Turn of Mind - Alice LaPlante [92]
You gulp it down. You hadn’t realized how thirsty you were. The woman notices the bottle is now empty, takes it from your hand, and offers you the other one. You are grateful. Your legs and feet ache, so you slip off your shoes, wiggle your toes. A long day of surgery, of holding steady, of not allowing your attention to flag.
The woman settles herself on the opposite side of the desk. Do you remember anything at all of the last thirty-six hours?
I’ve been at work. First surgery, then on call. A busy week. I’ve been on my feet for fourteen hours a day.
You bend your knees and lift up your feet as though presenting evidence. She doesn’t look at them. She is intent on what she is saying.
I think you’ve been at the New Hope Clinic since this morning. But before that you were having quite an adventure.
You’re not making much sense, you say. But then you realize that nothing much does. Why are you sitting here with a stranger, wearing clothes not your own?
You look down at your feet and realize even the shoes are not yours: They are too wide and the wrong color: red. You never wore anything but sneakers and plain black pumps. Still, you slip them back on, struggle to stand up, fight the comfort of having firm wood support your thighs and buttocks.
It is time to go. Home again, home again, jiggity jig. You have a vision of a train speeding past a small plot of parched earth, of a clothesline strung between wooden poles from which hang a man’s trousers, a woman’s housedress, and some frilly dresses that belong to a young girl.
A tall dark man, a sweet melancholy face, kneeling by your side as you dig a hole in the dirt. He puts his hand in his pocket, brings out a fistful of coins, opens his hand, and lets them fall into the hole. Then he helps you push dirt over them, pat it down so there’s no trace.
Buried treasure! he says, and laugh lines appear around his eyes. But you know what you need? he asks. A map. To remind you, so you can retrieve the treasure when you need it. I won’t forget, you say, I never forget anything, and this time he laughs out loud. We’ll come back in a year and see if you can find it, he says. But you never did.
It’s time, you say, and begin to push yourself up.
The woman leans over, puts a hand on your arm, and gently but firmly pulls you back to a sitting position. You went away for a minute, she says.
I was remembering my father, you say.
Good memories?
Always.
That’s something to be grateful for. She sits for a moment, motionless, then shakes her head.
There was a disturbance at your old residence last night. A neighbor reported an attempted break-in. Was that you?
You lift up your hands, shrug.
If it was you, you weren’t alone; the neighbor saw two and perhaps other people at your former house. By the time we got a car there, everyone was gone.
There is a burst of music. A sort of cha-cha. The woman gets up and retrieves a small metal object from a table, holds it to her ear, listens, says some words. She looks at you, and says something else. Then puts down the device.
That was Fiona, she says. She’s on her way.
Who’s Fiona? you ask. The visions come and go. You would prefer them to come and stay, to linger. You enjoy these visitations. The world would be a barren place indeed without them. But the woman isn’t listening. Suddenly she leans forward. She is focusing everything on you. She vanquishes the last remnants of your vision with her gaze.
It’s time for the truth, she said. Why did you do it?
Why did I do what? you ask.
Cut off her fingers. If I understand that, I can put the rest together. If you killed Amanda, I believe it was for a reason. But I don’t believe you would kill and then maim gratuitously.
Maim. An ugly word, you say.
An ugly business all around.
Some things are necessary.
Tell me why. Why was it necessary? Tell me. This is for me. Once I take you in, once you are committed to the state facility,