World of Glass by Jocelyne Dubois Page B

bus stop.” Mark closes his laptop and gently places it into his black vinyl bag.
    â€œI’ll pay for your coffee,” he says, and walks up to the cash register. The waiter gives him back change and we slowly stroll out the door and onto the gray pavement. I look up at the sky and I see no clouds. Mark takes me to the corner of avenue du Parc and Laurier. The bus approaches. I kiss him on the cheek and say, “See you next week.”
    My mother drinks coffee and smokes Dunhills.
    â€œI made you another sweater.” She shows it to me. It is made of soft emerald green wool. Pure wool.
    â€œIt’s beautiful,” I say. I touch the sweater gently and add, “I can’t wait to wear it.” I plop myself down on the sofa next to her. My mother goes back to knitting.
    â€œI think I made a friend,” I say.
    â€œYou did?”
    â€œHis name is Mark. He’s a poet.”
    â€œYou can’t make money at that,” she says.
    â€œI didn’t ask him what he does for money. We’re going to swim together at the Y.”
    â€œYou’re going to travel all the way downtown just for a swim?”
    â€œNo. It’s to see him too. Besides, I feel better when I go into the city.” I get up slowly and say, “I’m tired,” then head for my bedroom to rest. “It was an eventful day,” I say to myself. I lie down on my unmade bed and think about how I have had no nightmares in three days. I close my eyes and hear sounds coming from the TV. My breathing deepens. Slowly, the noise on the TV fades and I sleep.
    I go to Pharmaprix a block away from home to buy goggles. I do not pick the most expensive ones. Not the sturdy kind that the athletes wear. I find a blue pair of Speedos, the lenses also tinted blue. The price on the box says $9. I pay for it at the cash. Phil Collins sings You Can’t Hurry Love on the store muzak system. Mark invited me to swim even after I told him that I’d had a breakdown, and that I am recovering slowly. He knows this and little else and he still invited me to join him at the pool. I take small steps home. I see a young woman pushing a stroller, then two teenagersin bell-bottomed hip-hugging jeans. One wears a nose ring. They wear matching pink T-shirts. I presume they are best friends. A Toyota Echo zooms by. I breathe in clean air. Exhale. Only a few more feet to my front door.
    I take my medication once in the morning and again in the evening before I go to bed. 900 milligrams of Lithium and 5 milligrams of Risperdal a day. I wish that Dr. Ali would cut down the drugs again soon. I look into the bathroom mirror. I see dark circles around my eyes. I splash cold water onto my face. No soap. I wipe it dry with a small pink hand towel. I splash my face again several times to wash away the dark circles but they will not vanish.
    My mother watches As the World Turns. I yearn for more life. I do not watch TV. Instead, my mind drifts to Mark. I think about his poem. He must have suffered from depression. I remember his low and articulate voice reading this poem to me. I must ask him to read more of his work. The more poems I read, the more I will learn about this man. Tomorrow, I will meet him at the Y at noon.
    I sit on the bus and take out Women and Madness by Phyllis Chesler. A book that Joan sent me. “A classic,” she says. I read the introduction.
    â€œThose suffering from bipolar disorders, depression or schizophrenia often respond to the right drug at the right dosage level. All drugs have negative side effects.” I look down at my left hand. My fingers tremble lightly. Risperdal and Lithium, I think. My eyes travel to the window. The book stays on my lap. It seems academic to me. We areon the bridge over La rivière des Milles Iles. I see a small island; the water is thick and brown. Soon, we will drive through Laval, identical houses all in rows. Mowed lawns, high-rises. I try to go back to reading