CHAPTER 8—PHARMASAVE

Ten in the morning and the blue sky spread hope over Pharmasave. The skies over Toronto never spread hope. They were more of a pressing encasement. She could feel claustrophobic outdoors in Toronto. Suzanne crossed the street outside her building. Home on one corner, Pharmasave on another corner, and Teddy’s, her favourite family restaurant, proximity and the absence of families its appeal, on the other. Her holy trinity.

It snowed overnight, fresh powder glittering on old snowbanks. Car exhaust rose in white plumes; the sidewalks and streets rang clear. She entered the pharmacy and observed a thread of snow whirling by her boots. She watched it dance. In winter all became vivid, God’s design laid bare. She had an ongoing relationship with God, one that she struggled with due to compulsive reading and eviscerating doubt. She stepped over the little snow swirl, not wanting to disturb it.

Pharmasave, unlike Home Depot, housed products and services essential to well-being. Drugs. Vitamins. All the other stuff, optional. Suzanne moseyed down an aisle toward the prescriptions counter, passing various remedies and bulbous contraptions. She gawked at them and shuddered, hoping she would never have a need for a rectal syringe. Opium constipates. She remembered the story of an eighteenth-century writer and his chronic opium use. Toward the end of his life he either vegetated in a narcotic daze or begged friends to give him enemas to relieve his packed intestines. Would Gordon give her an enema if she asked? Frank? Leslie or Pauline? No, save it for John and Jason, give them the privilege. She caught herself drifting into unsavoury territory.

Suzanne drummed on the prescriptions counter. Manny was busy instructing a customer about medication. Manny was like a loveable wisecracking bartender. He knew her. She felt valued and appreciated here. He cared about her. He gave her good advice, words to live by. Take NSAIDs with food. Take birth control pills before bed. Do not operate heavy machinery while on tranquillizers. Yes, he cared. He had finished with the ­customer.

“Yo, bartender!” she said.

Manny scowled. “What can I do for you today? And don’t call me a bartender.”

She produced a prescription from her jacket pocket. “I need drugs. It says so on this piece of paper.”

“It better not be written on a cocktail napkin, like last time.” He looked it over. “Ativan. Two milligrams?” He frowned at her. “Were you in a car accident?”

“Why do people always ask me if I was in a car accident?”

“This is strong stuff.”

“Well, I’ve had panic attacks lately. Dizziness. What’s new around here?”

He shook his head at the scrip. “Nothing much. Sabrina is still on maternity leave. She’ll be back soon.”

“Already? Has nine months gone by already? How about that.”

“Give me ten minutes.”

“Sure. So what else is new?”

Manny forced a smile and turned away from the counter. “Ten minutes,” he said with his back to her.

Once, on a slow day, Manny had talked at length about his life in the former Yugoslavia. You have no clue, he said to her. You were raised in this paradise. You were raised without hatred, without history. You don’t know from pogroms and ethnic cleansing. He grimaced when she kept getting the Serbs and Croats confused. No, she didn’t know, didn’t even know enough about Canada’s own history with indigenous peoples to offer a parallel of some kind. She felt humbled by the tragic stories only a countertop away. When Pierre Elliott Trudeau died some months earlier, Suzanne had rushed to Pharmasave to buy a newspaper. She fought back tears at the checkout counter as the coins fell from her hands. Trudeau was more than a touchstone of her youth, more than a great Prime Minister—he was one of Montreal’s true souls. Stifling a sob, she regarded the cashier. Guessing the South Asian woman was a new Canadian and eager to commiserate, Suzanne pointed at Trudeau’s picture.

“So sad,” Suzanne said. “The passing of Monsieur Trudeau.”

The cashier shrugged.

“Well, when you’re dead, you’re dead.”

A little stunned by the woman’s reply, Suzanne pressed on.

“Yes, he was a great Prime Minister, a citizen of the world.”

“Well, when your number’s up, that’s it.”

Disappointed by her remarks, Suzanne wiped away tears.

Crossing the street, clutching the newspaper, Suzanne had wondered what strife-ridden, war-torn hellhole the woman came from. What was the woman’s story? What had she seen in her life or have handed down to her that would make her so callous? Was human life for her a commodity with death an everyday reality rather than a remote glitch in the plans? It took a few days, but eventually Suzanne found the woman’s remarks very funny. Maybe she was a dyed-in-the-wool conservative and just hated Trudeau for the National Energy Program. This was Alberta, after all.

Now she glanced over at a blood pressure monitor and decided to kill some time checking hers. A panic attack had sent her to an emergency ward a couple of weeks earlier. While watching a violent, nonsensical movie at a downtown Cineplex, her feet had gone numb. After a few minutes the numbness had run up her legs, and her heart palpitated. Dolby THX sound shot around the theatre, gunfire ripping from every direction. Images cut from gun to explosion to bloodied people to fire. Her body in overdrive, she quietly left the cinema, hailed a cab and ever so calmly told the cab driver to get to a hospital in a hurry because she was having a heart attack. Panic attack, another hallmark of addiction, the pamphlets said. Oh well.

She slid into the seat, rolled up her sleeve and put her arm through the blood pressure mechanism. A cushioned strap slowly squeezed her arm, making her veins and arteries pulse. She watched with mild interest as the gauge flashed numbers. Suddenly, an image flared in her mind. Colin in the suicide cage. I’m ready now. Suzanne held her breath. Was he a virgin? The blood pressure reading beeped: 200 over 135.

“Miss Suzanne. Your prescription’s ready,” called Manny.

She stared at the blinking numbers. “Be right there. And don’t worry about putting it in a bag.”