World of Glass

by Jocelyne Dubois

  There are no activities organized for the patients. I spend my days thinking about how to improve the hospital. A bit of paint for the walls would brighten up the rooms and it wouldn’t cost all that much. I think about how helpful a slow movement class first thing in the morning would be to start the patients’ day. They would have more energy and focus. They could run a fundraising campaign and have people donate prints for the walls, brighten up the dull rooms.

  “Your mother called,” Don the nurse says. “She asked if you were overmedicated.” For some reason, they won’t allow me to speak to her. They choose who I can talk to.

  Justin phones from Toronto. A nurse calls me into the nurse’s quarters. I pick up the receiver. She stands inches away from me, and listens to every word I say. She is scribbling on a sheet of lined paper.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi, it’s Justin. Are they treating you well?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Write everything down.”

  “When will you visit Montréal?” The nurse nudges me and says, “That’s enough.” Isn’t it healthy for a patient to have contact with friends from the outside world? I ask myself.

  “Got to go,” I say to Justin.

  “So soon?”

  “The nurse has ordered me to get off the phone.” A hand clutches the receiver and pulls it away from my ear. “You can go,” she says.

  I sit in a chair in my room by the window. I see a parking lot, a picnic table under a tree. I am calm. Dr. Killer comes in and sits on my bed.

  “You wouldn’t live in the same place with the Inuit girl or Henry, would you?”

  “Yes, I would. I’d probably take care of Henry,” I say. Dr. Killer gets up. He leaves a black leather briefcase behind. I open it. It is empty, except for a sandwich and a ski magazine. I close the bag and take it to the nurses’ quarters.

  “Dr. Killer forgot his bag in my room. Please give it back to him.”

  Today, I am told that I can leave. Don, the nurse, shouts, “I hope I never see you here again!” I kiss the aboriginal girl goodbye.

  “Do you have a quarter?” she asks. I give her fifty cents. I ask an orderly for my street clothes. He takes me into a back room filled with huge stuffed garbage bags.

  “Find your things,” he says. I spend an hour going through bags looking for my grey sweater, black jeans, beige pumps. Finally I find them. I take the bag to the washroom, change and call Mark.

  “Can you pick me up? I’ve been released.” I kiss Henry goodbye. He rubs his cheeks as if I had left lipstick on him. I wait in a plastic chair for Mark. My books, magazines and paper in a Concordia Bookstore bag. Then I remember I don’t have my Medicare card. I go to the nurses’ quarters, politely ask them for my card. I put it in my wallet. A $50 bill is still in my wallet. A woman in her fifties with no teeth smiles and brings me coffee. She tries to sell me her gold earrings for $20.

  “No thanks.”

  “How about my rings then?”

  I sip the coffee black. Mark opens the door. He’s here to pick me up in his Communauto. He wraps his arm around me and escorts me to the parking lot filled with Porshes and BMW’s. We drive back to our apartment in silence. Then he says, “At first, I was relieved, bummed out. But then I started to miss you. How are you?”

  “I’m glad to be back.” My body feels fragile. My legs wobble like jelly, exhausted from the hospital, but I am clear-headed.

  “I hope we can make it together,” Mark says.

  “I’ll do everything in my power to make this happen,” I say.

  CHAPTER VI

  MARK HAS KEPT OUR place tidy while I was away. Plants have been watered. Cat fed. It feels good to be home. Mark goes to the corner store to buy milk and chocolates. I sit in a plastic chair on our front balcony and my eyes follow him along the sidewalk until he disappears around the corner. I clip my fingernails and breathe in the wind. Our neighbour who lives on the third floor opens her door. She is elderly and Polish.

  “We not see you for a while,” she says.

  “I was out of town for a few weeks,” I say.

  “Glad you back,” she says as she holds onto the railing and steps carefully down the stairs to the sidewalk.

  “I buy coffee,” she says and smiles revealing her straight, white dentures. I wave at her then turn my head and see Mark slowly strolling up towards me. He is holding a bouquet of orchids, his nose in the air. I wonder what he is thinking. He approaches the steps to our apartment.

  “That’s so sweet,” I say as he hands me the mauve flowers and I walk into our kitchen to put them in a white glass vase I fill with water.

  “I need to get my hair cut. I’m beginning to look like Einstein, or Frankenstein or maybe Gertrude Stein,” he says. I laugh until I cry.

  “I want to make love tonight,” he says. “It’s been a long time.”

  “Yes,” I say. I do not feel attractive. The drugs take away my desires. But I take a bubble bath, shave my legs and armpits, dry my body with a large soft yellow towel and spray Healing Garden mandarin scent on my elbows and neck. I wear my black lace top. I still don’t feel sexy but I want to offer my body to Mark. I want to please him. I walk out of the bathroom. He wraps his arms around me, kisses me on the lips.

  “You smell nice,” he says, then strokes my waist, lifts me in his arms and carries me to our unmade bed, six pillows scattered around. I am surprised that he has enough strength in his arms to carry my weight. I can tell that he is hungry. He kisses my cheeks and licks my earlobe. He strokes my waist gently. I wrap my legs around his hips. I listen to his breathing. My skin begins to tingle; he can’t wait any longer. He comes and I am pleased to make him happy. We hold each other. My head rests on his shoulder. “I love you,” he says while caressing my hair. Then he rolls over and falls fast asleep. I curl up next to him and listen to his breathing for a few minutes, then get up and make dinner. Mushrooms and truffle oil crêpes in a béchamel sauce. I am calm. I sit at the kitchen table, gaze at the orchids and think about how grateful I am.

  I volunteer two afternoons a week at a drop-in centre for elderly people who suffer from early onset of Alzheimer’s or other dementias. Many are in wheelchairs. We do crosswords, play Trivial Pursuit and I lead exercise classes. We sit in chairs, point and flex our feet and drop our arms. We do this to Frank Sinatra. There is one woman who can’t follow. She shakes her head and mumbles. I have never heard her speak a word. One wall is filled with drawings and watercolours. Trees, flowers, grandchildren. Art classes are on Fridays. The art teacher treats these seniors like children. “Keep your bibs on, otherwise you’ll dirty your clothes.” “That’s good, Frank, now clean your brush with water!” The elderly do not seem to mind being talked down to. They are tired. Their bones hurt, their illnesses make them fragile. These men and women have lived full lives, but few can tell their stories. I listen to those who can. This, I am good at. One lady says, “I’m Jewish. My father died in a concentration camp.” This she says over and over. I arrange the pillows around her head. “That’s better,” she says. I try to bring them happiness. I tell jokes. Some laugh. I feel I am doing something worthy. There is always an empty seat for me on the bus when I go home. I am tired at the end of the day. I close my eyes and listen to the hum of bus and cars until I get off at the bottom of my street. The next day, I call in sick. Talk to the supervisor. I tell her I am bipolar.

  “Are you a danger to others?” she asks.

  “Not at all.”

  “Last night there was a show on bipolar illness on ER. The man there was scary. You know, I’m responsible for these elders.” I realize once again that there is a stigma, misunderstanding. “I’m a little tired, that’s all,” I say. I never get called to volunteer again. I learn not to tell strangers.

  I am in love with Mark. His poetry, his flat foot. I am in love with his voice. His words, gentle, always gentle. He works on his blog until 3 a.m. I lie in bed wearing blue flannel pajamas, dreaming. He never wakes me when he clim
bs over me and slips on his respirator. Since he bought this machine, he stopped snoring and feels refreshed when he wakes up. “I bought it for us, so that we can sleep together through the night,” he says. I get up at six a.m. and chant the words nam-myoho-renge-kyo quietly in front of Mark’s butsudan for peace and happiness. For calm. Harmony. I look at our plants in the living room. They have grown. I notice one dead leaf on our vine covering the side of the bookshelf. I pinch it off with my fingers.

  I break my remaining cigarettes in half and throw them into the garbage, except for one. I celebrate smoking my last Rothmans. Drink wine and puff gently until it burns the filter. Now, I shower, brush my teeth. Stick a Nicoderm patch on my upper arm. I pace from room to room while I suck on a cinnamon stick. Twenty years of smoke in my lungs, breath, hair. Yellowed teeth. I will live seven years longer, they tell me. I listen to a CD on relaxation. “Breathe in, hold, exhale.” Sip hot chocolate, instead of coffee. Mark walks up to me and says, “You smell like red tulips. Crisp, odourless.” We kiss with our tongues. Ten minutes, it seems. He has never kissed me this way before. I smell his cologne. Eau de gingembre. The living room window is open and cool air enters.

  “I never realized how much your smoking affected me. I could never kiss you like this before,” he says. The phone rings. My mother. She complains that her gums hurt. Aches and pains all through her mouth.

  “How’s John?” I ask.

  “Oh, he takes good care of me.”

  “When will you visit?” I ask.

  “I’m not planning a trip to Montréal for some time.”

  “Maybe I’ll take a trip out to see you,” I say. I tell her I quit smoking. She says she hasn’t touched a cigarette in six months.

  “What made you decide to quit?” I ask.

  “John wouldn’t sit in the same room with me when I smoked and besides, I didn’t want to stain his white lace curtains.” My mother gives it up after sixty years of inhaling a pack a day. I am inspired. We say goodbye and I hang up. I sit on the sofa for a few minutes and think about how her life has changed since she has moved in with John. They play darts in a church basement on Tuesdays. She teaches knitting to kids on Wednesdays and volunteers at a second-hand clothing store two afternoons a week. She keeps John’s home tidy. Dusts, vacuums, and washes his clothes. He takes her out to Gibby’s for ribs, buys her gold earrings and takes her to live theatre. They laugh a lot together, she tells me. Her voice seems younger now.

  Justin never forgets my birthday. Every year, a book arrives in the mailbox. This year, he sends me Being Scene. Photos of paintings made by artists who suffer from mental illnesses. I look through this book. Each page has the word “Case.” These paintings are not all disturbing. Some are crimson and emerald green. Bright and alive. This inspires me to paint a bouquet of roses. I cover the kitchen table with newspaper, put my acrylics down and paint on canvas. I use my imagination. No model. My drawing does not look like real flowers. Lines and curves, childlike. I complete the painting, send it to Justin along with a note that says, “You don’t have to put it up if you don’t want to.”

  I live for the moment. Listen to Albinoni, Corelli. I feel the music. Mark and I put up two of my paintings in the bathroom. Abstracts. I call them dancers.

  The pills I now take stabilize my mood. The dose is right. Mark’s love, solid. We go for a walk on the mountain, and stop to view the skyline of the city. There are many sights we have yet to discover. We walk down the mountain and hear tam tams. I want to dance, but Mark’s feet have begun to ache. We make it home. Mark rests on the sofa. I make a seafood quiche.

  My suffering fades. I gain a few pounds; my skin, aging. There is a peaceful feeling. No worries. After falling asleep on the hard sofa, I get tendinitis in my left arm. I can’t swim. Mark helps put my tops on. He washes the floors and takes out the recycling. I am thankful that my head is free of pain. I am lucid.

  Mark and I decide to go to Paris. No marriage. Just the honeymoon. I have always dreamed of going there. The money I save from cigarettes will go toward our trip. We will visit Père Lachaise Cemetery where famous people are buried, sit in outdoor cafés, sip red wine, photograph the Eiffel Tower, get inspiration from museums, eat good food. I am thrilled. A chill runs through me as I wonder whether I am solid enough to cope with one of the busiest cities in the world. I take one day at a time. Exercise, eat vegetables and protein. Study the map of the city, plan it all before leaving. The French men won’t whistle at me. I’m getting over the hill.

  I help Mark pack. Are we forgetting anything? Oh yes, my pills, I mustn’t forget my pills, put them in a safe place in my purse. We take a taxi to the airport and stop into a souvenir shop before boarding the plane. I look at the magazine rack and I see copies of Gloss. A beautiful woman, anorexic but photo-shopped to smooth her lines. “It’s odd now, looking at this magazine, to think that I was a part of this!” I tell Mark. “I am nervous,” I add. He says, “Don’t worry. You’ll do all right.”

  We sit on the plane. I hear the engine roar. The palms of my hands are sweaty and warm. I open my journal and with a black felt pen, begin to write.

  Acknowledgements

  I’d like to thank Nigel Hunt, Élisabeth Larson, Michael Connolly and Sharon Lax for listening and friendship, Elise Moser and Ann Diamond for reading and encouragement, Luciano Iacobelli for editing, and Brian for everything.

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