Turn of Mind Read Free Page B

gone. A lukewarm cup of tea sits on the table, half drunk.
    I am suddenly very tired. I sit down in front of the tea, push it away, but not before getting a waft of chamomile. So many old wives’ tales about chamomile have proven true. A cure for digestive problems, fever, menstrual cramps, stomachaches, skin infections, and anxiety. And, of course, insomnia.
    A fix for whatever ails you! Magdalena had exclaimed when I told her that. Not really, I said. Not everything.

    We are listening to St. Matthew’s Passion. It is 1988. Solti is at the podium in Orchestra Hall, and the audience is held captive until the cadences resolve. The diminished seventh chords and the disturbing modulations. The suspense barely tolerable. I can feel the warmth of James’s fingers intertwined with mine, his breath warm against my cheek.
    Then suddenly it is a cold winter day. I am alone in my kitchen. I fold my arms on the table and lean my forehead against them. Did I take my pills this morning? How many did I take? How many would it take?
    I am almost to the point. I have almost reached that point. And hear an echo of Bach: Ich bin’s, ich sollte büßen. It is I who should suffer and be bound for hell.
    But not yet. No. Not quite yet. I sit and wait.

    A man has walked into my house without knocking. He says he is my son. Magdalena backs him up, so I acquiesce. But I don’t like this man’s face. I am not ruling out the possibility that they are telling me the truth—but I will play it safe. Not commit.
    What I do see: a stranger, a very beautiful stranger. Dark. Dark hair, dark eyes, a dark aura, if I may be so fanciful. He tells me he is unmarried, twenty-nine years old, a lawyer. Like your father! I say, cunningly. His darkness comes alive, he glowers—there is no other word for it.
    Not at all, he says. Not in the slightest. I cannot hope to fill those mighty McLennan shoes. Give counsel to the mighty and count the golden coin of the realm. And he gives a mock half bow to the portrait of the lean, dark man that hangs in the living room. Why didn’t you give me your name, Mom? The shoes would have been just as large but of a different shape altogether.
    Enough! I say sharply—for I remember my son now. He is seven years old. He has just run into the room, his hands clutching at his thighs, a glorious look on his face. Water spattering everywhere. I discover his front pockets are full of his sister’s goldfish. They are still wiggling. He is astonished at my anger.
    We save some of them, but most are limp cold bodies to be flushed down the toilet. His rapture is not dimmed, he stares fascinated as the last of the red gold tails gets sucked out of sight. Even when his sister discovers her loss he is unrepentant. No. More than that. Proud. Perpetrator of a dozen tiny slaughters on an otherwise quiet Tuesday afternoon.
    This-man-who-they-say-is-my-son settles himself in the blue armchair near the window in the living room. He loosens his tie, stretches out his legs, makes himself at home.
    Magdalena tells me you’ve been well, he says.
    Very, I say, stiffly. As well as a person in my condition can be.
    Tell me about that, he says.
    About what? I ask.
    About how aware you are of what’s happening to you.
    Everyone asks that, I say. They are astonished that I can be so aware, so very . . .
    Clinical , he says.
    Yes.
    You always were , he says. He has a wry smile, not unappealing. When I broke my arm, you were more interested in my bone density than in getting me to the hospital.
    I remember someone breaking his arm, I say. Mark. It was Mark. Mark fell out of the maple tree in front of the Janeckis’.
    I’m Mark.
    You? Mark?
    Yes. Your son.
    I have a son?
    Yes. Mark. Me.
    I have a son! I am struck dumb. I have a son! I am filled with ecstasy. Joy!
    Mom, please, don’t . . .
    But I am overwhelmed. All these years! I had a son and never knew it!
    The man is now kneeling at my feet,