Читать книгу The Ann Ireland Library - Ann Ireland - Страница 11

Jasper’s Thursday night group is a tough crew: passive-aggressive types who nod along in agreement, then ignore every aspect of the document they create together. Sometimes he’s fooled, thinking he’s getting through as he watches them dutifully take notes, but they have no intention of compliance. One is Ashok, survivor from the virus in its first round, an Emergency Room physician who’s become Mister Genial, bobbing his head in agreement to every suggestion, born to please. Hard to believe he was once sewing up the entrails of trauma victims, a finger pressed to some essential artery. He’s almost mended physically, just a little residual swelling in the brain that will take months to heal.

“First we devise —” Jasper scribbles on the white board “— a set of modules for personal hygiene. Who will start us off?”

A voice ventures, “Brush teeth?”

Jasper writes this down, marker squeaking in the institute’s activity room.

“Next?” he prompts, staring encouragingly at the physician, a handsome man whose salt-and-pepper beard is impeccably groomed. “There is the business of getting dressed, yes? Making sure tops and bottoms follow in logical sequence — no wacky plaid and floral combos.”

This always gets a titter.

Jasper waits, but there are no more volunteers. “We break each task down into its components,” he says, and waits a beat for someone to pitch in.

At last a voice pipes up: “Underwear.”

“Socks,” says another.

“Pantyhose,” says Amy, a cop suffering from a terrible concussion.

“Excellent,” says Jasper, scribbling these suggestions on the board. “How about trousers, skirt, shirt, or blouse …” The list is dauntingly long. Everyone here suffers short-term memory loss.

When Toby takes on one of the Bach partitas, he breaks the piece down into its smallest sequences, learns each in turn, then pulls it together. He says he’ll start with a single note, even less — sometimes the silence before the note begins.

“Brush your nose,” Ashok calls out. “Blow your nails! We will assemble all clothing into a pile and burn it!” He flops back in his chair, out of breath.

Jasper stiffens. Sometimes this happens, a fizz of resistance to the labour of reconstructing what was once second nature. The man is angry at himself, at the disease, at what he’s lost.

Jasper stays calm and reassuring, making sure the session doesn’t get derailed by the outburst. “Humour is a tool against fear,” he tells them.

Everyone has turned to stare at Ashok whose large brown eyes blink. “First we brush our nose, then we direct attention to footwear,” he calls out again, though this time with less fervour. “Feet are alive, amphibious.” His face darkens. Mr. Genial is taking a break. “This class is folly,” he adds, touching his throat as if coaxing the words out of his larynx. Then Ashok jumps to his feet where, struck by a wave of vertigo, he sways and grabs the back of his neighbour’s chair. Everyone is alarmed now, waiting for Jasper to take charge.

Approaching the doctor, Jasper gently lifts the man’s elbow and guides him out of the room, down the hall to an empty office.

“Sit down, please,” he says, and doesn’t let go until Ashok is safely seated. Then he pours water into a paper cup and places it in the doctor’s shaking hand. Crouching so that their faces are level, he asks, “May I leave you here for a short time?”

Ashok nods bleakly and drinks. Water dribbles down his chin. Poor man isn’t ready for any of this, the class and the unfamiliar surroundings. He should be back in the residential rehab facility. Jasper will write this in his report.

He leaves his client and returns to the activity room, shutting the door behind him. Everyone is sitting exactly as he’d left them, notebooks on laps, and Jasper gets the idea that no one has uttered a word in his absence. The teenager squirms, moving his sneakered feet in circles on the polished floor. He’s J.J., ex-gang member whose memory loss is a result of a bullet raging through his prefrontal cortex. He’s lucky to be alive but will dispute this.

Jasper forces a sprightly tone. “We’ll pick it up from where we left off.”

The rest of the session won’t go well. This group can’t learn in fragmented segments. Concepts must be blended together in a single uninterrupted time period.

“Righto,” says Jasper. “We’ve gotten dressed, brushed our teeth. What next?”

“I don’t want to be here,” rises a lament from the other side of the door. This is followed by muffled conversation, a sharp protest, then the door pops open and Luke enters with Ashok trailing behind.

Everyone in the activity room sits up straight. Finally, something interesting is happening.

“Can you tell me why this man has been ejected from your session?” Luke demands.

Jasper takes a deep breath. “Ashok hasn’t been ejected. He appeared to be upset, so I suggested he take time out.”

Luke forms a tight, unconvincing smile. “Is this normal protocol?”

Jasper won’t stoop to arguing in front of clients. “I did what seemed appropriate under the circumstances.”

A dozen pairs of eyes follow him, then Luke.

“I would suggest it’s the business of this group to engage each client according to his or her needs,” Luke says, seizing Ashok’s arm. “Why don’t you take your seat, Doctor?”

Ashok seems uncertain, so Luke adds, “I’m sure you have a great deal to contribute.” Sharp glance toward Jasper. “Dr. Mishra is head of ER at York Central.” Accent on “is.”

Jasper returns his gaze. “As I’m well aware.”

“Dr. Mishra worked on the front lines.”

This is true. Jasper read the referral.

“He’s one of our city’s heroes,” Luke adds, performing an actual little bow toward Ashok, who looks baffled by the gesture.

Jasper cuts in. “Let’s continue our review of morning tasks.” His marker hovers over the board as Ashok shuffles to his chair and sits down. “Shall we turn our attention to breakfast?”

Luke reluctantly leaves, but Jasper knows he hasn’t heard the last of it.

One of the early symptoms of Toby’s mother’s illness was her odd way of repeating phrases. “I read an interesting article about knitting with dog hair,” Karen would say, then immediately add, “I read an interesting article about knitting with dog hair.” She started to wear double layers of clothing and even sported false eyelashes times two.

“I am a foil to your father,” she stated. “A foil. To your father.”

No one would argue with this. The more rigid Klaus proved himself to be the more dramatic her response. Karen was the one who taught Toby to stand on his head. This was during the period when he was cutting classes and sneaking out to get high.

“Open your heart,” she commanded, hiking him up by the ankles.

He complied, hoping to save her by strict obedience.

“Pop goes the weasel!” she said, laughing when he tumbled to the floor during that first effort. He laughed, too, relieved that she’d said it only once.

The more vague their mother grew the more organized Klaus became. He took over her old jobs, shopping, cooking, signing the boys’ report cards, and meeting with their teachers. They resented him for all this. The way they saw things Klaus had tucked their sweet mother into a cradle of fragility.

“Don’t say anything that will cause her to worry,” Klaus would warn, as if she were a teacup full to the brim and the slightest movement might cause a spill.

Klaus would hover while the boys brushed their teeth, satisfied only when they spat blood into the sink. “Not hard enough” was his mantra. He’d fix his eyes on Karen as she glided aimlessly from room to room, and when she stayed in the bathroom too long, he’d knock on the door and ask: “Everything okay in there?”

She began to leave oracular messages written in lipstick on her mirror, an idea picked up from movies.

Fools’ names and fools’ faces

Always appear in public places.

Worry crackled through their days like summer lightning. Sometimes Klaus left the house and the boys were put in charge of their mother, who usually stayed upstairs watching sitcoms while shelling ballpark peanuts, leaving termite hills of debris. Toby can still hum along to the theme songs of the decade. His mother had a true, sweet voice, and until she got sick she joined the singalong Messiah with the symphony every Christmas. She had the ears of a bat and could hear a spoon tap a glass clear across the room, then tell you the note hit was C sharp.

Toby was well into his punk phase, plaid pants tucked into combat boots, when their lives changed forever. He and Felix came home from school that Monday afternoon, and their father was already waiting in the kitchen. That was unusual. As a science teacher, he usually stayed late to give his students extra help.

“Your mother isn’t here,” Klaus said.

Felix idly picked a plum off the plate and began to eat it.

“She’s moved to a facility where she’ll be well taken care of.” Klaus waited for them to say something, and when the boys just stared, he continued, “We’re lucky to find such a wonderful place.” He kept nodding, as if he was trying to convince himself that what he was saying was true.

The brothers pounced. Whose idea was this? Did Mama really want to leave them?

Klaus raised his hands, palms up. “What did you expect me to do?”

Felix sped off to his karate class, while Toby fled to his room, to his guitar. That was the year Felix got suspended for taking a knife to school.

It took Toby a full week to screw up the courage to visit his mother at Lakeview Terrace. What was she doing with all these old people using walkers and wheelchairs? She sat on the edge of her bed, wearing her beautiful black-and-red silk kimono, looking as if she wasn’t sure what she was going to do next. When she saw him, her face lit up. She felt tiny in his embrace, and he shuddered, feeling her rib cage press against his. He’d rescue her, spirit her off, he thought, but after a moment she pushed him away.

“Don’t worry, old bean,” she said. “I’ll soon get used to it here.”

Then it came. “Soon get used to it here,” she repeated in the same sunny tone.

Don’t do that, he wanted to plead. He was certain it was repetition that had landed her here, and if she could just quit, the whole business would settle down.

She tousled his spiky hair. “You’ll come and see me often, won’t you?”

“Of course, Mama.” And he meant to.

The old lady in the next bed turned over and farted.

“That’s Mrs. Creeley,” his mother said. “Used to teach piano. You must talk to her one day, being a fellow musician.”

Toby stared in horror at the hump under bedclothes, the tufts of white hair.

“A fellow musician,” his mother added dreamily, patting him on the knee.

She was the only one who liked his punk getups, being partial to costumes herself, hence the silk kimono.