World of Glass by Jocelyne Dubois Page B

me on the lips.
    â€œYou smell nice,” he says, then strokes my waist, lifts me in his arms and carries me to our unmade bed, six pillows scattered around. I am surprised that he has enough strength in his arms to carry my weight. I can tell that he is hungry. He kisses my cheeks and licks my earlobe. He strokes my waist gently. I wrap my legs around his hips. I listen to his breathing. My skin begins to tingle; he can’t wait any longer. He comes and I am pleased to make him happy. We hold each other. My head rests on his shoulder. “I love you,” he says while caressing my hair. Then he rolls over and falls fast asleep. I curl up next to him and listen to his breathing for a few minutes, then get up and make dinner. Mushrooms and truffle oil crêpes in a béchamel sauce. I am calm. I sit at the kitchen table, gaze at the orchids and think about how grateful I am.
    I volunteer two afternoons a week at a drop-in centre for elderly people who suffer from early onset of Alzheimer’s or other dementias. Many are in wheelchairs. We do crosswords, play Trivial Pursuit and I lead exercise classes. We sit in chairs, point and flex our feet and drop our arms. We do this to Frank Sinatra. There is one woman who can’t follow. She shakes her head and mumbles. I have never heard her speak a word. One wall is filled with drawings and watercolours. Trees, flowers, grandchildren. Art classes are on Fridays. The art teacher treats these seniors like children. “Keep your bibs on, otherwiseyou’ll dirty your clothes.” “That’s good, Frank, now clean your brush with water!” The elderly do not seem to mind being talked down to. They are tired. Their bones hurt, their illnesses make them fragile. These men and women have lived full lives, but few can tell their stories. I listen to those who can. This, I am good at. One lady says, “I’m Jewish. My father died in a concentration camp.” This she says over and over. I arrange the pillows around her head. “That’s better,” she says. I try to bring them happiness. I tell jokes. Some laugh. I feel I am doing something worthy. There is always an empty seat for me on the bus when I go home. I am tired at the end of the day. I close my eyes and listen to the hum of bus and cars until I get off at the bottom of my street. The next day, I call in sick. Talk to the supervisor. I tell her I am bipolar.
    â€œAre you a danger to others?” she asks.
    â€œNot at all.”
    â€œLast night there was a show on bipolar illness on ER. The man there was scary. You know, I’m responsible for these elders.” I realize once again that there is a stigma, misunderstanding. “I’m a little tired, that’s all,” I say. I never get called to volunteer again. I learn not to tell strangers.
    I am in love with Mark. His poetry, his flat foot. I am in love with his voice. His words, gentle, always gentle. He works on his blog until 3 a.m. I lie in bed wearing blue flannel pajamas, dreaming. He never wakes me when he climbs over me and slips on his respirator. Since he bought this machine, he stopped snoring and feels refreshed when he wakes up. “I bought it for us, so that we can sleep together through the night,” he says. I get up at six a.m. and chant the words nam-myoho-renge-kyo quietly in front of Mark’sbutsudan for peace and happiness. For calm. Harmony. I look at our plants in the living room. They have grown. I notice one dead leaf on our vine covering the side of the bookshelf. I pinch it off with my fingers.
    I break my remaining cigarettes in half and throw them into the garbage, except for one. I celebrate smoking my last Rothmans. Drink wine and puff gently until it burns the filter. Now, I shower, brush my teeth. Stick a Nicoderm patch on my upper arm. I pace from room to room while I suck on a cinnamon stick. Twenty years of smoke in my lungs, breath, hair. Yellowed teeth. I will