Turn of Mind - Alice LaPlante [87]
That’s different, you said.
How?
You spoke slowly, trying to work it out.
It requires the best of you, you said. Something unique. Not just anyone can perform a transfer of an intercostal nerve into the musculocutaneous nerve to restore biceps function. Or an open carpal tunnel release, for that matter. Even other specialists mess those up. Yet a child can love anyone. Children do love the most horrible, depraved people. They attach to warm bodies. Familiar faces. Sources of food. To be valued for such base requirements doesn’t interest me.
You’ll change your mind when you have the baby. I’ve seen it happen time and time again.
So people say. My anticipation is that I will hand it over to James and let him deal with it.
You interest me. Not many people would think this way, much less say so.
I usually say what I think.
Yes. I see that. And I suspect you don’t have much patience for people who don’t.
You’re right. Not much.
Then suddenly your memory skips ahead to the birth, which was three weeks early. There were some problems with Mark’s lungs. He came out furry, covered with lanugo. A small, red wheezing creature. He was your patient before he was your child, which helped the transition.
Naturally you breast-fed him, because of the antibodies. Did your duty in that regard, despite the inconvenience and pain. You didn’t like being sucked dry multiple times a day, and the thought of it distressed you more than you expected.
You weaned him at three months and resumed your professional life once you no longer leaked milk at the slightest provocation. You hired Ana at that point—Ana who did all the things a good mother would do. You were not a good mother. And yet Mark clung to you. And, six years later, Fiona did the same. By then Amanda had stopped trying to conceive, even she admitted it was pointless.
When was the last time you saw Amanda? You cannot recall. You accept that she is gone. They are all leaving, every one of them. James. Peter. Even the children. A diaspora. But you are somehow drawing strength from that. With each loss, you are stronger, you are more yourself. Like a rosebush being pruned of extraneous branches so the blossoms will be larger and healthier next season. Sheared of this excess, what will you not be capable of ?
You have a vision: Amanda, here, on the floor, her heart violated, her eyes still open. You always thought the practice of closing the eyes of the deceased a silly one. It’s for the living, of course, who would like the dead to behave, to have death approximate sleep. But there is no repose for Amanda. She’s on her back, her hands clenched as if about to engage in battle. Her legs akimbo. Are you making this up? Because there are others in the room, shadows are flickering. Words are being spoken. Must you do this? Yes, I must. Quickly then.
Your mind is full of other fantastic images, some in lurid color, some in black-and-white. It is like watching a compilation of movie clips filmed by a lunatic. A heap of harvested hands on the white sands of a turquoise sea. Your parents’ house in Philadelphia, engulfed in flames. I am very far gone indeed. Here. So it was here. You can see the remains of the yellow chalk mark mixed with dust. What Amanda could never have abided.
Your filthy bare feet leave footprints. Shoes. You need shoes. Amanda was taller and heavier than you, but you wore the same shoe size. Eleven. Wearing boxes without topses.
You take the stairs to her room and find a severe blue dress with a belt and a pair of black flats. You try to wash your face, but the water has been turned off, so you spit upon a towel and scrub at the worst of the dirt. Then you lie down on Amanda’s bed.
But before you sleep, Peter visits. He stands by the window, blocking the moonlight. What did you do? he asks. Why did you do it? He has been digging in the garden. His knees are black with wet earth. He is holding one of Fiona’s most brightly colored snails in his palm. In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till