MY APARTMENT IS ALMOST empty. A futon, rows of books stacked against the wall in the living room, a round table in the kitchen. Narrow shelves hang from the wall where I put one drinking glass, three mugs and two porcelain plates. Clothes hang in the bedroom closet. No stove or fridge. Drafts of poems and stories on the table. It is six-thirty a.m. and I am getting ready for my first day at Gloss. I shower behind dollar store curtains and leave a small puddle on the bathroom tiles. I throw a towel over the water and step onto it. My hair is wet and stringy washed. I blow-dry it and this gives it body, they say. I slip on a light blue wool dress and black tights, then clip on a pair of large loops to my ears. I am thirty and I know no one in this city.
I get out of the Métro at Henri-Bourassa, the end of the line. I walk briskly. It is cold. February. Snow and ice are stuck to the sidewalk. My brown leather jacket isn’t warm enough. I shiver from cold and nerves. I curl my fingertips into the palms of my hands to keep them from freezing. I walk past grey and brown brick buildings and one factory. I remove a small white sheet of lined paper from my coat pocket. Thirty is the address. I climb two flights of stairs and I open a windowless door. My stomach is in knots. “C’est toi!” a young man says. His hair is short and he has a smile that reveals a chipped front tooth. “Je t’ai vu dans mon Keicar, tu marchais sur le trottoir,” he adds, then trips on the flat grey carpet, blushes and turns away. I don’t feel like me here. This blue dress I am wearing. I don’t know how to walk comfortably in it. I check myself in the mirror. My cheeks are red from the cold outside. My fingers are stiff. I smile.
An older man, about fifty, escorts me to a beige desk facing a light green divider. A calendar with a picture of a ski hill is pinned to it.
“There’s a lot of potential here,” he says as he hands me a brand new issue of Gloss. I leaf through it and notice full page ads for Clinique mascara, Guess Jeans and Obsession by Calvin Klein. My fingers slide on the shiny paper. There are more photographs than printed words. I glance at articles on plastic surgery, an entertainment guide, restaurant, movie, theatre reviews. A city magazine, partly local advertising base. My head spins lightly for a moment, as I will be contributing to Gloss’ survival. I now must be responsible as I must bring in ads. I must now make money for Gloss and me. I think about my last job, placing books onto shelves in the children’s section of the library. Taking them down for people and putting them back. Now, I have a chance to save up for a pretty lamp and a computer. Maybe buy myself a warmer coat. I look good with this dress on, my burgundy leather pumps, polished. No one can tell that this is the only nice dress I own. I also have one long black cotton skirt with a slit open to the knee, and a few silk blouses that I picked up at Renaissance for $4 each. When I bought them, I wondered whether they were given away to the store after “she” had died. I am very likely wearing dead people’s clothes. I wonder for a moment what the woman who wore this dress was like. Did she wear it while she was sick? What did she die of? How old was she? She must have been like me – at least, her taste in clothes.
On my lap is a large black vinyl briefcase filled with magazines and white and red business cards with my name on them. I sit on a bus, almost empty, and rehearse in my head what I will say to convince store owners on rue St-Denis, Laurier and the fancy boutiques in Westmount to believe in me, to invest in Gloss. I descend from the bus and brush my hair back with my fingertips. I stand in front of a store window filled with exclusive children’s clothing, furniture and toys. I walk in. “Can I help you?” an elegant middle-aged woman asks. I smile, put the latest issue of Gloss on the cash register counter. I slip a business card inside. I tell her about our upscale magazine. I tell her she must advertise in Gloss. I guarantee increased sales. She says she’ll think about it. I walk away feeling hopeful. It is noon. I rush over to avenue du Parc for a steamed hot dog and fries. I sip on black coffee to help keep me vibrant. I don’t believe in Gloss, I tell myself. I take out a Rothmans from my small black leather bag. I take a puff, then another and another while I drink my sugarless coffee. I take the bus and Métro back to the office.
Claude sits at his desk making calls to contributors. He prepares the next issue of Gloss. He’s in charge of editorial content, deals with photographers, writers, artists. I take the phone and dial Zone Coiffure to speak to the manager. He’s not in, they tell me. While Claude is talking, he stares at me right in the eyes. I glance up and down, pinstriped grey suit and shiny black shoes, round-toed with laces. His tie is red. He puts the phone down and says, “Belle robe.” I say, “Merci.” He strolls over to my desk and rests his arms on it. I notice black hair on his hands. I look up. He has a three-day-old beard. He is clean with a tinge of scruffiness. His eyeglasses are the latest in fashion. Black, metal and rectangular. “Pierre Cardin,” they say on the arm. My contact lenses are tinted green. I can tell he knows that they’re not my natural colour by the way he keeps staring at them with his forehead creased.
“Can you score an ad for Marie Chouinard’s show at Place des Arts?” he asks at the same moment that I glance at a preview of this show in Gloss. I point at the article and say, “But this becomes advertisement.”
“You can try anyway,” he replies. His voice is low and strong, similar to the ones you hear on the radio. He looks again at my dress. I will never tell him where I bought it. I cross my legs covered with black tights. Claude walks back to his desk a few feet away. He sits, bends down to polish his shoes with a Kleenex.
It is 5 p.m. I say “Bonsoir” to Claude and stand by his desk for a few seconds, secretly wishing that he would ask me to stay to talk. Instead, he says “Bye” as he types on the computer keyboard, never taking his eyes off the screen.
The walls in my apartment are a soft grey. I pick up The Lover, by Marguerite Duras, from the living room floor. I have read this book at least a half dozen times. I open the book to page one and read: “One day, I was already old, in the entrance of a public place a man came up to me. He introduced himself and said, ‘I’ve known you for years. Everyone says you were beautiful when you were young, but I want to tell you I think you’re more beautiful now than then. Rather than your face as a young woman, I prefer your face as it is now. Ravaged’.” My mind then drifts to Claude. I picture his round face, his slightly chipped front tooth, well-groomed hair and tight smile. I get up from my chair and slide a disc into my CD player. Glenn Gould fills the air: he’s playing Bach. I remove my blue dress and throw on a pair of faded jeans, thick white socks and a green turtleneck sweater. I take a ham and cheese sandwich on a croissant from a brown paper bag that I picked up at the dépanneur across the street. My teeth bite into the sandwich but I don’t taste the food. I’m not hungry and eat only because I have to. The music brings on chills. The heat in my apartment is turned low. I slip under the bedcovers, close my eyes and absorb the music. It stops. I think about what to wear tomorrow. The skirt and one of the blouses I bought at Renaissance. I remember that I own a sample bottle of Chanel perfume. I will put on my one and only pair of silver earrings that I bought several years ago and wore once. The music stops. The lamp by my bed is on and bothers my eyes. I turn it off. The room now is dark and silent except for the sound of cars passing by on the street. I fall slowly into a deep, deep sleep.
Claude walks by my desk. I give him a wide smile. He nods. He can’t be more than thirty. I pick up a bunch of back issues of Gloss from a cardboard box, put them in my briefcase and take the Métro to Peel. I step into Holt Renfrew. The air smells of stale perfumes. I look at the salesclerks behind the cosmetic counters. They are young, slim, and their faces are covered with foundation, lipstick and blush, not a strand of hair out of place. I think for a moment about my thin and limp hair, as I pass a product called “Physique.” On the bottle I read, “Straight and Control Shampoo.” I grab one and pay $9.95 at the cash register before taking the elevator up to see the marketing director. My fingernails are chewed and short. My breath, I’m sure, reeks of cigarettes. I take out a wintergreen breath saver from my coat pocket, place it on my tongue and suck. The elevator doors slide open on the sixth floor. I remove my leather coat, straighten my blouse and skirt. The palms of my hands are damp. I quickly wipe them dry with my yellow woollen scarf. I will be convincing. Holt’s is the kind of client Gloss wants. A full page ad on the next back cover. This is what I’m aiming for. The marketing director wears a black suit and purple tie. I give him a copy of Gloss. I tell him that this is an upscale magazine. I show him that Ogilvy has advertised in this issue. He says he’ll call. I give him my business card, shake his cold hand firmly and leave.
I stand at the coffee machine and pour a black coffee into a stained white mug. Claude stands behind me. His breath tickles my neck. I turn around. We stand in silence, my eyes fixed on his black shirt. I blink several times. He breathes in, I hold my own breath in. For a moment, my head feels faint. I look up at his face; his eyes shine and penetrate mine. My heart beats with fear and joy. I feel my feet lift from the ground. I turn away. Claude rushes back to his desk. I quickly make a few calls to book appointments with Boutique Comfort, a jewellery store called Argent Tonic, Spa de Molinard, and Blitz Coiffure. I plan my meetings thirty minutes apart from each other since these stores are on Laurier, all in a row. It seems easy for me now. I have learned what to say and how to say it.
A woman with round-rimmed glasses and long thick brown hair with a few green streaks hands me my first paycheque. I leave but with Claude always present in my mind’s eye. I take the Métro to avenue Mont-Royal. First I stop into the bank, then I drop into Boutique Plato and spot a wide brown leather hip belt. It fits perfectly. There are many dresses to choose from and I pick the tight yellow woollen one that falls slightly above the knee. The belt goes with the dress. This costs $109. I don’t care. There will be many more paycheques and an abundance of commissions. Snow on the ground melts. I pass Zen Fleuriste and walk in and buy a purple rose for my kitchen table. I will put it in a tall glass until I find a vase I truly like. I walk to Laurier and make it to my appointments on time. I walk away at the end of the day with two small ads. I am pleased. On the bus, I scribble the names of stores I pass, in my block notepad. Many more advertisements for Gloss. Success for Claude and me.
As I walk up the stairs to my third storey apartment, I peek into my neighbour’s curtainless bedroom window. She is having sex with a large man. He is on top, missionary position. I blush; they do not see me and I run up the stairs, turn the key, step in and put my large shopping bag down in the hallway. I look around my apartment. In one month, I will invite Claude over for a glass of red wine. First, I need to buy a sofa and a few chairs to match my kitchen table. Wine glasses. The phone rings. I do not pick it up. Could it be Claude? A long distance call from Joan or Justin? I am not ready for Claude. I am not ready for love. But I am in love. I have fallen drunkenly in love and this makes me feel sick.
I am outdoors for most of the day. I feel the sun, think “golden brown.” I am on Ste-Catherine Street and walk into La Baie. I look for nail polish. How messy my nails would be if I bit into the colour. I want them to grow round and smooth.
A salesclerk with long, well-crafted red nails greets me at the Lise Watier counter. I rest my eyes on magenta. The salesclerk looks at my stubby nails and takes out cardboard nail files from behind the counter. She says that my nails will look better if I file them down. I put down a twenty dollar bill. She hands me back $6.35. This will pay for my lunch. I will see Claude later, later this afternoon, but first I must go back to the office with an ad for Gloss. After my lunch, I wipe the corners of my mouth with a white napkin, put on a bit of lipstick, then stroll over to the counter to speak to the manager. I put the latest issue of Gloss on the counter. I feel confident. The words flow and I am convincing. I walk away with a small colour ad for the upcoming issue.
I am young still. I belong in this city. The French language. La langue du coeur. I send a note to Joan in Toronto on a card with an abstract drawing in pastels. I tell her that I want her to visit. I also send the same card to Justin. I say that I am sorry, so sorry but we will be friends, forever. I speak French to Claude and to everyone in this city. This creates a new person in me. The way my laugh comes from deep within. What I say has more conviction. My arms and face are far more expressive. The clothes I wear are slick. I put a little gel in my hair to keep strands in place. I don’t really know who I am becoming.
Claude glides up to my desk. Stops. The chemistry smells perfect. I gaze at his eyes, hidden behind eyeglasses, and my head slowly droops. I am faint, weak. He moves to kiss me on the lips but as he approaches me, he suddenly hesitates, takes a deep breath, but doesn’t utter a word.
“Il y a un scooter dans le stationnement, est-ce à toi?” I ask.
“Oui,” he says. I would like to own a scooter. A black one. I picture Claude and me riding side by side all over the city streets. It would be an improvement over my six-year-old bicycle that I spray-painted powder blue to cover rust and scratches. If I owned a scooter, I would only have to travel by Métro in winter. But my hair would tangle into knots from wind and rain. My hair would be unmanageable, so I couldn’t ride my scooter to work. I couldn’t take it to my appointments. My hair must be well-groomed for my job. Perhaps I cannot own a scooter. Claude would see me, my hair messed up. But when he stays with me – overnight, and he will soon – yes soon, he will see my angel-textured hair, flat, thin and out of place when he opens his eyes in early morning light. I will worry about it on that day, the day we drink wine from my long-stemmed glasses, the day I have replaced my faded sheets with bright, fresh, crisp ones.
I win over the manager of a Second Cup and walk away with a small ad with only the words “Second Cup” on it, in the colour gold. Le chemin doré, I tell myself. The golden road.
At home, I take out the pink razor from the bathroom drawer. I begin to shave my legs and cut myself. Blood trickles down my leg. I wipe it up with toilet paper. I forgot to buy shaving cream. I stop. I will remove my stubby hair, all of it, tomorrow. I put on a pair of jeans and think about the ones I saw in a store window. Hip huggers, bell bottomed, bleached. They cost $120. I flip through the latest issue of Gloss and see the same jeans on a young woman. She is thin, very thin. I look down at my stomach and take a deep breath. My muscles hold it in. This is how it will be. Tomorrow, I will diet. I want these jeans to look as good on me as they do on this model. I want Claude to prefer me over her.
It is Saturday. Joan visits from Toronto. I buy her a red-beaded necklace. I tell her I’m in love. She says, “You don’t know him.” I say, “I do, I do.” Joan wears tight black pants and a short green top, showing off her belly button. She tells me she’s started to produce documentaries. Moved up from being an administrative assistant. “One day, I will write, direct and produce my own,” she adds. I take her out for a smoked meat sandwich at Ben’s. She says she’s happy that I’m making money. She says that I look good, then, finally, adds that she is three months pregnant and will keep the child. Will I have a baby with Claude? Joan places her hand over mine on the restaurant table.
“Take it slowly,” she says. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t realize how certain I am. That evening, she reads The Mirror. I look at Voir, and take note of ads that might be appropriate for Gloss. She reads my horoscope out loud: “On your way to becoming a big shot? Behaving like one certainly opens doors. As Venus is about to leave your opposite sign, it’s wise to make the best of things before the door closes.” She then stretches out on the bed and falls asleep. The phone rings. I do not answer. Could it be Claude? I dial star 69 to get the number. It is not a number I recognize. I turn out the light and slip between the covers, beside Joan. She sleeps deeply. I hear the sound of her breath coming from deep within her chest. My eyes remain open but all I see is blackness. The next day, I accompany Joan to the train station. I hug her, tell her our visit was too short and that I’m happy that she is going to have the baby. She says that she is going to raise this child alone. She wants the baby, not the father. For a moment, I think about how courageous she is. I hold her tight once more. “I love you,” I say.
I get out of bed, pick up a pen, think of Claude, then jot down the words, “I cannot wash off what is perfect.” I wear my new yellow dress and belt. Coffee drips from a brown plastic filter that sits on top of my large mug. I keep pouring water from my kettle into the filter until the mug is full. I will go to the office first. Pick up more magazines. Make a few calls. I will see Claude. He will see my new dress. I take the purple rose from my kitchen table. The petals are limp, but it has life in it still. I stand in the Métro, holding the rose in one hand and a pole in the other. The train is crowded. No smiles. A man standing next to me coughs with his hand over his mouth, then holds on to the pole again. The same pole I am holding. I fear catching his cold so I move a few feet away from him and grip another one. I look around. A few people have their eyes closed. A young man listens to his Walkman. His head nods up and down. A few read Le Journal de Montréal, one man in a grey suit flips through La Presse. The air is stale. I have trouble breathing. I look at the Métro map on the wall. Three more stops to go before I exit.
Claude is not at his desk. I place the rose on top of a few press releases. On a note pad, I write my home number neatly, draw a large heart and sign my name, “Chloé.” The publisher calls me into his office, congratulates me on the good job I am doing. He doesn’t know about Claude and me. He wouldn’t approve. I would surely get fired. I leave the office as I have appointments all around town. I get one ad and another. I stop in at the SAQ but know nothing about wines. I go to the “Foreign” section and pick up a bottle of Medea, Algerian wine for only $9.95. I will open this bottle with Claude when I invite him soon to my place. First, I must buy glasses and of course, sheets. I will buy these items as soon as I receive my next paycheque, in a week. I have spent most of my last one. Just enough left for a few meals, bus tickets and a small pack of Rothmans. At home, I take out my lined paper. I grab a pen. My hand burns and I write:
HOT SUMMER NIGHT
A jazz beat plays through a speaker
in the background. I hear the music
from my balcony while I watch fireworks
blazing in the sky. The moon is full,
a few grey clouds around the moon, dancing.
I see your hair and eyes on a cloud,
through my kitchen window, between my bed
sheets. Your scent, skin colour, your
unshaven, shaven beard – chemistry spells
perfect. My body perspires. I desire.
I remember when we remained motionless,
our faces scarcely touching, without
a word, for a long time and then you touched
my pores, my heart. When I touched
you, you stayed on the palms of my hands.
I looked at my hands and thought that you
were perfect.
I cannot wash off what is perfect, what
shines like crystal, something more than
wind, stronger than rain, more solid than
stone.
I slip the poem into a white envelope. At work, I place it on Claude’s desk. A day goes by. No response. I’m crushed.
My neighbours play Led Zeppelin. My head pounds. I slide Jacques Brel in to drown the music next door. I take out my nail polish and files that I picked up at La Baie. First, I paint my toenails, then file down my fingernails until they are round and smooth. The doorbell rings. I open the front door but there is no one there. I check the mailbox. It is empty. Did the bell really ring? Or maybe there is a sound that resembles a doorbell in the music that plays next door? Perhaps Claude rang. I imagine him ringing and vanishing. I will never know for sure. I walk back to the bathroom and sit on the toilet with the lid down. I go through my makeup bag. I do not use most of what I own. I throw away mascara and purple and blue eye shadow that have sat in this bag, unused, for a long, long time. I keep two shades of red and pink lipstick, blush and a brown eyeliner pencil. I look at my face in the mirror above the bathroom sink. I do not have a smoker’s face yet. I open my mouth wide and examine my teeth. They are straight but stained light yellow from nicotine and tar. Tomorrow, I will buy whitening toothpaste, the one with baking soda in it that I saw advertised in Gloss. I will remember to take note of Claude’s teeth, his fingernails. I prefer short, stubby nails on men. Claude probably clips his once a week. I lift my T-shirt, and look down at the large scar covering my left breast. I cannot hide this from Claude. The first time we have sex must be in complete darkness, or I will keep my white lace undershirt on. He cannot discover this. He will surely think that I am a monster. I pull my T-shirt down. It is mid-May. It will be mild enough tomorrow for my cotton sweater. No coats tomorrow. I will also wear my black open-toed sandals. Magenta on my toenails.
A young man walks into the office carrying a camera and a large black shoulder bag. A beautiful young woman strolls beside him.
“I’m here to sign the contract,”he says to the receptionist. As they walk by my desk, I ask, “Will you be shooting the cover of our next issue?”
“Yes. This is Lola,” he says. They strut over to Claude’s desk. The young woman lifts her head up high. Her nose points to the ceiling, almost. Claude looks up and his eyes freeze at Lola’s thick, pouty, rounded, kissable lips. I hear her giggle. She is no more than seventeen. Her sleek, shiny skin is revealed by a low-cut tank top sticking to her small breasts. A hip-hugging miniskirt enhances her long, long legs. Claude can’t take his eyes off her. She gives him a shy smile. They flirt and flirt and flirt. I suddenly feel plain and small. I grab my briefcase and rush out the door. I am steaming. My head hurts. I get off the Métro, walk into a drugstore and pick up Straightening gel for damaged hair. Lola’s hair is slick and shiny. I wonder what product she uses? I have lost weight, not because I am eating less, but because my nerves are burning the flesh from my body.
I walk past shops on St-Denis but I do not go inside. I must take the day off. I will make myself a cup of tea and rest.
The Lover sits on my kitchen table. I pick it up. I see words on the printed page but can’t make sense out of them. I will not return to work. I feel small, so small. I rest my head on my flat pillow, close my eyes and drift.
I do not call Gloss to tell them that I’m not coming back. My phone rings at 9:30 a.m. I let it ring. I get up to make coffee. I do not bathe or wash my hair. My neighbour knocks at my back door and hands me clothes that I had washed in the bathtub and hung to dry on the clothesline some days ago. “I need to use the line,” she says. I do not feel like speaking to anyone. I do not want to see anybody. I throw on a pair of jeans and a faded T-shirt, and walk across the street to the dépanneur to buy milk and cigarettes.
“You not work today?” the Chinese lady says, staring at me as she stands behind the counter. I shake my head and keep my eyes on the woman’s hands as she places my purchases in a small grey plastic bag. It is almost summer. In my kitchen, I take a few bites of my croissant, drink a large glass of milk. My stomach turns. I vomit in the toilet. Sun beams through the window. I open my back door and stretch my body over the balcony floor. The sun warms me, but soaks up my energy. I lie there, motionless, like stone.
The phone sits on the floor by my bed. I dial my mother, who lives in Terrebonne. She tells me that, twenty years ago, she had an affair with a married man named John. His wife found out about it, and the affair came to an abrupt end. Two weeks ago, this same man, through intense research, found my mother’s phone number. Now they are madly in love. She tells me that his wife died a year ago.
“When will you visit me?” I ask.
“I’m leaving for a few weeks to spend time at John’s cottage. I’ll come down to see you when I get back.” I do not let her know that I’m no longer working. I will receive my last paycheque in the mail. This will pay for next month’s rent. In three weeks, I will ask to borrow money from my mother for food.
“Keep in touch,” I say to her.
Toi, Moi et Café is a twenty-minute walk from my home. I slip on a sleeveless, dark red summer dress. I go there for coffee. The waitress is friendly. She’s from Paris and keeps filling my bottomless cup. I sit there, by the window, crushing my burning cigarette into the small white ashtray. My fingers twist a strand of hair. I take out The Lover from my purse. I put the book down on the table, unopened. I wonder whether Claude, sitting at his desk in the office, misses me. Have I been replaced by someone who is taller, slimmer, with slick hair? What if Claude walks into this café? Do I say hello or do I turn away? Do I hide my face behind a newspaper? I put change on the table, take my oval sunglasses from a black vinyl case, put them on, then step out the door and stroll down the sidewalk with my head tilted toward the ground. I avoid stepping on cracks. Break your mother’s back. I see a penny. I stop and pick it up. The date on it is 1954. A long time ago. I make a wish. I wish that Claude will get on his scooter, drive to my apartment, tell me he is in love. But will I answer my door if my bed is unmade and dirty dishes are piled up in the sink? What would he think of my living room, empty, except for books stacked on the floor? Books I have not all read. Books I cannot read now.
I feel curiously lightheaded. I stretch out on my bed. Beads of sweat drip from my forehead and armpits. I am not hungry but I must eat to keep myself alive. I drag myself to the kitchen and grab a McIntosh from a yellow plastic bowl I bought at the dollar store. I bite into the apple, chew, spit, feel the nausea rise then throw it into the garbage. I wet a cloth with water and softly rub sweat from my face. It is too hot and humid to go outdoors and it is even hotter still in this room. I decide to go up the road to Jean Coutu drug store where it is air-conditioned.
I stroll up and down aisles and pick up a large package of Cascade toilet paper. Twenty-four rolls to last me a while. Toilet paper is a necessity, like food and water. I am better in this cool place and sit on a chair for some time by the drug counter. Names are called when prescriptions are ready. I look at one woman. She wears black Spandex pants and a bulky sweater. I think about how hot she must find it outside. Her eyes are glazed. She is handed a large bag filled with pills. “You don’t owe us anything,” the pharmacist says as she gives her back a stub of paper. The woman then shuffles slowly down the aisle, her hands trembling as she walks out the door.
“Can I help you?” a middle-aged man wearing a white smock asks.
“No, no… I’m just leaving,” I say. I pay for my toilet paper and walk past shampoos and bubble bath until I reach the outside air. I stroll along avenue Mont-Royal. I tell myself that I am not dressed well enough to enter the boutiques I see. The salesclerks don’t say good day to me. They take one look at me and guess that I cannot buy. I begin to move rapidly. My legs move faster and faster. My dress is drenched. My hair, flat. I climb up the stairs to my apartment. I glance into my neighbour’s bedroom window. This time, I see a slim short young man. His hair is long and tied back. He is fucking her from behind. He looks up at me through the window. I quickly turn away and run up the stairs. I put the toilet paper down on the bathroom floor. Take out a roll and wipe my face and neck. I prop myself up with pillows as I sit on my bed. The blue blinds that were left behind by the previous tenant are shut to keep the heat of the sun from entering. I play Mozart. My CD player sits on the wooden floor by my bed. My downstairs neighbour pounds at her ceiling with what I presume is a broomstick. I turn down the music and slowly sink into my bed, close my eyes. My ears ring and I lie there. I close my eyes and see small red and black dots, dancing slowly around inside my eyelids. I do not move, and stay like that until morning.
I fill the bathtub with cool water. My body temperature goes down, but I am not any more alive. I rub goat’s milk soap onto a sponge and scrub my armpits and legs. The phone rings six times. My mother should be back from John’s cottage. It must be her calling. I look at the kitchen table, and on the bathroom counter for my eyeglasses. They are not there. I am nearsighted. I examine the floor by my bed very closely. What will I do if I cannot find my glasses? I will not be able to go outside. I cannot read street signs or bus numbers. I pick up my jeans from my folding chair. I see my black wire-framed spectacles on the seat and put them on. I do not feel more in control or clearheaded. I play Tom Waits. I go back to bed with pillows propped up on the wall and begin to rock gently back and forth to the beat of the music. I do this until the tape stops. I realize that this activity would seem strange to others. I feel strange. I get up and go to the Dépanneur Café to read newspapers. The place has old wooden tables with chipped paint on them and the walls are covered with art for sale. It is September 11, 2001. I sit in front of a TV, which is turned on. I look at planes crashing into the World Trade Center. My heart pumps blood at an alarming rate. I rush out the door before the waiter gets a chance to serve my coffee. I feel dizzy. It takes all my energy to walk. For a moment, I fear not making it home. I pass a small park. There is a man stretched out on one of the benches. He wears layers of sweaters, and seems to sleep. I quickly turn my head away. I keep walking. I am almost home. Only a few more blocks to go. My feet have blisters. I feel as though my insides are rotting. I climb the stairs to my apartment. I do not look into my neighbour’s window. I fumble in my purse for my keys. They are not in the side pocket where I usually leave them. I panic. I do not have the landlord’s number on me. I empty my purse on the front balcony floor. A cascade of coins, my wallet, a tube of lipstick, a hairbrush. I rush down the stairs to my neighbour’s door. A youngish woman with long unkempt hair opens the door wearing a plaid housecoat. I see a man walk towards the bathroom, wearing only a pair of grey briefs.
“Sorry to disturb you. I lost my keys. Could I borrow your scissors? I left my window open, and I need to cut the screen to get in.” The woman remains expressionless, goes into her kitchen drawer, comes back and hands me a large pair of scissors. I thank her, climb up the stairs to my front window and cut a large square, large enough to fit my body through. Safe. Home. I can breathe. I see my apartment key by the phone. I slip it into my purse. I call Joan in Toronto. I know her number by heart. Her answering machine picks up after the fourth ring. I do not leave a message. I think of calling Justin but what if his new girlfriend answers? Not enough time has passed for Justin and me to have a civilized talk. He would probably say, “Why are you calling me?” His girlfriend would think that I am undermining their relationship. It would be a mess. My stomach turns. My jeans are loose. I keep pulling them up. I have no appetite. There is nothing more I can do but to try to rest. I curl up in my bed, exhausted, and slowly fade into darkness.
I open my eyes and glance at my watch. It is seven a.m. I stay curled up on my bed wishing that I could sleep forever. I turn the radio on. The dial is set to Radio Canada. They are talking about the suicide bombers, The World Trade Center. “4,000 killed, melted by flames. Annihilated!” They say. I think about all those people who went to work that morning. I do not have a TV but remember that Café Olympico has one. I dress. Black T-shirt, black jeans. I head over to the café. Crowds gather around a large screen. I order a café latté. It comes in a tall glass. People are talking and I cannot make out what the reporters are saying on the TV. I see smoke on the screen. I think of all those people jumping out of windows. I feel sicker. I put my half-empty latté on the counter and squeeze my body through the crowd, push the front door open and take a deep, deep breath. My legs are shaking. I take another deep breath, exhale and walk home. Almost everyone I pass on the street is talking about the World Trade Center. I feel as though I am dying like them, my body disintegrating. No one will talk about my disappearance for long. I am invisible to everyone I pass. I climb my stairs and glance into my neighbour’s window. The bed is unmade, but there is no one there. Perhaps she is in her living room watching the news on her TV. I unlock my door and light a Rothmans. I take a puff. My lungs hurt. I crush my cigarette half-smoked into my small, round glass ashtray. There is a half-eaten banana on my kitchen counter. The peel has brown spots on it. I eat it even though I prefer my bananas all yellow. I forgot to put a peel from yesterday into the garbage. It sits on the kitchen counter. I pace the hallway. Up and down. I am wearing shoes. My heels click-clack on the hardwood floor. The neighbour downstairs pounds once more on her ceiling with a broom. I sit, slip my shoes off and leave them there, in the middle of the hall. I am cool. I put on an old blue sweater and turn the heat up. I brush my hair, one hundred strokes. I pick up The Lover, put it down. I take a large bowl filled with coins and roll the pennies. I spend the rest of the day doing this, until I have rolled $22. This will buy bread, margarine, fruit and cigarettes.
I stay in bed all day, curled up in my white duvet. Eyes closed. I can’t get up. I want to die, want to die. My eyes open. I need to get out. “Come back!” I scream. Cries come from deep within my chest. “Come back!” “Come back!” I pick up the phone by my bed.
“Mom! Help me.”
“What’s going on?” she asks.
“Come. Please come now!”