Turn of Mind - Alice LaPlante [9]
Her age: perhaps forty, forty-five. I catch her writing in my notebook. A very good day for Jennifer. A not-so-good day for me. I ask her why, and she shrugs. Her face is haggard, and she has circles under her eyes.
Why should I explain again? she says. You’ll just forget anyhow.
I wonder if she is always this rude. I wonder many things. How long has it been raining? How did my hair get so long? Why does the phone keep ringing, yet never seems to be for me? Magdalena picks it up, and her face closes in secrecy. She whispers into the receiver as if to a secret lover.
I am in the middle of a street. Dirty snow has been pushed to either side, but still treacherous going, I have to tread carefully. There is shouting. Cars everywhere. Horns blaring. Someone grabs my arm, not gently, pulls me faster than my legs want to move, practically hoists me up a curb onto a cement island. I am suddenly surrounded by people. Strangers. From afar a voice calls, a familiar one, and the strangers part like the waters of the Red Sea. Here she comes: bright auburn hair, shivering in a short-sleeved T-shirt that exposes her rattlesnake tattoo.
Wait! I’m her daughter! Please don’t call the police!
She arrives, breathless.
Thank you, thank you. Whoever got her out of the street, thank you. She takes a deep breath. I apologize for the trouble. My mother has dementia. She is forcing out the words, and her thin frame is starting to shiver. It is bitterly cold.
As the crowd begins to disperse, she turns to me.
Mom, please don’t do that! You scared us all.
Where am I?
About two blocks from home. In the middle of one of the busiest intersections in the city.
She pauses. It was my fault, I was putting my bag up in my old bedroom. You know, I’m spending the night again, Magdalena thought it would be nice for you. We got to talking, didn’t notice that you’d wandered off. Where were you going?
To Amanda’s. It’s Friday, isn’t it?
No, actually it’s Wednesday. But I understand. You were trying to find Amanda’s house?
It’s our day.
Yes. I understand. She thinks for a moment, seems to make up her mind. I think we should go to Amanda’s, see if she’s in.
What’s your name?
Fiona. Your daughter.
Yes. Yes, that’s right. I remember now.
Let’s go. Let’s see if we can find Amanda. Look. The light is green now. She is holding my arm and urging me forward with purpose. Although I am at least three inches taller than she is, I have trouble keeping up with her stride. We move past the thrift store, past the El station, around the corner of the church, and suddenly the world tilts into place again. I pause at one house, a brownstone, with a short black iron fence around its yard. A tree stripped of leaves leans over the path to the front steps.
Yes, this is our house. But we’re going to visit Amanda.
I remember, I say. Three houses down. One, two, three.
That’s right. Here we are. Let’s just knock on the door and see if Amanda’s here. If she’s not, we’ll go home and have a cup of tea and do the crossword puzzle. I brought a new book.
Fiona knocks loudly three times. I press on the doorbell. We wait on the porch, but no one comes. No face appears behind the curtains of the living room window. Not that Amanda would ever peer like that. Despite Peter’s admonitions, she always flings open the door without looking. Always ready to face whatever life brings her.
Fiona has her back to the door. Her eyes are closed. Her body is shaking. Whether it’s from the cold or something else I can’t tell. Let’s go, Mom, she says. No one is home.
Strange, I say. Amanda has never missed one of our Fridays.
Mom, please. Her voice is urgent. She pulls me down the steps, so fast I stumble and nearly fall, and pushes me back down the sidewalk. One. Two Three. We are back in front of the brownstone.
Her hand on the gate, she pauses, looks up. Her