She wound her way through the room, dodging a couple of men who had planted themselves in the middle and appeared to have forgotten where they were. Along the way, she returned the chorus of “Hello, Dr. Hart. Dr. Hart. Dr. Hart,” with her own “Hello, Bruce, Francis, George,” and whoever else called out.
John sat at the far end of the room, as usual. Today he was alone, and he had turned his chair to face the glazed window, with its pattern of black metal bars. His chin hung over his chest.
Marion pulled up a chair and set it beside him. “Good afternoon, John,” she said. “Burt said you’re having a sad day. Can I do anything to help you?”
He lifted his face almost right away, not after his usual delay. His expression seemed brighter, though a string of drool hung from one corner of his mouth. She had been right about lowering his dosage.
“I want to go home.”
Her mind briefly went blank, she was so shocked to hear him speak in a complete sentence. If only she didn’t have to disappoint him. Whether or not the medicine was working, John did not have the physical or mental capacity to live outside of the institution. She planned to keep him in it as long as she could. She glanced at his chart out of habit, but she knew all the facts by heart. Big John had lived in this building for fifteen years. He had never left the premises, not even on a day pass, and no one had come to visit. He probably wouldn’t recognize his old home if he was standing on its front lawn.
There was something about this man that broke Marion’s heart. She tried to imagine him twenty years before, young and laughing and full of life. No one could have imagined he would end up here. But the little version of Big John had been struck by a car one day while riding his bicycle, and something had been damaged in his brain. He went from being a regular high school student to a maniac who stabbed the neighbour’s cat to death. Days later, he attacked his father, who landed in the hospital with stab wounds that barely missed his kidney. John didn’t remember doing either of those things.
If John went home, his family, if they agreed to take him in—which they wouldn’t—would have to monitor him constantly. Which they wouldn’t.
“What would you do there?” she asked.
“See all the leaves. Leaves are soft. I would touch them.” His hand moved sluggishly to his shirt pocket and drew out a pack of cigarettes. He stuck one in his mouth and turned to her, waiting. “I want to drive Grandpa’s car.”
Marion reluctantly drew her lighter from her own pocket. She had neversmoked, but many of the patients did, so she carried it around for them. They weren’t allowed to have their own lighters, for obvious reasons.
“John, do you remember what the doctor said about smoking? He said he was concerned about your cough and how it’s getting worse. Cigarettes are very bad for your health.”
He didn’t register the advice. She clicked the little flame to life and held it out.
“I have a rabbit,” he offered, a vague sort of smile lifting his mouth. “I forget its name.”
“That’s all right, John. We all forget things. We have many other things to remember.”
“I remember nothing.”
“That’s not true,” she assured him. “You remembered your rabbit, and you remembered the leaves. That’s not nothing. Let’s try an exercise, John. Close your eyes and take a deep breath. Good. Now, tell me about your rabbit. What colour is he?”
“Brown,” he replied softly, sinking easily into the simple memory with the aid of his medications and his familiarity with the exercise.
“Can you imagine him on your front lawn right now? You can? That’s very good, John. What colour is that grass? That’s right. Can you feel the grass? It’s soft and cool, isn’t it? Now touch the rabbit. Stroke him gently down his back and tell me what his lovely brown fur feels like.”
She continued, keeping her voice in a soft, hypnotic cadence, taking him back to his childhood and the sensations he longed for. Everyone wanted that, didn’t they? To return to greener days without demands, days when one could lie back and appreciate the sunlight warming their skin without feeling like they should be somewhere else. To breathe in and out and imagine the whole world open around them, so that they became a part of the whole.
Marion craved that sometimes. Days in the sunshine with nothing on her mind, just the itch of the grass beneath her thighs, the tickle of an ant taking a shortcut over her knee, the bounce of a nearby robin tracking its meal. Smiling when her father came out to see her, walking in the comfortable lope she recognized so fondly. He was happy. He was calm.
“Hello, Bunny,” he had called her back then.Bunny.
In her memory, a cloud passed over the sun. The shadow stole her father’s easy smile, as it so often had. He spun on his heel, striding back to the house without another word.
John was rocking slightly. “Mother is shouting.” A frown creased his wide brow. “Mother took the rabbit. She’s crying.”
Alarms went off in Marion’s head. “Can you tell me why she’s crying?”
“The rabbit is floppy.” He smiled. “Wiggly. Like a worm.”
She took a deep breath, sweeping away her childhood memories. She was here for John, not herself.
“All right,” she said, trying not to visualize the poor rabbit. “Let’s move on. Your mother took the rabbit, but you are still on the grass. Now, the next part of the exercise is not about your memory. It’s something different. I want you to keep your eyes closed—”
“They are.”
“Good. Now lie down in the yard, and rest the palms of your hands on the grass. Feel the sun on your face. Doesn’t that feel good? Take a deep breath and imagine you are breathing in all that happy sunshine.”
