World of Glass (3 page)

“You not work today?” the Chinese lady says, staring at me as she stands behind the counter. I shake my head and keep my eyes on the woman's hands as she places my purchases in a small grey plastic bag. It is almost summer. In my kitchen, I take a few bites of my croissant, drink a large glass of milk. My stomach turns. I vomit in the toilet. Sun beams through the window. I open my back door and stretch my body over the balcony floor. The sun warms me, but soaks up my energy. I lie there, motionless, like stone.

The phone sits on the floor by my bed. I dial my mother, who lives in Terrebonne. She tells me that, twenty years ago, she had an affair with a married man named John. His wife found out about it, and the affair came to an abrupt end. Two weeks ago, this same man, through intense research, found my mother's phone number. Now they are madly in love. She tells me that his wife died a year ago.

“When will you visit me?” I ask.

“I'm leaving for a few weeks to spend time at John's cottage. I'll come down to see you when I get back.” I do not let her know that I'm no longer working. I will receive my last paycheque in the mail. This will pay for next month's rent. In three weeks, I will ask to borrow money from my mother for food.

“Keep in touch,” I say to her.

Toi, Moi et Café is a twenty-minute walk from my home. I slip on a sleeveless, dark red summer dress. I go there for coffee. The waitress is friendly. She's from Paris and keeps filling my bottomless cup. I sit there, by the window, crushing my burning cigarette into the small white ashtray. My fingers twist a strand of hair. I take out
The Lover
from my purse. I put the book down on the table, unopened. I wonder whether Claude, sitting at his desk in the office, misses me. Have I been replaced by someone who is taller, slimmer, with slick hair? What if Claude walks into this café? Do I say hello or do I turn away? Do I hide my face behind a newspaper? I put change on the table, take my oval sunglasses from a black vinyl case, put them on, then step out the door and stroll down the sidewalk with my head tilted toward the ground. I avoid stepping on cracks.
Break your mother's back.
I see a penny. I stop and pick it up. The date on it is 1954. A long time ago. I make a wish. I wish that Claude will get on his scooter, drive to my apartment, tell me he is in love. But will I answer my door if my bed is unmade and dirty dishes are piled up in the sink? What would he think of my living room, empty, except for books stacked on the floor? Books I have not all read. Books I cannot read now.

I feel curiously lightheaded. I stretch out on my bed. Beads of sweat drip from my forehead and armpits. I am not hungry but I must eat to keep myself alive. I drag myself to the kitchen and grab a McIntosh from a yellow plastic bowl I bought at the dollar store. I bite into the apple, chew, spit, feel the nausea rise then throw it into the garbage. I wet a cloth with water and softly rub sweat from my face. It is too hot and humid to go outdoors and it is even hotter still in this room. I decide to go up the road to Jean Coutu drug store where it is air-conditioned.

I stroll up and down aisles and pick up a large package of Cascade toilet paper. Twenty-four rolls to last me a while. Toilet paper is a necessity, like food and water. I am better in this cool place and sit on a chair for some time by the drug counter. Names are called when prescriptions are ready. I look at one woman. She wears black Spandex pants and a bulky sweater. I think about how hot she must find it outside. Her eyes are glazed. She is handed a large bag filled with pills. “You don't owe us anything,” the pharmacist says as she gives her back a stub of paper. The woman then shuffles slowly down the aisle, her hands trembling as she walks out the door.

“Can I help you?” a middle-aged man wearing a white smock asks.

“No, no… I'm just leaving,” I say. I pay for my toilet paper and walk past shampoos and bubble bath until I reach the outside air. I stroll along avenue Mont-Royal. I tell myself that I am not dressed well enough to enter the boutiques I see. The salesclerks don't say good day to me. They take one look at me and guess that I cannot buy. I begin to move rapidly. My legs move faster and faster. My dress is drenched. My hair, flat. I climb up the stairs to my apartment. I glance into my neighbour's bedroom window. This time, I see a slim short young man. His hair is long and tied back. He is fucking her from behind. He looks up at me through the window. I quickly turn away and run up the stairs. I put the toilet paper down on the bathroom floor. Take out a roll and wipe my face and neck. I prop myself up with pillows as I sit on my bed. The blue blinds that were left behind by the previous tenant are shut to keep the heat of the sun from entering. I play Mozart. My CD player sits on the wooden floor by my bed. My downstairs neighbour pounds at her ceiling with what I presume is a broomstick. I turn down the music and slowly sink into my bed, close
my eyes. My ears ring and I lie there. I close my eyes and see small red and black dots, dancing slowly around inside my eyelids. I do not move, and stay like that until morning.

I fill the bathtub with cool water. My body temperature goes down, but I am not any more alive. I rub goat's milk soap onto a sponge and scrub my armpits and legs. The phone rings six times. My mother should be back from John's cottage. It must be her calling. I look at the kitchen table, and on the bathroom counter for my eyeglasses. They are not there. I am nearsighted. I examine the floor by my bed very closely. What will I do if I cannot find my glasses? I will not be able to go outside. I cannot read street signs or bus numbers. I pick up my jeans from my folding chair. I see my black wire-framed spectacles on the seat and put them on. I do not feel more in control or clearheaded. I play Tom Waits. I go back to bed with pillows propped up on the wall and begin to rock gently back and forth to the beat of the music. I do this until the tape stops. I realize that this activity would seem strange to others. I feel strange. I get up and go to the Dépanneur Café to read newspapers. The place has old wooden tables with chipped paint on them and the walls are covered with art for sale. It is September 11, 2001. I sit in front of a TV, which is turned on. I look at planes crashing into the World Trade Center. My heart pumps blood at an alarming rate. I rush out the door before the waiter gets a chance to serve my coffee. I feel dizzy. It takes all my energy to walk. For a moment, I fear not making it home. I pass a small park. There is a man stretched out on one of the benches. He wears layers of sweaters, and seems to sleep. I quickly turn my head away. I keep walking. I am almost home. Only a few more blocks to go. My feet have blisters. I feel as though my insides are rotting. I climb the stairs to my apartment. I do not look into my neighbour's
window. I fumble in my purse for my keys. They are not in the side pocket where I usually leave them. I panic. I do not have the landlord's number on me. I empty my purse on the front balcony floor. A cascade of coins, my wallet, a tube of lipstick, a hairbrush. I rush down the stairs to my neighbour's door. A youngish woman with long unkempt hair opens the door wearing a plaid housecoat. I see a man walk towards the bathroom, wearing only a pair of grey briefs.

“Sorry to disturb you. I lost my keys. Could I borrow your scissors? I left my window open, and I need to cut the screen to get in.” The woman remains expressionless, goes into her kitchen drawer, comes back and hands me a large pair of scissors. I thank her, climb up the stairs to my front window and cut a large square, large enough to fit my body through. Safe. Home. I can breathe. I see my apartment key by the phone. I slip it into my purse. I call Joan in Toronto. I know her number by heart. Her answering machine picks up after the fourth ring. I do not leave a message. I think of calling Justin but what if his new girlfriend answers? Not enough time has passed for Justin and me to have a civilized talk. He would probably say, “Why are you calling me?” His girlfriend would think that I am undermining their relationship. It would be a mess. My stomach turns. My jeans are loose. I keep pulling them up. I have no appetite. There is nothing more I can do but to try to rest. I curl up in my bed, exhausted, and slowly fade into darkness.

I open my eyes and glance at my watch. It is seven a.m. I stay curled up on my bed wishing that I could sleep forever. I turn the radio on. The dial is set to Radio Canada. They are talking about the suicide bombers, The World Trade Center. “4,000 killed, melted by flames. Annihilated!” They
say. I think about all those people who went to work that morning. I do not have a TV but remember that Café Olympico has one. I dress. Black T-shirt, black jeans. I head over to the café. Crowds gather around a large screen. I order a café latté. It comes in a tall glass. People are talking and I cannot make out what the reporters are saying on the TV. I see smoke on the screen. I think of all those people jumping out of windows. I feel sicker. I put my half-empty latté on the counter and squeeze my body through the crowd, push the front door open and take a deep, deep breath. My legs are shaking. I take another deep breath, exhale and walk home. Almost everyone I pass on the street is talking about the World Trade Center. I feel as though I am dying like them, my body disintegrating. No one will talk about my disappearance for long. I am invisible to everyone I pass. I climb my stairs and glance into my neighbour's window. The bed is unmade, but there is no one there. Perhaps she is in her living room watching the news on her TV. I unlock my door and light a Rothmans. I take a puff. My lungs hurt. I crush my cigarette half-smoked into my small, round glass ashtray. There is a half-eaten banana on my kitchen counter. The peel has brown spots on it. I eat it even though I prefer my bananas all yellow. I forgot to put a peel from yesterday into the garbage. It sits on the kitchen counter. I pace the hallway. Up and down. I am wearing shoes. My heels click-clack on the hardwood floor. The neighbour downstairs pounds once more on her ceiling with a broom. I sit, slip my shoes off and leave them there, in the middle of the hall. I am cool. I put on an old blue sweater and turn the heat up. I brush my hair, one hundred strokes. I pick up
The Lover
, put it down. I take a large bowl filled with coins and roll the pennies. I spend the rest of the day doing this, until I have rolled $22. This will buy bread, margarine, fruit and cigarettes.

I stay in bed all day, curled up in my white duvet. Eyes closed. I can't get up. I want to die, want to die. My eyes open. I need to get out. “Come back!” I scream. Cries come from deep within my chest. “Come back!” “Come back!” I pick up the phone by my bed.

“Mom! Help me.”

“What's going on?” she asks.

“Come. Please come now!”

CHAPTER II

I
STAND ALONE IN
a small room with a blue gown and paper slippers on. Bare eggshell walls. No windows. There is a single mattress on the floor, covered with a thin white cotton blanket. I walk over to the mattress and sit on it. I keep my eyeglasses on and slip under the covers. I curl my body in the shape of a foetus. The blanket is over my head. I want to sleep. I can't. Heart pounds. Can't breathe. I stay like this for what seems like hours. My legs ache. I can't find the strength to stand. Someone comes into the room.

“I'm Betty. Your nurse for the day.”

“Where am I?”

“You're in Isolation.”

“Why?”

“Don't ask questions. Sit up.” I raise myself from the bed.

“Here.” She holds a green pill in one hand and a paper cup in the other.

“What is it?”

“A little something to make you feel better.” I swallow the pill with the water from the cup. Betty watches very closely to make sure I have taken it.

“Good,” she says then leaves the empty room, locking the door behind her. I am in darkness. It is quiet. My eyes remain open under the blanket. It is cold. I tremble but I do not move. I want a sleeping pill. Something to really knock me out. For a moment, I wish for someone to take me in their
arms. Hold me close. Tears roll down my cheeks and wet the pillow. I pinch my arm to see if I am alive. I feel the sharp pain on my skin. I am thirsty. In my mind's eye, I picture a tall glass of water. My mouth is dry and pasty. The nurse will surely be by again soon, I tell myself. For a long time, all I can do is stare.

I stay this way for days. Food is brought to me on a plastic tray. Cold spaghetti. Burnt hamburger patties. Canned vegetables. I do not eat, but drink water from the Styrofoam cup. An orderly opens the door. I don't know what time of day it is.

“Time for a shower!” My hair is stringy and my skin is in need of water and soap. I get up slowly. Try to move my lips to speak, but I can't. Mute. My knees are stiff. I follow him down the hall to the shower stall. He hands me a white towel and a small bar of soap and goes away. I take my gown off and turn on the water. It takes a long time to heat up. I step in. It stays lukewarm. I wash my hair and skin. The water trickles over me, but I am not refreshed. I turn off the water and rub myself with the towel. It is rough on my skin. I put on a clean gown that the orderly has left on the counter. Betty walks in and says, “You're ready for the dayroom.” I follow her down a hall and into a large room with an old blue sofa, a pool table, plastic chairs and a large orange rocking chair. A few patients shuffle around. I see a room with large glass windows. The nurses' quarters. They sit and watch our every move. I want a cigarette. I walk up to an orderly and ask him for one. He takes a Players out from his shirt pocket. He lights it with a Bic lighter then hands it to me. I take a puff and pace the floor. I look around me. I see a young man rocking in a chair. His eyes are shut. He is banging the back of his head against the wall. He hums and
hums. His face is round and his cheeks sunken. He seems tense, so tense. I imagine his blood, hot and rushing inside his head. A middle-aged man, his hair long and knotted, sleeps on the dirty blue sofa. He wears a thick brown sweater. His jeans are ripped at the knees. He wears no shoes. Snoring sounds come from deep within. His lips tremble lightly. His arms rest on a faded blue packsack crushed against his chest. A frail woman weeps uncontrollably. Her hands cover her face. She is facing the off-white wall. What is she crying about? I wonder. I want to go up to her, but instead I turn my head the other way. I am nervous. Always nervous.
I want to get out! I want out!
Betty walks up to me and hands me another pill.