need,â 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.
âMiss America!â the nurse who I learn is named Don says to me. âYour boyfriend called. He says he prefers your old self.â 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. âThis will help heal your pimples,â I say.
Mark takes his brown leather jacket off and lowers himself onto the bed. âHow are you?â he says.
âThe right dose for me is 4 milligrams of Risperdal a day. They took me off Lithium.â
âHowâs the doctor?â
âA patient told me to watch out. His nickname is Killer.â
âOh,â Mark says.
âHeâs released patients while they are still disoriented and has left them without prescriptions.â
âIâll call him,â Mark says. âI want to know about your meds.â
âKiller has a reputation for not returning phone calls.â
âI have to teach tonight, and all this is giving me high blood pressure.â
âIâm sorry, so sorry.â Mark goes into his packsack and takes out a bottle of Pert, a Lady Schick razor and a purple hair brush. He says, âHere.â He then hands me the latest issue of Oprah Magazine . âDidnât know whether you could read much.â
âIâm feeling better. I can concentrate now,â I say. We stand. I walk him to the exit.
âYou know,â I say, âIf I were being hospitalized for cancer or some other surgery, Iâd get a lot more sympathy. My illness is a chemical imbalance of the brain.â 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 wouldnât cost all that much. I think about how helpful a slow movement class first thing in the morning wouldbe to start the patientsâ 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.
âYour mother called,â Don the nurse says. âShe asked if you were overmedicated.â For some reason, they wonât allow me to speak to her. They choose who I can talk to.
Justin phones from Toronto. A nurse calls me into the nurseâs 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.
âHello.â
âHi, itâs Justin. Are they treating you well?â
âSometimes.â
âWrite everything down.â
âWhen will you visit Montréal?â The nurse nudges me and says, âThatâs enough.â Isnât it healthy for a patient to have contact with friends from the outside world? I ask myself.
âGot to go,â I say to Justin.
âSo soon?â
âThe nurse has ordered me to get off the phone.â A hand clutches the receiver and pulls it away from my ear. âYou can go,â she says.
I sit in a chair in my room by the window. I see a parking lot, a picnic table