Turn of Mind - Alice LaPlante [94]
Absolutely not. The young woman almost interrupts, she is so eager to answer. She places her hands in her lap, one on top of the other, like stacking bundles of kindling. Willing them not to move.
Then how did you know to go over there? The older woman’s voice is rising. She is losing control even as the younger woman is regaining it. They are focused entirely on each other. One tamping down emotions, the other escalating them.
I went home to check up on her. I’d been worrying. And I couldn’t sleep that night. I thought I’d spend the night there, give Magdalena a break.
Why didn’t you tell us this?
Because one thing would lead to another and you would ask too many questions.
And so . . . ?
I pulled up into the parking space next to the garage. Behind the house. And saw my mother coming down the alley. She was spattered with blood. All I could get out of her was one word: Amanda. So I took her there. And found her.
Did your mother say why?
She said it was blackmail.
Blackmail?
Yes.
About what?
About me. The circumstances of my birth. That my mother didn’t know who my father was. Not for sure. Amanda was going to tell.
Tell who? Your father was dead. Who else would care?
Me. How ironic. My mother killed to protect me. Or some idea she had about how I wouldn’t be able to handle the truth. Or perhaps it was Amanda pushing things one inch too far.
And so you cleaned it up, the older woman says.
And so I cleaned it all up, says the younger woman. She is even calmer now. Almost relieved.
What did you do with the fingers?
I wrapped them up and tossed them into the Chicago River, off the Kinzie Street Bridge.
You did a good job of it. What about the scalpel?
You mean the scalpel blades? I threw them out with the fingers. I tried to take the scalpel handle, too. But my mother wouldn’t let me. She took it home, along with the unused blades. You know the rest about those.
The older woman has been pacing. Back and forth, between the wall and the desk. Yes, she says. We know the rest. She is now looking at you again. They are both looking at you. You are now visible again. You are not sure that you like that. You felt safer floating in the ether.
But the fingers, says the older woman, suddenly. What about the fingers?
The younger woman shudders. She turns away from you, as if she can’t bear what she sees. She answers the older woman without looking at her, either.
I don’t know, she says. I haven’t a clue about that. It was just the way Amanda was when I found her.
The older woman is quiet for a moment. Then she comes over, sits down next to you, and takes your hand.
Were you able to follow this, Dr. White?
There are pictures in my head, you say. Not gentle visitations. The other kind.
Is that the way it happened?
A horrifying tableau.
Yes. Indeed it was. Can you tell us now why you dismembered her hand?
She had something I needed. She wouldn’t give it up.
The woman is suddenly alert, her hand reaching out and taking hold of your arm. What did you say? she asks in a soft voice that belies the strength of her grip. What did she have?
The medal.
The medal? The older woman is not expecting this. The Saint Christopher medal?
The young woman sits up. She has a look on her face.
Mom.
You wave her away.
Amanda had the medal. She wouldn’t give it up, you say.
But I don’t understand. Why would she have your medal?
Mom . . .
There are voices outside the door, a shadow in the smoked glass at the top half of it. Then a loud knock—rat-tat-tat-tat. The woman gets out of the chair and reaches the door just as it is opening. She stops it with her foot, not letting whoever it is step inside. She speaks a few quiet words, then shuts and locks the door before sitting down again.
You were saying, she says. About the medal.
You do not know what she is talking about. The medal, you repeat.
Yes, the medal. She sounds frustrated. You were about to tell me about the medal. About Amanda and the medal. What did