Mitochondrial Curiosities of Marcels 1 to 19 (8 page)

I say, ‘Don't worry, I'm going,' to the agitated woman who comes up, but she sits down and says, ‘No, please, I need help with my taxes.' We both looked at a fly buzzing in the plastic fuchsia.

‘Talk about hopeless,' I say.

‘You think they'll come?'

‘I meant the fly looking for food in a plastic plant.' She laughs and pulls out a wad of paper from her coat pocket. ‘Cute little guy,' she says, and squeezes Marcel. ‘Forty-two dollars for subscriptions is not enough, they get suspicious if it's not enough.'

‘Exactly,' I say. She's leaning in to discuss and I'm leaning in to look at the papers she holds out, sort of like we're going over her essay, and so we both jump when a man's voice says, ‘Charlene, everything okay?'

Potentially dangerous, I think. Clearly an anger disorder. Or some sort of condition that makes him utterly repulsive. His mouth takes up half his face, I am not exaggerating, and his bottom lip is so big and pouchy you can't help but imagine
trapped flies. About ten hairs are lacquered onto his bald head which looks strangely small and, wait, strangely familiar. Angry man in Grandma Giles' photo. Which is right in my bag.

‘Hey, I know you.' I try to go chirpy-young-woman-with-respectful-eye-contact. I can't look at his face again and that's when I see the nametag. Dr. Rinkel. In the same second, he sees I don't have one.

‘What are you doing here, excuse me, what are you doing here?' he says.

I pull out the picture. ‘My grandma works here. Hey, it
is
you.' I show him the picture. ‘I've got to get a new frame, it was an accident – '

The lip hangs open long enough for me to smell coffee bacteria. His eyes blink again and again and then his face snaps back to mean and repulsive. ‘Well, Rowena and I need to chat about roaming grandchildren,' he says.

‘I'm leaving right now, my dad died.'

An eyebrow lifts. ‘Leonard Johnson? Condolences.'

‘You knew my dad?'

‘He worked here briefly.'

‘I'm going now.'

‘Yes, yes you are.'

And I am. I head for the nearest exit like the place is on fire. When my hand is on the metal bar of the door, ready to push, something makes me turn around – psychiatric institutions apparently do that to a person – and he isn't watching me anymore. He's looking at Charlene's papers. ‘Stay,' I hear, possibly. Leonard's voice. ‘Stay.' I let go of the door and turn down the other hallway.

Running is never a good way to look inconspicuous so I stop when I get to the new recreation wing Grandma Giles talked
about. My cold sores, now a colony, are killing me. Maybe pain equals Yes, you're on the right track.

I almost run into myself. Who puts a mirror at the back of a display case? There we are, me gasping at the abominality of my bottom lip, the pigs smiling. Pine-cone pigs with pom-pom ears, each on a velvet square. ‘My dad would have loved these,' I say to a guy in a wheelchair who comes round the corner. He says he made two of them with minimal supervision. He shows me which ones.

‘Go, go!' the man shouts all of a sudden. ‘They've been waiting all day.' I'm around a corner when he's still mid-sentence, passing a sign that says Tim Letorneau Centre for the Arts. Instead I see god. Really. The Divine Source of Wealth. Everything I had thought of plus more, on different shelving maybe, but don't be attached to the visuals, says Jojo Bunting, the essence is what matters. And the essence of god, my god, is before me. We're talking fabric, felt, handmade paper, raffia, wicker, on floor-to-ceiling shelves. An entire cupboard of thread racks. Spools of ribbon, some of them unravelled in joy, bags of stuffing, boxes and boxes I can't see into, ceramic ornaments. Two Bernina sewing machines. A big sink in the corner. A pottery wheel. Good paints. Bookbinding clamps? Be still my heart.

I rotate back round to the table at the back where four people are working on crafts. Leather and basket and beading supplies are spread out in front of them. Oh, the wonder of it all.

Two of them look at me.

‘Holy smokes,' I say.

‘Well, do come in and join us,' says Louise, her nametag about the size of a paperback. ‘Everyone is welcome here.' She notices my necklace, and yes, I tell her, I made it, those metal rings were washers from a hardware store, only fifteen cents each. I tell her my name and meet Bernie who is wallet-lacing and Roxanne
who is beading. How totally cliché to think this way not to mention wrong, but they look completely normal, especially compared to the fourth person. Mrs. Brandt has a twitchy, frizzy thing going on, plus flat, staring eyes that make me imagine body parts in a freezer. She stares even harder when I say hello.

I put Marcel on the table and tell Louise I'm experimenting with sock creatures, can I make some eyes with Fimo? She says, oh please, they have no idea what to make with it, and just look at this creature. ‘Isn't he marvellous. Ah, look how you made the hat. Ah!'

I break off hunks from the blue, yellow and silver blocks and start rolling snakes. Except for Mrs. Brandt, the others talk about the hospital's spring fair, which, actually, I know about since Grandma Giles always took Paige and me when we were little. So I joined in re: the horseshoe game being too far away and potentially dangerous when people have lousy aim.

I take a break to pull Fimo residue off my fingernails. Mrs. Brandt's voice is raspy, like she dragged it over broken glass. ‘Rowena Giles and her fancy piano fingers,' she says.

‘Oh, Rowena Giles is my grandmother,' I say, all Miss Wholesome. ‘Do you know her?'

‘How are you doing with your basket, Mrs. Brandt?' Louise says. Basket? It's a bashed-together nest of broken sticks for very angry birds.

‘Rowena Giles, fancy fancy Rowena Giles in 54E'

‘Grandma works just down the hall, actually.'

‘Okay, Mrs. Brandt, I'm calling your orderly,' Louise says. ‘That's enough for today.' While she's at the phone, Mrs. Brandt leans over to me and whispers ‘54
E
54
E
fancy fancy 54
E
'

‘Oh knock it off,' Bernie says.

‘54
E
' I ask. ‘Where is that?' Louise comes back to nudge Mrs. Brandt out of her chair. ‘What's 54
E
'

‘Old hospital,' says Bernie. ‘Second floor female.'

‘Mrs. Brandt,' Louise says, ‘you're welcome to come back tomorrow.'

‘54
E
was a ward?'

‘We don't use that system anymore,' Louise says. ‘Have you come from Green Meadows?'

‘That's my place,' says Roxanne. ‘Good afternoon sun.'

One of my Fimo rolls broke. ‘I'm not a patient,' I say. ‘I just came, sorry.'

‘Oh, you're visiting your grandmother?'

‘Kind of, not exactly.'

‘Oh. Well.'

‘Okay, well, thanks. So, 54e was a ward in the old hospital?'

‘I told you,' Bernie says. ‘Second floor, female.'

‘Wow, thanks, this was awesome.' I put Marcel back in my pocket and have a pang about the lost potential of Fimo eyes for his kin.

‘We'll wrap your work up for next time, ‘Louise says. ‘Do visit again soon, what a pleasure.'

‘Oh, totally,' I say. ‘Right. Bye.' I go out the emergency exit and walk the long way round. I've just found out something important. But what?

(to improve social skills while restraining hair)

You need:

Fleece (appr. 5 cm by 50 cm rectangle)

Needle & thread

Elastic (narrow 15 cm strip)

Paper and pen

1. Measure your head

2. From an old fleece jacket or fleece something else, cut a rectangle: 5 cm for the short side, your head measurement for the long side.

3. Cut a 15 cm strip of elastic. The elastic will hold your helpful messages.

4. Lay elastic down the middle of the band.

5. Sew elastic down every inch or so.

6. Cut or rip paper into little rectangles. Write hopeful and encouraging things, such as
You're doing really well
, and
I'm so sorry
. Roll messages up, and insert under elastic.

7. Sew ends of band together.

8. Wear band on head and hand out messages at bus stops et cetera. No need for eye contact or talking.

Maybe Brandt's one of those names I heard without hearing when I was a kid. Larry someone, Bob someone, Joanna Murphy. Old Mrs. Brandt. I think I've heard Joan say that. Whatever happened to old Mrs. Brandt, I can say when we get back tomorrow. Joan will say whaaat, but who knows.

WTH
will I say tonight? So, Grandma, how many hospital staff were once patients, because how cool. How versatile. By the way, were you? On, say, 54
E
?

Right. That'll go tremendously well.

I'm sick of the sidewalk with its nasty little patches of ice, and I turn off into the trees. Plow plow plow through the snow. How much of life has to be slogged away, 90 percent? Which means how convincing does sex have to be to get people's attention? Okay, in the old days people needed kids to milk the cows and whatever, but mainly, throughout all history: pleasure. Fabulous pleasure. Otherwise, who would bother? It would be like standing in a swamp for no good reason and maybe getting West Nile.