Turn of Mind by Alice Laplante Page A

nightgown, pull down my pants. Let go. Spatter my bare ankles, my feet. No matter.
    The relief ! Now I can sleep. Now I can go to sleep. I lie down where I am. There is softness under me, not a bed but acceptable. I hug my body for warmth. If I lie here, still, I will be safe. If I revel in my chains I will be free.

    Inside is not safe. Too dark, and the house breathes. It breathes, and strangers appear and touch you. Tug at your clothes. Force open your mouth and fill it with foul pills. Out here it is brighter, the moon and the streetlights conjoining to cast a soothing aura over the sidewalks, the gardens just awakening from the winter.
    Everything is where it should be. Even the squat object made of metal and painted bright red is a beautiful sight. It has always been there, in front of the house. It will always be there. There may be things lurking in the shadows, but they come in peace. They let me sit here, unmolested, on this patch of grass.
    I can look to the right and see the church at the end of the block. To the left, the Bright and Easy Laundry. And upward, the stars. Bright pinpricks, most staying in their places, but others blinking, transmitting signals as they crawl across the vast darkness.
    If only I could interpret this message. I want my friend. She would understand. She is safety. She is comfort. Her features remain constant, her voice does not rise or get loud. She does not reach for the phone. She does not make me drink tea, swallow small round bitter objects. I’m walking now. I’m opening the gate. Down three houses. I count carefully. Three is the magic number, my friend says.
    That gate sticks, but I get it open. The brick path is uneven, so I proceed carefully to the white stone statue of the laughing Buddha that presides over the front garden. Buddha holds the key , my friend says. And you know you are always welcome, day or night.
    I take the key from under the Buddha’s rotund cheeks and let myself in. I will find my friend. She will explain everything. She knows everything. She knows it all.

    It is apparently my birthday today. May 22. Magdalena did the math for me: I’m sixty-five. Fiona and Mark are taking me out to dinner at Le Titi. In the afternoon, my old assistant Sarah stopped by. Remarkable for her to remember. I wouldn’t know her birthday under the best of circumstances. Even in my prime. I wouldn’t even have asked. Sarah presented me with a gift from the hospital: a three-foot-tall statue of Saint Rita of Cascia. Eighteenth century. A beauty.
    You share a birthday, Sarah said.
    Technically, the day of her death and of my birth are the same, yes. But we share more than that.
    That’s right—you were often called the doctor of last resort.
    You’re up on your hagiography.
    A natural result of working for you for more than fifteen years. Anyway, everyone felt cheated by not being able to give you a retirement party. You left so suddenly. So we all put our heads together. Here. Here’s the card.
    I’m honored.
    And I was. Extraordinarily touched.
    We all felt the same. It was an honor working with you.
    I reached out and touched the statue, traced the gilt crown, the lines of the robe from her shoulders to the floor.
    Sarah pointed to the statue. Why does she have a cut in the middle of her forehead?
    According to the Saint Rita legend, she asked God to let her suffer the same way he did, and a thorn fell off a crucifix that was hanging on the wall and wounded her.
    What about the rose she’s carrying?
    When she was dying, her cousin asked if there was anything she wanted. She requested a rose from her garden. Even though it was winter, a rose was blooming there.
    I just love these old legends, don’t you?
    Some are more interesting than others. I don’t find Rita’s story particularly compelling. The cruel father, the drunken husband, the disobedient sons. Trite stuff. I like the idea that there’s someone you can go to