Cafe Babanussa (30 page)

On a grey late-December day, as I splashed more paint on more paper, I figured out that the easiest and most sensible thing to do would be to watch for a group of people leaving the ward and hide among them as they filed through the ward doors and onto the elevator. I got ready, and an hour later that's exactly what I did.

Time to run. Mom's coat is too small but there's nothing else. Go. Go down the hall. Try to be normal. Grab my paintings. Go through the door, quick, with the others. Out! Fast! Before they see. People I don't know in the elevator. They're all watching me. I can't remember if I'm supposed to look up or down when the elevator is going down. So many rules. I can't remember them. Who made them up? The people who made them up, how do I know if they're on my side?

So now I was making my getaway. I had escaped from Women's College Hospital years before. Here I was again, zigzagging in my mind, trying to discern the best way to get out and stay out. On the ground floor I strode towards the main doors, not wasting a step. Big, wet snowflakes greeted me, floating down from a darkening late-afternoon sky. I stepped outside with an armful of newly minted paintings slapped carelessly at my side. College and Spadina were crowded in the afternoon rush hour. I stuck out my tongue to taste the snow, and it felt fuzzy and soft as it melted in my mouth. The coat my mother had left me was thin and too small for me to do up over my risperidone-bloated body. It was no match for the frigid January air.

I stumbled east along College Street. My paintings kept slipping out from under my arm and I watched them transform themselves yet again as they met with snow and slush. I kept looking over my shoulder for the hospital workers I was sure would be coming after me.

It's cold out here. Where am I going? Head east on College. The paintings are floating away from me. Somebody must be calling for them. Where am I going? Dan's. Dan won't want me. Mom's? She's old. She's my only ally. Walk in the middle of the sidewalk? Walk left or right? I don't remember. They've told me over and over again. But I always forget in between. Left foot first, going uphill, keep your head down. Right foot first, going downhill, keep your head up. What to do on a flat stretch?

There is a sea of people floating around me, all talking to me. A hundred voices. Think this, think that. “Oh, there's that woman everyone's talking about. She's certified . . . Who do you think you are, wasting our time? You're not working hard enough to change. Walk left, no, now right. Walk. Just go.” Where am I going?

I trudged along, my feet thoroughly soaked in cheap runners. I wanted to go home, but I didn't have a key. The nurses had taken my personal belongings. I wondered if I could walk to Don Mills, where my mom lived. I was agitated. Always, in my delusional states, I know that everyone is talking to me, signalling things to me with what they're wearing, what they're saying, how they're gesturing. It's as if the whole world is in my head telling me what to do. My solitary walk eastward through the late-winter evening was filled with pressing people, pressing messages.

I found myself at Sherbourne and Wellesley. I went inside a dingy coffee shop, but didn't order anything. I sat at the back, my brain chattering as much as my teeth. I was still
worrying about how to get home, wondering if people were following me. The woman at the counter made me nervous, and I tried to figure out if she was with me or against me. I had decided that the City of Toronto was tired of me, tired of me not learning my lessons, tired of the entire ruckus that happened when I was in hospital, tired of me not being able to see the truth. And it was true, I couldn't see the truth. My mind was a constant to-and-fro, not knowing who to believe, not knowing who had my best interests at heart. The conspiracy theories continued to mount, and before long I had decided that the counter help was an enemy. I crawled under the table, huddled up against the wall. The woman at the counter was clearly avoiding me, and it wasn't long before a small group of paramedics and police officers entered the premises. I was terrified at the sight of them and stayed put.

“What are you doing down there?”

“Hiding.”

“Who are you hiding from?”

“You.”

“But we haven't done anything to you.”

“No, but you're going to.”

“No, we're not. You can't stay there. You have to come out. Nobody will hurt you.”

They asked me other questions. Speaking in firm, insistent tones, they moved the table away from me and coaxed me out. They told me they were taking me to St. Mike's Hospital. I was confused and jittery, but still I managed not to tell them that I had just run away from the psych ward at Toronto General.

They dropped me off in the hive that was the ER. I sat unattended for a very long while, fidgeting away, swinging my legs recklessly like a child and wondering what my next step should be. Someone came along. She told me to lie down and asked me what medication I was on. I told her. She left. I lay there, becoming more and more absorbed by the frightening sounds of the hospital. She came back about half an hour later. I felt the steel of a needle tear into my arm. I wondered what they were giving me. She said the doctors would be here soon and then left me alone again. I was convinced that the whole hospital was planning to lock me up and put me in some kind of coma so they could examine and play with my brain. What was in that needle? I sat up, waited for the hallway to empty out a little and took off into the winter night again.

Those who are supposedly helping me on the outside say that I talk out the back of my head, swearing, screaming vicious vitriol. That's why they hate me even if they say they want to help. I can't control it. They keep trying to tell me how, but I'm always mixing things up. There's too much in my head. It happens mainly at night, my yelling. That's why everyone hates me. That's why they're trying to lock me up, drug me up and hide me.

I briefly toyed with walking down Queen Street to the Beaches, where my brother Dan lived, but I didn't think he and my
sister-in-law would let me stay. I really just wanted to go home to my co-op in Riverdale. Near Queen and Parliament, I ducked into a grubby little bar and sat down at a table near the door and by the window. Once again I was left alone. I was grateful. I stayed put at the table, but didn't outstay my welcome. I was just trying to warm up, as I was improperly dressed for the weather.

Outside, the streets were now dark and relatively quiet. Snow was falling on top of snow, swirling in great big whorls like white lace—the winds had picked up. Taxis flashed by and I wanted to flag one down but I had no money. Besides, I was sure a bulletin had been put out to the taxi network not to stop for me. I waved, but every driver looked the other way. It was cold and I was moving slowly. Although my mind was like quicksilver, my movements were unsure. I was afraid of everything around me. Two guys grazed me as they passed. I was sure I heard them whisper, “Home base, ya gotta make it to home base. That's where it is.” I wondered what “it” was and what I'd find at home. I turned homeward with renewed energy. I started noticing sirens. The cops were out to find me. Better stay off the major streets.

I'm trying to use the security button at the top of my head so that no one can hear or read my thoughts, but I can never tell if it works. If it does, I'll be more protected and they won't hear me and find me. I hear sirens, the cars, the blasts of horns, terrifying. Run, get off this path. They never told me anything about running. My paintings
are all gone now, lost to the world. No choir, no art, no drums to help me. I wasn't supposed to leave.

To get home I had to cross the bridge just beyond Queen and River. There was a couple standing at a streetcar stop. They looked at me intently as I passed and I heard them mutter, “It's your goddamn mother.”

My mother is a goddess and right now she is convening a panel of gods and goddesses from many religions to deal with the question of me. Me, the mortal, but insane. She knew that I had been operated on at three months and that they had seen remarkable things in my brain. They inserted a chip to monitor my every movement and thought. Mom, the all-knowing. I loved to watch her sing to the birds all day in the backyard, to see her communicate with the animal world. The last time I was sick in summer the birds sang to me, the flowers, gay pansies and all whispered sweetly and the insects ground their way through my brain in a slow-motion screech about the impending apocalypse.

In actual fact I did have an operation at three months. I was having constant and serious ear troubles, and doctors recommended performing a double mastoidectomy in which they cut open both my ears and scraped them out. When I am mad, I always maintain that this was the first interfer
ence of scientists with my brain. When I am sane, I find it interesting to note the interconnectedness between delusion and reality. In fact, most of my paranoid delusions stem from something concrete that has happened in my life. It's like someone has taken a jigsaw puzzle and tossed it in the air, letting the pieces fall where they may. That is my psychotic brain. Actual facts and events all cast about, tumbling about in my head, their now jagged and unfitting edges no longer in synchronicity.

I eventually found myself about twelve blocks from home, at the corner of Dundas and Broadview, taking refuge in the Coffee Time. It was late at night by now. I sat down at the back in the corner. This time folks weren't so friendly. An old man came over waving his hands fiercely at me. He stuttered that I should get out if I wasn't buying anything. He came closer. “Get out, lady. Get out or I call the cops.”

Keeping to the side streets, I made my way home, shivering, and unsure of what I would do when I got there. It was now about one in the morning. When I reached the co-op I went to a friend's unit and banged on the door. She was looking after my cats and would have a key. She didn't open and I could hardly blame her. But now I was stuck.

A dog barked as I passed through the laneways back to my unit on Logan. I thought about all the dogs in the park across from my unit and how they always seemed to be telling me to stop what I was doing and shut my mind up. This was unlike my cats, who gravitated to me when I was sick. They would nudge me, directing me to sit in a certain place or to
look at certain things that they sensed had meaning and would be helpful with my healing. They would knead me endlessly and then curl up and help keep me warm. I had one cat that lived upstairs and communed with the moon while keeping me company at night, and two cats that lived downstairs and watched over me there, while focusing on more earthly things. Between them, they tried to keep me on track, with their affection and guidance.

I want to go home and see the cats. They help me, the way they turn their heads. If they rest their paw on me, they tell me through their motions which way is safe to lie on the couch so that my thoughts can't be heard or stolen or manipulated as easily. Which way to lie in bed to try to talk with different people in my head. Luna is left—my brother Larry, my mom and a few others. Magic is right for Dad, Dan, Malaika . . . Luna will be talking to all the other cats throughout the night in the co-op, updating them on our situation. Oscar is centre, the protector of the middle ground. They are love.

When I got to my front door, I pulled on the knob but it didn't yield. There was a picnic table in the small front yard and I sat down on the bench and cried. I wondered what my father would tell me to do were he alive, but the vision of his warm, brown face faded quickly. I went to the door and called out to the cats, but I knew they couldn't save me. I decided to brace myself up against the wall and do some yoga poses. I felt
the hardness of the brick seep into me and give me strength. I stood there with my knee bent and my arms splayed, pressing into the wall for a long, long time. I was so frustrated that I had made it home but couldn't get in. Inside was my sanctuary. I could crawl into bed and sleep. Except that within me there was still that knowingness, the deeper level of thought that reminded me that I probably wouldn't sleep at all. I would be up all night cavorting around the place.

I began singing songs to myself. I loved Joni Mitchell's “The Circle Game” and I had taught it to my daughter many years before. We would curl up in her bed and sing it to each other till we fell asleep. Later I would crawl back into my own bed, the song still like a lullaby in my head. On this late-December night, “The Circle Game” comforted me for quite a while.

I went and lay down on the bench and tried to rest. It was too cold and snow was blowing in my face and felt like little icicles pricking against my skin. I was so cold and weary. I went back to the wall and stood there again, stoically flattening my back into the bricks as hard as I could. I continued this back-and-forth until finally I could see that the eastern skies were starting to lighten. I decided to walk up to the Danforth to see if the Tim Hortons would be open. I walked up the hill dreaming of coffee. But I didn't know how to get a hold of any money. I swung open the side door at Tim's and sat down at the nearest table. It wasn't long before a big, burly woman in uniform started snaking her way over to me. I didn't even try to argue, I just got up and left. I cursed the fact that I had
no money and I cursed myself that I didn't have the gumption to find any. I cruised on foot along the Danforth, peering into windows along the way, till I reached Broadview. I had no place to go. I had to go home.

Back at the picnic table in front of my door, one of my neighbours stepped out. We didn't really know each other. He looked at me for a bit and asked if I was okay. I shook my head no. His eyebrows were raised and he stood there for a moment silently. Then he said, “Come on in.” I followed him up the stairs. His girlfriend was sitting on a chair at a desk, typing on a laptop. They invited me to sit down. But the woman kept looking at me like I was some kind of animal and I was sure she was typing nasty things about me. I was very uncomfortable and after five minutes, I jumped up and went back outside. Fifteen minutes later my downstairs neighbour opened her door and yelled out my name. “Karen, here you are. Come on in. Have some tea.” She pulled up a chair for me. The apartment buzzed with the sound of kids getting ready for school, a dog waiting to be walked, people getting ready for work. It was just after seven. I sipped on my tea and sat quietly. My neighbour also sat at her computer, and it looked like page after page of names of companies, associations and people were flying by on the screen. I thought these must be some of my supporters and she's showing me that they're here to help. But instead, half an hour later the doorbell rang and a dear friend of mine stood there with her arms wide open. “We've been looking all over for you, Karen. Dan is on his way.” We hugged for a few minutes in silence but my mind was hissing.
Christ
, I thought.
It
figures
. I knew that Dan would take me back to the hospital, and at that moment I hated him for it.