. Is that because I’m technically dead?
I’m sorry?
You didn’t say, your life will not be especially fortunate, but that it has not been.
The girl blushes. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that your life is over. You don’t act old.
You are puzzled. Why should I? you ask.
You’re right, I’m stereotyping. Blame it on the beer.
But how old do you think I am? you ask.
Oh, I’m terrible at this. Don’t ask me.
I would guess we’re about the same age. Or that I’m slightly younger.
The girl smiles. I deserved that. You know, I took that Internet test, the one that is supposed to tell you your real age, and I scored sixteen. All my friends scored older—thirty, thirty-two. Jim here is an old soul. His real age is thirty-five, according to the test. In actual years, he’s only twenty-four, of course.
I’m eighteen, you say.
Good for you! Forever young!
Not forever, you say. Although it certainly seems that way sometimes.
If I were really thirty-five, I’d want to slit my wrists, says the young man.
The girl rolls her eyes. Here he goes again, she says.
Why on earth? you ask.
I mean, if I were thirty-five and were in the position I am now. Stupid job. Not getting on with anything. Not having written my novel. Things like that.
Are you working on a novel? you ask. It seems like this is information that a lot of people divulge in bars, on examining tables.
No. That’s the point. Here I am, still in my twenties, so I have an excuse. But at thirty-five you don’t have any more. Excuses, I mean.
You’d be surprised, you say. Mark will have plenty of excuses when he’s that age. Just wait and see.
Who is Mark?
You are confused. Who is he?
Just someone I know, you say. I think he might be my nephew.
You think? The girl starts to laugh and then looks at your face and stops.
An image rises up in front of you. A distraught face. Slight shoulders shaking. Someone in deep distress. Her face is familiar.
Fiona, you say slowly. Fiona is someone else I know, someone I admire very much, who seems to have gotten herself into some trouble. Mark, on the other hand. You pause to think. Mark has always been in trouble.
The girl looks confused. Fiona?
Fiona is someone who always knows exactly what she wants and how to get it, you say slowly. But sometimes that is not the best thing. No.
I find I don’t really like those kind of people very much, the girl says.
No. You would like Fiona.
The girl nods politely. She has lost interest in talking about people she doesn’t know. She whispers something to the young man next to her and he smiles in return.