“You look so peaceful there with the wind on your face,” she says. I look at her. Her front teeth are brown and her gums are bright red.
“I hear voices,” she says, and adds, “Why are you here?”
“The doctor told me that I’m bipolar.”
“Will you be here long?” she asks.
“No. I’ll be going home soon.”
“The voices give me commands.”
“Like what?” I ask.
“Once, they told me to jump off a bridge. The other day, they told me my food was poisoned and to eat it. And not so long ago, they were going to kill my baby brother. I know it’s crazy, but it seems so real. These voices.”
“That must be very painful,” I say.
“Yeah.” She turns her wrist upward. I see scars. A razor, I think. I cup my hand around hers.
“Everything will be alright,” I say. I feel like the words are hanging in my mouth.
“I like your black T-shirt that says John Lennon on it.” She points to it resting on top of my small wooden dresser.
“You do?” I say. She nods. I pick up the T-shirt and hand it to her.
“It’s yours.”
“Oh!” she says. Her mouth forms a wide smile. She blushes, turns her back to me, pulls off her grey, cotton blouse and slips on the T-shirt. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she says as she strokes the soft material. “I’m going to show it to my nurse!” She opens the bedroom door and skips down the hall, singing “Imagine all the people, living life in peace, oh-oh-oh-oh-oh.”
The doctor sees me. “What date is it today?” he asks me. I shrug my shoulders. He pauses for a moment, then goes on.
“The medication is working.”
“My mind is one big fog. The drugs make my head heavy and lifeless.”
“That’s the nature of the beast,” he says. “The nurse tells me that you are eating. You shower everyday. You’re getting better,” he says and adds, “We’ve decided to release you.”The only two things I can do are wash and eat, I think to myself. I walk out of the doctor’s office and I ask an orderly passing by if I can make a call in the nurses’ quarters. He nods and says, “Dial 9 first.”
“Mom?”
“Hi, sweetie.”
“I’m being released. Come and get me.”
CHAPTER III
I LIE IN BED. Stare at the ceiling. I hear the TV in the living room. My mother watches The Young and the Restless. My body is weak. My mind thinks back to the hospital. It is better here, this place. Plants. A room of my own. Warm blankets. It is quiet, a good place to heal. My mother comes in, picks up jeans, underwear, socks from the floor.
“Get up, I want to wash your sheets.” I stand while she removes the sheets from the bed. I walk to the living room and stretch out on her brown and beige sofa. I look at the TV. I see images but I cannot concentrate.
“You’ll see your doctor tomorrow, maybe he’ll reduce your Risperdal.” My mother goes out of the room. The hours pass. I stare at the TV and pretend to follow the images on screen.
My mother bakes chicken and we have it with mashed potatoes and frozen peas. We do not speak until I have finished eating.
“You have so much potential,” she says. “Where’s that winning smile?” I cannot see that I have much to offer the world.
“I’ll do the dishes,” I say, and pick up the plates from the kitchen table. My mother goes into the living room, takes out her crosswords from the side table and starts marking letters into squares. It takes me a long time to wash the pots, plates and glasses. I stand at the sink and scrub with a yellow sponge. It is an effort to stand. I wash the last fork, put it in the white dish rack, wipe my hands with a green striped towel, and let the dishes stand and dry.
I dress in a skirt, long and loose. I take out my one and only pair of silver earrings from a small wooden box. My mother and I get into her blue Pinto. We drive a mile in silence, then she parks in front of a four-storey red brick building. There is a sign in front that says Clinique Externe. We walk upstairs to the second floor. Stop at the reception desk.
“I’m here to see Dr. Ali,” my voice comes out and says. The receptionist points to a room filled with chairs, magazines stacked on the side table. A framed print of flowers in a vase on the wall. My mother looks at her watch. It is 10:16. An older man in jeans and a beige shirt walks into the room. He turns to me and says,
“Chloé?” I nod and stand up.
Dr. Ali sits behind a wooden desk with a file open in front of him. I glance at his balding head, light brown skin, small eyes. He shrugs his shoulders, takes a deep breath. We look at each other and then he says, “How feel?”
“Pardon?”
“How feel you?”
“The drugs are too strong. Could we reduce the dose?”
“Not now,” he says. He scribbles on a prescription form, hands it to me and says, “See next week.”
“Where are you from?” I ask as I get up.
“Turkey.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Ten years. You go. I have other patient.” I leave his office and walk down the hallway to the waiting room.
“Already?” my mother says. I nod, open my purse and put the prescription inside my wallet.
“He didn’t reduce the dose,” I say.
“Maybe next time,” she says.
It is morning. I stay in bed and smell lemon-scented Sunlight on my pillow case. My mother gets up and I hear her make a pot of coffee. I slowly walk into the kitchen, pour myself a cup, then sit in the armchair and light a cigarette.
“Why don’t you go the mall?” My mother asks. “I’ll give you a little money. Buy yourself a sweater.” I shuffle to the bathroom. The sink is spotless. There are clean towels stacked up in the cupboard. Vive Shampoo and bubble bath sit on top of the bathtub. I turn on the water. The pressure is strong. The water is pleasing and warm. I pour bubble bath into the tub, get in and try to scrub away the dirt on me and within me.
I go to the mall. There is a Provigo, two clothing stores, one eyeglass store, a coffee shop. I walk into Boutique Elle. There are rows of sweaters on one wall. Through speakers near the ceiling, Céline Dion sings Where Does My Heart Beat Now. I look at a yellow acrylic turtleneck sweater. It is on sale. I look at the label. It is a medium. I do not try it on. I pay for it at the cash. I walk out into the mall, I see a wooden bench facing me. There is a man hunched over on the bench. His face is wrinkled. His eyes are bloodshot and drooping. He is drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup.
“Belle journée,” he says to me.
“Oui,” I say. It is not a beautiful day for me. A weight in my head. Disoriented. I look around myself. There are only a handful of people in this mall. Elderly ladies, teenagers who have skipped school. I get up quickly, say “Bonjour” to the old man. He gives me a tight smile and I leave through the large glass door.
I look out through my mother’s patio doors. I see rows of identical two-storey buildings. There is no one on the sidewalks. I step onto the balcony and sit in a lawn chair. The hibiscus plant has six red flowers opened, erect pistils surrounded by frilly skirts. A Volvo is parked on the street in front of the apartment building. I breathe in, exhale. My hands tremble. Sometimes a shudder runs through my entire body; side effects from the drugs, my doctor says. I feel empty, stale like this street. I stay in this chair for a long time. I look out over the pavement, at the windows, but nothing happens.
My mother knits a sweater. I ask her what she is thinking. She looks at me, her eyes tired, dark rings of concern.
“I worry,” she says. “I worry about you.”
“I’m going to the Couche-Tard for cigarettes,” I say. I get up and take a twenty dollar bill from my wallet and put it into the back pocket of my black jeans. I walk out onto the sidewalk. A woman passes me. Her head is tilted toward the ground. She frowns. Her clothes are neatly pressed. White blouse buttoned to the neck, black skirt that falls an inch above the knees, shiny blac
k shoes. I look at my watch. It is six-thirty. She is likely coming home from work. She might be a waitress at La Maison Beefsteak, or maybe she is an administrative assistant at one of those factories on the highway. The wind blows. I shiver. In the Couche-Tard, I pick up a pack of cinnamon-flavoured Dentyne.
“Un paquet de Rothmans, s’il-vous-plait.” I pay and stroll home in silence. My feet seem to pound on the pavement. The medication weighs me down.
My mother and I go grocery shopping. She stops the car in a busy parking lot facing Maxi’s. I follow her into the store.
“Take the cart,” she says. I grab one. I am guided by my mother’s footsteps. We march up and down aisles. She puts Corn Flakes, chicken, Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup, white bread, and a pound of Nabob coffee into the cart. We stand in front of shelves filled with bags of cookies. My eyes rest on a box of Mr. Christie’s chocolate chip cookies. I pick it up and quietly drop it into the cart. My mother nods, then pushes her eyeglasses to the top of her nose. The store is big and I keep my eyes on my mother. I don’t want to lose her.
We carry the grocery bags up one flight of stairs. My mother stops to catch her breath, then unlocks the front door.
“Put the food away,” she says. I put the groceries into the fridge and pantry, then go into my bedroom. I turn on the radio. The sound of Vivaldi fills the air. I lie down, close my eyes.
“Turn down the music,” my mother shouts. I lower the sound and stay stretched out with my hands over my chest and listen to my heartbeat until dinner.
“Come for supper,” my mother says. I sit at the head of the table. My mother serves homemade spaghetti sauce and pasta. I look up at this woman while I put a forkful into my mouth. Her face is smooth, serene. She eats slowly, never taking her eyes off her plate. I do not have the strength to talk. We eat in silence and it is understood that I do the dishes.
Dr. Ali sits behind his desk.
“You feel well today?” he says. His voice is low and slow. I look into his eyes.
“I can’t read or follow a TV show. Could you cut the medication down?”
“OK. We go from 6 milligrams to 5 milligrams. See how goes.” He scribbles on a white prescription form. I sigh and we shake hands. My mother waits for me in the room. She is flipping pages of Coup de pouce.
“He cut my drugs down,” I say and smile, imagine the shape of my teeth like Chiclets gum. We drive by a building with a sign outside that says, Piscine. I would like to swim, I think to myself. Tomorrow I will go to the pool. For the rest of the day, I watch images on the TV, still unable to follow them, while my mother knits and does laundry.
I step down the ladder and into the water. I wear a black one-piece bathing suit and matching black cap. I stand and the water goes up to my shoulders. I cannot swim very well and fear putting my head into the water. I float and kick my feet. It is early afternoon, and there are only three other people in the pool. All chubby middle-aged women. I don’t stay long in the water. It is too cold and it is an effort to kick my legs. They are tired, always. I get out of the pool and soap my body in a shower stall. I dry myself and dress. I will go to the pool every day, I tell myself. I will stay in the water a little longer next time.
John is away in Vancouver. His daughter has breast cancer. He is taking care of her and her two cats. Doesn’t know when he’ll be back.
“I have to take care of you. It’s just as well that he’s not here. It would be too much, just too much going on,” my mother says. I sit next to her on the sofa and look down at my bare feet.
“You should clip your toenails,” she says. I obey. I go into the bathroom drawer and take out a pair of clippers, sit on the toilet with the lid down. Clip, clip.
The phone rings. I pick it up after the third ring.
“Hi. It’s Joan.”
“Hi.”
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m trying to get better. I went to a pool.”
“Why don’t you take swimming lessons? It’s never too late to learn.”
“Yeah. I saw a notice that they were giving lessons for beginners starting soon.”
“I’m coming to Montréal tomorrow for a few days. I’ll visit.”
“Oh, you make me glad.”
“I’ll call you when I get into town.”
“I look forward to it.” I put the phone down, and look at my face and hair in the bathroom mirror above the sink. My skin is smooth and my cheeks are tinted a light pink. At first glance, no one would believe that I am ill, but I am vacuous now, empty. Anything stresses me – car horns, screen doors slamming, going to see Dr. Ali. This quiet, peaceful place is what I need, so that I can feel my mind heal.
I tidy my bedroom. Dust the side table, make the bed. Joan will be here any moment. She will sleep on my bed. I will use the sofa. My mother vacuums, sprays Pledge onto the coffee table, and wipes it off with a J-Cloth. Then, we sit on the sofa. My mother watches the weather report on TV.
“Rain, rain, rain,” she says. The doorbell rings. I open the door.
“Hi,” Joan gives me a warm kiss on the cheek. She has a packsack over her shoulders. Her hair has grown. She holds a baby in her arm and has a stroller at her side. My mother stands behind me.
“Hi Joan,” she says. “Come on in.”
“This is Tara,” Joan says. After we enter the vestibule, I slide my hand down the baby’s back.
“She’s beautiful!” I say. Tara’s curls are red. Her lips thick. She sleeps deeply.
“I love babies,” Joan says. We settle onto the brown and beige checkered sofa. Joan gently puts Tara in the stroller. “Maybe you could stay this way, so we’d all be happy,” she whispers to her.
“Would you like a coffee?” my mother asks.
“Sure.” My mother walks into the kitchen. I see deep lines in Joan’s forehead. She looks tired. She is tense.
“I can only stay one night, got to see some people downtown.” She checks messages on her cell phone. “I’ll call them back tomorrow.”
Tara opens her eyes, she cries. Joan puts the bottle to her lips. Tara sucks.
“How are you feeling?” she says.
“The drugs, they’re heavy,” I say.
“Can you read?”
“A little. I tried to get through an Alice Munro story the other day but my mind kept drifting after the third paragraph.”
“What do you do with your time?”
“Not much.” She looks at my hands and says,
“You’re shaking!”
“It’s the drugs.” I look at Joan’s clothes. She wears a low-cut tank top. Red. Tight jeans and a wide belt. Loops in her ears. Blue, made of plastic. My mother brings the coffee into the living room and puts a bowl of sugar, milk, three spoons and white cups down onto the coffee table.
“Nice of you to visit,” my mother says, then sits in the armchair facing us, picks up her wool and thick needles and begins to knit.
“What are you making?” Joan asks.
“A sweater for my beautiful daughter.”
I can tell that Joan is bored. She takes her cell phone from her packsack, begins to dial.
“Just need to make one call.” She taps her foot on the carpet. “Busy,” she says and presses the “End” button. She dials another number. “Hi,” she says into the receiver. “We were supposed to meet tomorrow at noon. Could it be sooner? Alright, ten-thirty’s fine, I’ll be there.” My mother turns the TV on to Newswatch as she talks. Our eyes drift to the screen. I try to think of something to say, but nothing comes to mind. Joan gets off the phone, picks up a Vogue magazine that sits on the table. Flips through it. Puts it down. The news ends, and Joan turns to me and says, “Drugs are important but you also need talk therapy.” I tell her that very few psychiatrists do that. She holds my hand while we watch more TV until nine o’clock. We all change into our pyjamas. Joan changes Tara’s diapers on the kitchen table. I am stunned at how quiet this baby is. I take out a pillow and blanket from the hall closet for myself. I gi
ve Joan and Tara my bed. My mother wears her cotton dressing gown, sits up in bed and listens to talk shows on the radio. I open the living room window for fresh air and slip under the blankets beside me. The cushions on the sofa are soft. I sink into them, close my eyes, and listen to the burble of voices.
I hear Joan rustling in her packsack. I look at the clock radio. It is 8:45 a.m.
“Do you want toast or cereal?” I ask.
“No, thanks. I’m going to be late for my meeting.”
“How about a coffee before you go?”
“Can’t. I’ll stop into a Second Cup downtown. Do you have a taxi number?” I give her a Co-op Taxi number I find on a magnet on the refrigerator. She calls.
“You do what you need to do,” she says to me. “I promise to call you before I head back to T.O.” Joan looks at her agenda. She reads something written down there, then puts it back into her purse. The taxi driver honks his horn in front of the building. I give Joan a warm hug. She slides her packsack over her shoulder, holds Tara in her other arm, and disappears down the stairs.
My hair rests on my shoulders. “You should get a haircut,” my mother says. “It looks sloppy.” I stroll down the road to a place called Salon de coiffure Marie. I walk in. There is a middle-aged lady getting her hair permed. She is reading Echo Vedette.
“Une coupe, deux pouces carré,” I say and Marie ushers me to a chair, tightens a bib around my neck, sprays water from a plastic bottle onto my hair and snips. This takes ten minutes. Then she blow-dries my hair, curls it around with a brush. I pay $12, a bargain. The wind messes up my hair. By the time I get home, it is knotted and flat.
The phone rings. My mother answers. “John!” I hear her say. “How’s your daughter?” Pause. “So sorry to hear that.” I stop listening and go into the bathroom closet and take out a large beach towel with a yellow sun on it. I am wearing khaki shorts and a red sleeveless blouse. It is hot. No clouds in the sky. I walk out onto a large patch of grass next to the side of the brick apartment building. I stretch out on the towel, and stay there motionless for what seems like hours. I feel my face, shoulders and knees burn, but I stay there anyway and think about Justin. We saw live theatre and films. We went to at least one play a week, and lots of dance too, since I worked for the Diva Dance Theatre one summer and got free tickets. Justin worked for the Harbour Lights Reading Series. We met Susan Sontag, Ted Hughes, Carol Shields. I’d blush, my cheeks red as apples, when I shook their hands. “Don’t be so insecure!” Justin would say. We had a room in our apartment filled wall to wall with books and two desks. Justin tried to write a mystery novel. I wrote drafts of stories. I think back. When we first met, I lied about my age. He was younger than me by three years. Men most always prefer to be older than the woman. I remember pleasant evenings together when we’d discuss books that we were reading and sometimes disagreed on our feelings about them. I read mostly women writers: Anaïs Nin, Simone de Beauvoir. “Don’t you think women write differently than men?” I’d say. “They’re intuitive, their choice of words, gentler. For the most part, I usually can tell after the first paragraph from a book, whether the author is male or female.” My stomach begins to feel wheezy as I see vivid images in my head of him flirting with pretty girls. He was blond, handsome, charming and they flirted back. He’d bring laughter to their faces with clever jokes. One time, I deliberately stepped on his toes with my clunky shoes. Another time, I slapped his cheek. He screeched, his face reddened but he held back from hitting me back. Then one day, he went to Vancouver for two weeks, met a beautiful young brunette and fell in love, or so he said.
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