World of Glass by Jocelyne Dubois

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.
    â€œMiss America!” the nurse 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.
    â€œThe right dose for me is 4 milligrams of Risperdal a day. They took me off Lithium.”
    â€œHow’s the doctor?”
    â€œA patient told me to watch out. His nickname is Killer.”
    â€œOh,” Mark says.
    â€œHe’s released patients while they are still disoriented and has left them without prescriptions.”
    â€œI’ll call him,” Mark says. “I want to know about your meds.”
    â€œKiller has a reputation for not returning phone calls.”
    â€œI have to teach tonight, and all this is giving me high blood pressure.”
    â€œI’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.”
    â€œI’m feeling better. I can concentrate now,” I say. We stand. I walk him to the exit.
    â€œYou 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.
    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 wouldbe 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.
    â€œYour 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.
    â€œHello.”
    â€œHi, it’s Justin. Are they treating you well?”
    â€œSometimes.”
    â€œWrite everything down.”
    â€œWhen 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.
    â€œGot to go,” I say to Justin.
    â€œSo soon?”
    â€œThe 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