chapter two
ONE DAY
SHE SITS ON the grey vinyl-covered bench in her GP Dr. Basset’s waiting room. On either side, across on a matching bench, and even on the floor, waiting to see the GP, sit young adults, old adults, children, and pregnant women. Some lean against the wall. She sits still, her eyes on the pile of files sitting on the receptionist’s desk, hiding the impassive receptionist. A line of people stand at the desk, patiently waiting to speak to her. She had tried to read Don Coles’s book of poetry Forests of the Medieval World that she’d borrowed from the library last week and had brought with her, but she’d kept reading the same line over and over, the cacophony of voices distracting her from the meaning in the text, making her head sag from fatigue. She’d put the book back in her purse. As she sits, the pain lines flowing up into her head and down into her shoulders intensify, particularly the right one where her seat belt had pinned her against the seat as the car had flown around. She still can’t believe that had all happened.
Was that her name called? Yes, the receptionist is peering over the pile of files at her.
She stands up and totters down the short hall to Basset’s office. It too is crammed with paper. You can’t see his old-fashioned wooden desk for all the files, faxes, reports, and letters on it. The two wooden chairs for patients sit next to a window and across the desk from him. She blinks against the sun spilling onto her face. Dr. Basset looks up over his cheater glasses.
“How’s my favourite patient?”
“I’m fine. Thanks. Something’s happened.”
He nods encouragingly.
“Well,” she hesitates. How can she describe what happened? A wind came out of nowhere and hit the car. And then this strange patrol pulled them over and told her to see him?
“A wind came out of nowhere and hit the car. Sunday night,” she says in a monotone. “No Monday morning. And then this, uh, thingy, uh car, uh, no patrol car, pulled us over and told me to come s-s-see him. You.”
“I see.” He pulls a fresh sheet of paper out of his desk, places it on a flat spot on top of other papers, and meticulously prints in tiny letters her story as she relates it. When done, he gets up, sidles around his desk, and feels her neck.
“You’ll need an X-ray.”
She’s puzzled. Why an X-ray?
“Stand up for me, please.”
She stands, and he examines her shoulders, palpates her back, tells her to turn around so that he can look at her profile, asks her to walk forward, which she does a bit unbalanced, but that’s because there’s so little space she tells herself, and then he asks her to walk back toward him. He asks her to lift her arms to the side, to the front, to touch her nose. She raises her arm, squints at her finger, and concentrates as she slowly aims for her nose. She misses, and she tries again. This time she hits the side of her nose tip. She’s relieved, but his round face looks inscrutable. He asks her to sit back down, and then he returns to his chair. Silence reigns as he writes.
“I think you should see Dr. Kale at Haoma Therapy. He does good work for my patients. He’s a physiatrist and will look after those soft tissue injuries of yours. Sound like a good idea to you?”
She chews her bottom lip and nods.
“But first, I want you to get those X-rays, okay? Bring them back to me. Here’s the requisition.”
“Okay.” She stops chewing her lip, gets up, and as she opens the door, wonders when she’s supposed to come back.
“Come back today,” he calls out.
She emerges out the front door of the clinic and stands on the covered porch. She follows the traffic zooming by north on Woodbine with her eyes as she wonders when the next bus will be and how to get to the X-ray clinic. She looks down at the requisition form in her hand. The address given on it slips out of her mind as she reads it. She searches her mind for a memory of where that place is. Suddenly her brows lift, her forehead lightens, her eyes snap on the scene ahead. Of course, it’s around the corner on Kingston Road. She can walk there.
The X-ray takes surprisingly no time at all. She goes in, hands the receptionist the requisition form, sits down in the cramped waiting room for what seems like two seconds to her, is taken to a dressing room to put on a gown and then to a plain battle-green room where the X-ray machine resides. She’s draped in lead and X-rayed all around. Buttoning up her blue shirt and doing up her back-zip black pants is a struggle. She frowns at the unexpected effort, frustration nibbling at the edges of her being. By the time she’s dressed herself, the X-rays are waiting for her at the desk. She carries the giant manila envelope back to Dr. Basset’s.
A patient is coming out of his office as she approaches his receptionist.
“You can go right on in.”
Surprised, she turns on her heel, walks down the short hall, and into his office.
“Ah, you got them already. Let’s see them.”
He fishes the X-rays out of the envelope, which he places on a precarious pile of partially unfolded letters on his desk. He takes a step to the wall next to the office door and flips a switch on the light box. He shoves the X-rays into the clips at the top and scrutinizes them.
“Come here and take a look at these.”
She dutifully steps over to join him.
“You see here,” he says, as he points to her neck bones clearly outlined in profile on one of the X-rays. “You see how straight your neck is. That means the muscles are in spasm and have pulled your vertebrae out of alignment.”
“Oh.” She grips and twists her bottom lip with her upper teeth. “You mean, you can tell what’s happening, what’s happening with, uh, with the muscles from what the bones look like?” she asks.
“Yes. Your neck should have a nice curve to it. But here it’s dead straight. That means you’ve sustained a neck sprain. The Haoma Therapy Clinic should take care of that for you. I believe they have physiotherapists on staff. Dr. Kale will certainly know what to do.”
“Oh. The physiotherapist will f-f-fix that?”
“I don’t know if they can fix it, as such, but a good physio can certainly alleviate your pain.” He smiles at her over his glasses. He grabs the envelope, somehow not disturbing the pile of letters, pulls each X-ray out of its clip, and slips them all into the envelope.
“Here,” he says as he hands her the X-rays. “Dr. Kale and the physio will need to see these.”
She takes the envelope from him and hugs it to herself.
“Arlene will have your referral ready. Just go over and tell her what you want to put on it.”
She nods and stops herself at the pain. She sees that he’s watching her carefully yet puzzled. She’s supposed to be talking more or asking questions more or something; she struggles to think of something to say but gives up. It’s much easier to follow his directions.
She goes out to talk to Arlene, who shows her what she’s put on the referral, as if that’s the normal thing to do. She wonders why; it all seems fine to her. Arlene faxes it off, and tells her that she’ll call or the Clinic will call when they’ve set up an appointment. She thanks her and hopes she doesn’t have to wait too long.
Once again she stands on the porch, letting the screen door slam behind her. She finds her purse uncomfortable and isn’t sure where to put it. She finds her bra uncomfortable and has this almost-uncontrollable urge to whip it off right then and there. She switches her purse from one shoulder to the other to take her mind off the pain caused by her clothes while trying to keep her hold on the envelope. She needs to go shopping. She needs a shoulder purse, one that has a strap that will go across her body.
She stands there staring into space.
What she really needs is one of those hip thingies, those things that belt around her waist, something that won’t be anywhere near her shoulder. They’re so ugly though. She sighs and treads down the concrete stairs, along the short concrete walk to the sidewalk, turns left, and slowly makes her way to the traffic lights. The light ahead is red, the one to cross Woodbine Avenue is
green. She lumbers across Woodbine and stands at the bus stop, facing away from the cemetery that’s kitty corner to the stop.
The wait is interminable, the bus ride interminable, the subway too crowded, the train’s movements too sharp. Bloor-Yonge station is overwhelming in noise and lack of space. She wants to race outside; instead she shuffles up to the Yonge platform and then realizes she’s on the wrong north-south line. She needs to be on the University-Spadina line. The thought of turning around and going back down those filthy, packed stairs onto that crowded narrow platform and waiting another five minutes for the same westbound train, holding this increasingly heavy envelope, and trying to ignore both bra and purse digging into her sore shoulder is almost beyond her. She sits on a bench, plunks all her stuff beside herself, finds and plugs her gold iPod Mini into her ears, and turns it on. The Beatles rock out Get Back into her ears. She collects her stuff and bounces down to the westbound train.
This time, she gets off at St George station and looks around. Where are the effing escalators going up? Huffing, she climbs the stairs to the north-south line and waits for the northbound train. At last it comes.
Fatigue weighs her down more and more, and she doesn’t care that the only seat available is between two large women — until she sits down. The squeeze of shoulder to shoulder sets up pain waves undulating from her shoulders into her arms, from her shoulders up her neck, into her skull. But she’s too tired to move. She almost misses her station and stands up abruptly. She sways and grabs for the pole next to the door. Goldfish seem to have moved their water bowl into her head and are madly swimming round and round, making the water — and her head — whirl. She tries to get her balance, but the chimes are sounding, the doors are about to close. She staggers forward and out the doors to the station wall. She pauses until she can straighten up from the wall. She makes her way up to the cavernous streetcar area, sooty with squeals of streetcar wheels echoing off the concrete walls of St Clair West station. She finds her car and hikes up the streetcar steps, grabbing at the centre bar to help herself up. Another interminable ride, this time westbound, followed by a walk that goes on and on and on until at last she reaches her house.
She climbs the stairs wearily to her red front door. She loves that red, a bright, happy red. She and her fiancé had chosen it as one of the first projects they’d done on their house. They love bold colours, especially against white.
She pushes her key into the lock and turns it right. Nothing happens. She stares at it; she tries it again. Nothing. She frowns and contemplates the key in that lock. She turns it again right. Still nothing. Frustration moves in from the edges, about to set up a scream, when she tries turning it left. Clunk. Frustration flees. She pushes the door open and almost loses her balance as she lurches in.
She doesn’t know how long she’s been lying on the couch. She pushes herself up and walks over to her staircase in the dark and flips the light switch. Fluorescent light floods the upper hallway, revealing Smokey sitting at the top bathed in the reflected glow of the violet walls, blinking inscrutably at her. Up she ascends, one step at a time, to her music room as Smokey descends quickly and disappears. The house is so quiet; she needs to hear music, feel the smooth keys under her long, delicate fingers as she plays Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.
She’s sitting at her keyboard, with her hands on her lap. The Sonata is open in front of her on the music stand; she’s not sure why as she knows it by heart. But first where is middle C? She scans the keys and tries to think about how to find it. All at once, she remembers the cue, smiles, and places her hands on the keys. She squints at the music. What’s that note? She concentrates hard. Suddenly, it morphs from something not quite known to familiar. Relieved, she looks down at the keys, trying to find that note. She begins to play, and then her head begins to feel fuzzy, the keys look strange, the notes move on the page, she doesn’t know what phrase she’s in, and she stops.
She blinks in confusion. She must be tired. That’s it. It’s been a hard day. Where is Jim? She ponders this question a moment, then remembers: he’s away at something or other. How come she doesn’t miss him? Usually being alone always frightens her. But these days she feels nothing. She turns to the right on the bench to look out the window and wonders when it became dark.
She crosses her short upper hallway to her bedroom. She strips off her clothes, pulls on her pyjamas, and flops onto the bed. She lies on her back. She hates lying on her back. She wants to lie on her stomach. She wants to lie on her side. But those positions hurt too much. She feels vulnerable lying on her back. She wants to curl into the fetal position and hug her pillow.
Who is Akaesman?
The patrol didn’t say. Dr. Basset hadn’t said anything. She’d never heard of it. Him. Her. Whatever. It sounds ominous. Or maybe not. She flips onto her left shoulder and hugs her pillow, unheeding of the painful pressure. She stares at the shutters closed against the window, at the flowered walls, at nothing. She’s exhausted yet cannot sleep. She cannot even close her eyes.
Rays filter through the cracks in the shutters, piercing the darkness of her bedroom. Flickering, growing, the rays move into the room and coalesce. A visitant stands before her. Her eyes widen; her body freezes. Silvery sunlight streams out of the visitant and then becomes a human shape draped in a glimmering robe that moves softly, lazily. Hair like molten silver-gold flows long; the face is hidden yet visible as if emitting bright moonlight that smiles. The visitant moves toward her; she lifts her right hand to shade her eyes and suddenly glimpses a vast sandy plain of emptiness, a creature lurking in the distance, a creature with iron bars for legs, round shields for a back, furious teeth that grind terror, eyes that show the dawn, and a snout that sneezes lightning. She drops her hand abruptly, and the vision obfuscating the visitant is gone. The visitant’s robe coruscates, the sparkles in it brightening. She blinks against this overwhelming light, her body relaxing, as the visitant lifts an arm, stretching out an upturned molten-gold hand, on which rests an ordinary-looking bun.
A bun?
It looks like a bun, a bun with a shiny bronze top crust and a milky-white bottom.
The visitant stands patiently. She tries to scrutinize the visitant’s face. Maybe — she? — wants her to take it. But she makes no move.
Srukar, she hears.
Or did she sense that word? Into her sinks the conviction that this bun, this Srukar will help her — it will help her heal. But she doesn’t need help. She’s strong. All her life, she’s done things on her own, and that’s the way it’s supposed to be. Besides, this all seems unreal, as unreal as that Akaesman whoever he, it, she was. And it’s just bread anyway, bread with a fancy name. What the heck is Srukar? Annoyance tinges her.
But the visitant remains standing before her, remains holding out the Srukar.
“Alright. I’ll take it!” She sits up, leans forward, and snatches the bun out of the hand.
And then she’s alone in her shadowy bedroom, only the bun in her hand reminding her that somebody or some thing had been there with her. She doesn’t want this fancy bun though. She puts it on her nightstand, lies back down on her left side, not caring about the pain in her shoulder, and hugs her pillow tight.
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