“Can I take it home with me to read?”
“You can keep it.” I leaf through it quickly, then put it in my handbag.
“I’ll read it tomorrow,” I say.
“Teardrops,” he says as he gently touches my earring made of glass.
“I have to go home soon. I’m tired.”
“You can stay here. There’s an extra bed in the front room.”
“Thanks. Maybe next time.”
Back home on my bed, propped up with pillows, I read Mark’s poetry. Dark. Bleak landscapes. Poems about death and loneliness. Almost went over the edge himself, but was saved, saved by his poems. My mother comes into my room. She tells me to get dressed. We’re going grocery shopping.
The phone rings. It’s Mark. He invites me over to watch A Beautiful Mind. He rented the movie at Passport Vidéo. I say yes.
“How about six?” he says. “We can have dinner together.”
I wear black jeans and the green wool sweater my mother made me. On the bus, on the way into the city, I do not read. My face is turned toward the window. I am fragile. I could break like glass.
I ring Mark’s buzzer. He opens the door. He wears a faded grey turtleneck sweater, khaki green corduroy pants. His shoes are black and unpolished.
“Hi,” I say.
“I’m cooking chicken legs and boiling Brussels sprouts. Do you drink red wine?”
“One glass should be all right.” Mark pours me a glass of Corvo and I sit at the kitchen table while he chops Brussels sprouts in half on the arborite counter.
“I’m not feeling well today,” I say.
“Why didn’t you take a rain check on my invitation?”
“It’s good for me to get out.” We eat and Mark does most of the talking. We watch the movie. A brilliant mathematician who develops schizophrenia. He becomes a zombie, a living corpse and finally, in the end, wins the Nobel Prize. I’m inspired. Triumph. He surmounted the insurmountable. A hero. One quote lingers with me long after the movie ends: Perhaps it is good to have a beautiful mind, but an even greater gift is to have a beautiful heart.
“We’ll swim again next week,” Mark says.
I stay in bed all day. I hear the neighbour’s footsteps across the floor above my head. My mother is out playing bridge with the ladies. She will be home at six, in time for supper. We are having President’s Choice frozen cannelloni with five cheeses, and a green salad. I take two Ativans to knock me out for the afternoon.
Mark and I have two glasses of dry red wine. He lets me smoke in his living room, but whispers things like, “You’re choking me.” I feel bad, very bad, and butt out in a clear glass ashtray.
“I do want to quit. In a month. I need to prepare myself psychologically.” I have a third glass of wine. Tipsy. Mark puts his heavy arm over my shoulders.
“It feels right today,” he says.
“What feels right?”
“To get intimate.” I turn my head toward him and press my lips against his. Our lips part and our tongues touch. He pulls away.
“I feel like I’m kissing an ashtray,” he says. I go into his bathroom and wash my mouth with his mint-flavoured Listerine.
“That’s better,” he says.
“I’m nervous. Haven’t had sex in over four years. When was the last time for you?” I ask.
He looks down at his red Persian carpet. Pause.
“Over a year ago. Your skin is so soft.” Mark’s penis is hard. He pulls our pants off gently, runs his hands along my waist, hips and legs. Lifts my top and notices the scar.
“What happened?” he says.
“I was making fries – hot oil.” He pauses for a moment and sits back on the sofa. He is no longer aroused. I pull my top down. We look at each other and I cry. Mark puts his arm around me and says, “Don’t worry… we all have scars.” He kisses my forehead. We embrace and he starts to become aroused again. He slides my panties off. Cannot wait any longer. He slides a condom on, and comes inside me. He moans. I am too tense to come. Mark is too anxious to hold back. I hold him gently. I stay overnight and sleep in his bed. As I drift, Mark begins to snore louder and louder. At one point he stops. I count the seconds. He starts again. I pinch his arm. His eyes open.
“You were snoring.”
“I might be suffering from sleep apnea. I need to get it checked out.”
“Oh, that’s terrible. I’ll sleep in the living room.” I take a blue blanket from a chair and stretch out onto the sofa and stay there until morning. We eat fresh toasted bagels from Bagel St. Viateur and drink Colombian coffee for breakfast. I wear Mark’s flannel housecoat.
“I plan to revise some poems today.”
“I’ll do the dishes, then I should go.” He kisses my shoulder as I brush past him to the kitchen sink. I wash white glass plates. Large blue mugs. I put my clothes on. Mark escorts me to the door.
“Swim and dinner on the weekend?” he says.
“Yeah. Saturday. Next Saturday at six. I’ll be here.”
I see Dr. Ali.
“How go 5 milligrams of Risperdal?”
“I feel lethargic.”
“Are you active?”
“I go downtown quite a bit. Made a friend. I get tired easily.”
“We stay at 5 milligrams of Risperdal and 900 milligrams of Lithium.”
My mother talks to John over the phone. His daughter is in the terminal stages of breast cancer. He feeds and bathes her. He says he finds it all very painful to see and hard to take. My mother tells him she loves him and cannot wait to see him again. She tells him that I am doing better, that I go into the city every week and that I am getting exercise. She is now knitting a brown sweater for him.
“How did your affair with John start?” I ask.
“Twenty years ago, when your father died, I started to drink. After a while, things got really bad. I had you, but I was so lonely. I thought I was going to die. That’s when I called AA and John turned up at my doorstep to take me to a meeting. Later he told me he was married. But I guess it was love at first sight.” She goes back to her knitting as if she had just spoken about the weather.
I prepare dinner for my mother and me. Homemade pizzas on English muffins. I put pizza sauce, pepperoni, slices of tomato, mushroom and mozzarella cheese on them. I serve my mother and wait for her reaction. She takes a bite more and says, “Oh, that’s delicious,” then licks her lips. This makes me happy. I have made a meal for my mother. I go to the dépanneur to buy cigarettes. There are jade plants by the window. I pick a tiny one with shining leaves. I pay for it at the cash along with my Rothmans.
“This is for you,” I say to my mother. “Oh, that’s lovely.” She takes the plant and rubs her fingers lightly on a leaf and places it gently on her antique tea wagon by the window.
I stay at Mark’s place for thirty-two days before going home again.
“I miss you,” my mother says. “Just having you here.”
I move in with Mark.
CHAPTER V
MARK BUYS FLOWERS MADE of grey metal for the kitchen wall. He purchases paintings from the man who lives down the street. They resemble Riopelle, I think. I start to paint. Draw and paint a nude, flowers in a vase, a waterfall. We put up the paintings here and there. We buy glass dishes, a large palm plant, and I choose a multicoloured sofa with large yellow pillows to stretch out on. I pick up a cookbook at Renaud-Bray and make Mushroom Fettuccine Alfredo, No Fuss Lasagna, and a scallop dish in white wine. We drink a bottle of Corvo on weekends only. I discover pleasure in preparing food. I make guacamole, lentil salads. Mark sits at the kitchen table, sips wine, and reads poems to me, while I chop vegetables and wash dishes. I try to keep the place tidy. I dust, wash floors, vacuum the Indian rug in the living room and water plants on Sundays. Mark puts down his keys, books, shoulder bag, agenda, wallet and scarf, and later almost always forgets where he has placed his things. I try to keep track. I tell him to put his keys down in the same place every time so that he can remember where to fi
nd them. I struggle to keep order. I look into Mark’s eyes behind dirty eyeglasses. I clean them for him every day with a soft cloth. I remind him to write cheques to the landlord. I feed the cats and change the litter. I can see that he appreciates me. He can see that I am quiet. He spends his days as he wishes. We sit in the living room. My hand rests on his thigh. I complain about my low energy and thank him for being patient.
“Should I cut down on my meds?” I ask Mark.
“You could try,” he says.
I go three weeks with a much lower dose of Risperdal, then I stop taking it all together. Now, a full bottle of pink pills sits in my medicine cabinet. My speech speeds up. “Is someone coming in to our apartment?” I wonder. I check my purse to see if my wallet is still in it. Credit, bank and Medicare cards still there. I lock the front door. The radio dial is on “Espace Musique.” I begin to believe that the DJ is playing songs especially chosen for me to hear. I tell myself, “This is crazy, Chloé.” I walk into Mark’s office, sit in front of his computer and Google “Risperdal withdrawal symptoms,” and read, “If Risperdal is discontinued abruptly, many people will experience paranoid symptoms. This is one of the side effects of withdrawal. Consult your doctor if you wish to terminate this drug. The dose should be reduced gradually so as to prevent this side effect.” I pace up and down the hallway. The music bothers my ears and mind and I switch the OFF button on the sound system. Mark is in the kitchen washing dishes while listening to a podcast with earphones on. I do not tell him what I am thinking. I open the fridge door to pour myself a tall glass of passion fruit juice. I lift up the glass to my dry lips and wonder whether the drink was poisoned. If I swallow this liquid I worry that I will choke and die. I put the glass down on the counter without ever taking a sip and tell myself that I will pour the carton of juice down the sink when Mark leaves the kitchen. Is there someone out to get me? I fear. I tell myself these are just symptoms, but then I forget. I lie down on the sofa in the living room, close my eyes. Mark walks by and says, “Having a nap?” He grabs his leather bag, kisses me on my cheek and whispers, “I’m going out to a café to correct some papers. I’ll be back in about an hour or so. Hope you feel better soon.” I hear the door shut then I jump up, rush into the kitchen to pour the juice down the sink and watch the toxic liquid disappear into the drain. I go to the bathroom and flush the toilet even though I haven’t peed. I return to the sofa and stare at a novel by Iris Murdoch. The Sacred and Profane Love Machine is opened on page ten. I pick it up and read the line, “Suppose that face were to come and look at me through the window.” I put the book back down on the coffee table. Is there someone spying on me, I wonder. My body trembles while I rush to the front window to see if there is someone on our balcony. I see no one except for an old man walking his dog on the sidewalk across the street. I stretch my body onto the sofa once again, wrap a blanket around my body, and rest my head on a large yellow cushion. I do not move. I hear the door unlock. I jump up. I tell Mark I need something to quench my dry mouth. My tongue feels pasty and sticky, my throat burns. It hurts to swallow. Mark hands me a bottle of water. It is safe to drink this since it is sealed. I swish the water around my tongue and inner cheeks then swallow. “That’s better, thanks,” I tell him as he is walking through the hallway to sit in front of his computer. I think about the laundry overflowing in the basket. I get up and slip Jacques Brel into the CD player. I cry over a dead leaf on one of our plants. The palm plant needs watering. I look out the window. The sun has set. I cry at not having the life I thought I could have had, filled with energy and curiosity. My brain hurts. I feel a pinch beneath my skull. Mark walks into the living room. I can see he is worried. Doesn’t know who to call. “Talk to me,” he pleads. I am silent. It takes too much effort to explain. I want to tell him that I need help or I will die, but this would cause him anguish, stress, more concern. I worry that if I tell him how I feel, he will abandon me.
Mark makes himself a stir-fry and reads his poetry dictionary. I look at him through the door to the kitchen and see sadness but he is calm. “It will pass,” he says. I get up. I pace and think about drowning myself in the bathtub. I would first swallow a bunch of sleeping pills then I would sink my head under water, but first, I would put a DO NOT ENTER sign on the bathroom door. I would not slit my wrists and stain the bathtub. This Mark could never live with. It seems urgent to die. I go into the washroom cupboard and put three full bottles of Lithium into my purse. I remember reading somewhere that an overdose of this drug can cause you to go into a coma or even die. I tuck an X-Acto knife in my jeans. I approach the front door. “Where are you going?” Mark shouts. “The mountain, the mountain.”
“It’s evening!” He clutches my wrists. His face is flushed. “Is it safe for me to go to work? What will I tell them?”
“If you go, I will die. Let me go,” I mumble. “Let me go.” He pulls me into the living room. “What are you doing? I ask.
“Dialing 911.”
“Please! I don’t want to go to one of those places again, they’ll kill me!”
“It’s an emergency,” Mark says in the receiver.
I sit in a plastic chair facing the nurses’ quarters.
“Do you remember why you’re here?” a middle-aged nurse shouts. Her dyed blonde hair frames a pixie face. I look at her and think “Goldie Hawn.”
“We want you to live a long time!” she says in a stern voice.
“I want to quit smoking,” I tell her. She nudges an orderly and whispers into his ear. He gives her a cigarette and lighter. She then puts the cigarette between my lips, flicks the lighter and says, “Puff.” She glances at my chin and notices two small white hairs growing on it. She brushes my chin with her fingers. “Good!” she says. I do not trust this nurse, this place. I look around: eggshell walls, drab linoleum floors. Not one poster or painting on the walls. I get up and through a large glass window. I see a screen. I look at it closely and see a patient peeing in the washroom. I look up at the ceiling and notice cameras in the hallways. They watch our every move, I think. Do they watch us undress and naked while we soap our bodies in the shower? Are there also microphones in the bedrooms where they listen to each word we utter? The rooms reek, a stale stench of sickness fills the air. I am suffocating. I crush my cigarette in an ashtray. I look around. The patients are catatonic. Drugs. One woman gets up from a chair and vomits into a garbage can. No one moves. I call out for an orderly to help this woman. “Shit,” he says and takes the bag away. I want to die. An orderly with tattooed, bulging biceps, a ring in her belly button, pulls me out of my chair and drags me to a room where there is a shower. She pushes me, knocking my head against the wall. She hands me a brittle washcloth and tells me to wash between my legs. “You’re a WOMAN!” I do not use this cloth but rub a small bar of soap over my legs and armpits. I do not wash my hair. I have no shampoo. I dry myself with a white towel, open the door. The orderly is standing there on the other side of the door. She sprays aerosol from a can all over me. “You mental patients stink,” she growls. All patients must wear a green cotton short-sleeved top with matching pants. I keep my socks on to protect myself from germs. A nurse from France – I can tell by her accent – hands me a sample bottle of Neutrogena shampoo. “Here, this is expensive stuff,” she says in a soft tone, a peaceful glow on her face. Days go by and I look for her, to say hello. She is thoughtful and kind, I think.
“Where is Mark? Is he still alive?” I worry. I sit down next to an elderly man. He wears a damp cloth on his head under a baseball cap. Rubber gloves cover his hands. “Toxic waste!” he shouts in the air.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Hen…Henry,” he mutters. His shoulders are hunched over in front of a round table. Toast, coffee and juice are placed on a tray in front of him.
“I have everything I need,” he says. I see a touch of grace behind his aging skin. His eyes wet, soft and blue like the sea. I see innocence in them still.
“Miss America!” the nur
se who I learn is named Don says to me. “Your boyfriend called. He says he prefers your old self.” I wonder what Don said to Mark. Is nurse Don making up stories about me? There is a phone booth down the hall. I borrow fifty cents to call Mark. He says he will visit today. I wait patiently on a chair by the locked doors, waiting, always waiting. Mark finally walks through the door. He is holding a bouquet of red roses. I stand and smile. His face looks healthy. Rosy cheeks, a face that is well fed. I hug him, he hands me the flowers then puts both hands in his jeans pockets. I escort him to my room which I share with a teenaged aboriginal girl. She drinks Coke, eats chocolate bars and listens to CDs about God stacked up on her side table. Her face is covered in acne. Skin Deep cream sits on her dresser. I tell her she should cut down on sugar consumption. “This will help heal your pimples,” I say.
Mark takes his brown leather jacket off and lowers himself onto the bed. “How are you?” he says.
“The right dose for me is 4 milligrams of Risperdal a day. They took me off Lithium.”
“How’s the doctor?”
“A patient told me to watch out. His nickname is Killer.”
“Oh,” Mark says.
“He’s released patients while they are still disoriented and has left them without prescriptions.”
“I’ll call him,” Mark says. “I want to know about your meds.”
“Killer has a reputation for not returning phone calls.”
“I have to teach tonight, and all this is giving me high blood pressure.”
“I’m sorry, so sorry.” Mark goes into his packsack and takes out a bottle of Pert, a Lady Schick razor and a purple hair brush. He says, “Here.” He then hands me the latest issue of Oprah Magazine. “Didn’t know whether you could read much.”
“I’m feeling better. I can concentrate now,” I say. We stand. I walk him to the exit.
“You know,” I say, “If I were being hospitalized for cancer or some other surgery, I’d get a lot more sympathy. My illness is a chemical imbalance of the brain.” He pauses, then kisses me on the cheek. I squeeze his hand and watch him leave through the door.
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