She watched her brother’s lumbering figure walk the half-block from the corner store toward his apartment, barely lifting his feet off the ground with each step. Even from that distance, his sister, Germaine, could hear him mumble and swear about the slippery sidewalk and the slushy wet snow that slowed his progress.

BY MICHELE G. CHARRIER

IMAGE BY EKRULILA

She watched her brother’s lumbering figure walk the half-block from the corner store toward his apartment, barely lifting his feet off the ground with each step. Even from that distance, his sister, Germaine, could hear him mumble and swear about the slippery sidewalk and the slushy wet snow that slowed his progress.  

Mark wore the black winter jacket with the extra wide neon-green safety stripes that Germaine had given him. He wanted this style of coat so drivers would see him as he walked along busy Teron Road at any hour, day or night. Germaine knew Mark never went outside after dark and never strayed far from the sidewalk, but Mark was as stubborn about his clothes as he was about everything else in his life. Germaine spent hours looking for his size, XXXL. She finally found a workwear supplier in Toronto that had that specific style, at double the usual price. Mark wore the coat every day during the winter months, and Germaine claimed a minor victory in the constant struggle to keep her brother content. 

The extra wide size should have been roomy enough for his ample proportions, but his round stomach bulged over the open zipper like a near-term pregnancy. Mark had gained so much weight that he was unable to see his feet or the sidewalk ahead as he walked. He also tired easily; any exertion, from tying his laces to getting up from a chair, produced a weary symphony of expletives. His sister explained the health benefits of eating a balanced diet and encouraged him to lose weight, but donuts and fast food from the corner store were his mainstays. “No way,” he insisted. “I eat good. All I need is to go to a gym.” Getting Mark to a gym regularly was as unlikely as his learning to drive a car.  

As he neared the co-op, Mark stopped to pat his coat pocket. He felt around for his wallet and the access card to the front door. He squinted his eyes at the shadow approaching him from the parking lot. Germaine waved, but he didn’t recognize her until she was inches from the door. Mark had glaucoma; eventually, his eyes would see only faint shadows and grey blurs. 

Mark acknowledged his sister with a grunt, as though he had been expecting her, and swiped the access card on the magnetic strip to let them both into the building. They walked down the grey carpeted hallway of the immaculately maintained building toward Mark’s apartment on the ground floor—the single bright spot in his otherwise gloomy life. Although small and furnished with second-hand items, his suite met his basic needs. He took pride in owning a large-screen television and an array of electronic gadgets, including a laptop computer programmed to function at his skill level. He had lived alone for over twenty years in this apartment, which suited him just fine. 

But today, Germaine had come to tell him he was moving the next morning. 

A room was available for him in a long-term care hospital. Mark had to decide, within the next few minutes, whether he would accept the offer. If he refused, his name would move to the bottom of a lengthy waiting list and remain there for another five to ten years. Spaces in subsidized care, especially for people with developmental disabilities, were nearly impossible to get. Because of Mark’s deteriorating health, he was fast-tracked to the top. He had no choice but to accept. 

Although Mark could still function on his own, his cognitive and physical abilities were declining rapidly. As he aged, his epileptic seizures would become more frequent and intense. His once sharp memory had waned; he was apt to forget about appointments and conversations. Mark had no real friends and spent most of his time walking to the corner store or sitting in front of the TV. That’s all he could manage, and even his short walks were getting less frequent. At one time, Mark roamed Kanata by bus. Half of the Hazeldean Mall merchants knew him by name as he visited his favourite stores a few times a week. He loved to talk to the retailers and anyone else who would pay attention to him. As his seizures grew worse, so did the risks of his travelling alone. He abandoned his excursions and stayed home. His weight ballooned along with his anger.  

Mark’s sister sat on a broken chair next to a baseboard heater that blasted hot, dry air, while her brother made them coffee. 

“Mark, it’s stuffy in here. Why don’t you open a window?” 

“Window’s broken. Can’t turn off the heater. This place’s got too many problems. The maintenance guy won’t fix anything,” Mark said, sounding like he had been drinking all morning. The slurs were another sign of his failing health, a consequence of the seizures, the daily cocktail of prescription drugs, or the onset of dementia.  

As Mark prepared the coffee, his sister looked around, mentally assessing the effort involved in moving him out of his apartment. They would donate or throw out almost all his belongings. His new suite at Grace Manor was a 12 by 12 foot room, with a single bed, dresser, and closet. He would share a bathroom with another man. A flimsy curtain, not a door, hung from the doorway that would separate his private domain from the outside world. 

After a lengthy process of making and brewing a pot of weak coffee, Mark brought his sister a cup, then placed his own on the coffee table in front of him. Holding onto the armrest of the worn sofa, he aligned his bulk with the middle seat and fell back in a heap, sighing loudly from the effort. He picked up his mug with an unsteady hand and sipped the coffee with a loud slurp. Liquid dripped down his chin. 

“That’s good,” he said.  

“Mark, do you remember when you broke your humerus, and the doctor suggested we find you a home for seniors?” 

“Yeh. I lived in a really nice place for three months. I liked that place. There were lots of funny people, and they had activities and….” 

“I know you liked it, Mark. But it was temporary while your arm healed. I wish your government pension were more, so you could afford a private residence like that one.” 

“I liked it a lot.” 

“Mark, we talked about your moving into a different type of seniors’ home, like the Glebe Center. Do you remember when I took you to visit?” 

“I never went there.” 

“I brought you, remember? You liked it, but you thought the bathroom was too big and we laughed about it.” 

Mark pursed his full lips and looked at his sister with half-opened, vacant eyes. She recognized that glazed expression. She was sure he was about to have a seizure, but instead he took a noisy sip of coffee. The moment passed. 

“Good coffee,” he muttered. 

“Mark, we put your name on a waiting list a few years ago so you could move into a home where people can take care of you. A woman named Estelle visited you?” 

“Yeah, I kind of remember. She asked a lot of questions.” 

“You’re right. Estelle called me yesterday with good news! They have a room for you at Grace Manor,” Germaine replied. 

“Where’s that? I don’t want to go no place in the boonies, you know.” 

“Grace Manor is in a really cool part of town. There are coffee shops, and your favourite bank is across the street. You won’t have to buy groceries or prescriptions, do your laundry, make your own meals or your bed. It’s all included, and it’s just what you need. What do you say?” 

“I have to think about it.” 

Germaine paused to tame her impatience with a sip of lukewarm coffee.  

“Remember Estelle explained that you have to move the next day when we get the call.” 

Mark waved his plump hands in the air, spilling coffee on the carpet. “You people are always rushing me!” 

You people. That’s what he called his family. When he was seven, he stopped addressing his siblings by their first name and refused to call his parents Mom and Dad. For almost sixty years, Mark used he, him, her, but mostly, you people. 

Germaine knew Mark could not understand the consequences if he refused a room. His developmental age had peaked at fourteen. He had lived his entire life with the emotional range of a bipolar teenage boy and the intellectual capacity of an eight-year-old child. He could not read or write fluently but deciphered enough of the alphabet to scan the internet, buy groceries, and pick out words in his monthly subscription from National Geographic. Reasoning with him was as challenging as being a parent to a willful and moody child. Lately, Mark’s cognitive skills had declined further, and his behaviour had grown more unpredictable. Mark was a boy trapped in an aging and deteriorating adult body. 

Germaine studied her brother’s contorted, angry face. It looked more lopsided than usual. Had he had an undetected stroke? Or had the lifetime of drugs he took to control his seizures partially paralyzed his face? 

Germaine wished she was like their mother, patiently walking him through all the advantages of moving to a care facility. Her mother would cajole, humour, and encourage him to accept the move. Even with an armful of patience and time, Germaine knew Mark would never concede.   

“There is nothing to think about, Mark. Either you move into Grace Manor tomorrow morning, or they will put your name at the bottom of a waiting list with several hundred men before you. It could take years before you get this chance again. I’m sorry, Mark. We haven’t got a choice. I am not happy about how they do these things, but it’s out of my control. Move tomorrow or possibly never.” 

“What the hell! Don’t I ever have a say in these things, jeez!” he shouted as his spittle shot across the room onto Germaine’s jacket.  

“I’m sorry, Mark. But listen, there are lots of good reasons to move. Someone will take care of you, and you’ll have someone to discuss your views on politics and football with. We’ll decorate your room with all your favourite things. I promise you’ll be happy there.” 

Germaine was lying, a tactic she often resorted to in trying to manage her obstinate brother. She had toured his new home earlier that morning. The affable director had introduced her to the third-floor nurses and showed her Mark’s suite. The residents, mostly elderly, in wheelchairs, and non-responsive, sat in an open and bright common area, while the nurses attended to their needs. A wide-screen television blared the doom of an all-news channel. Listening to the news all day could not possibly help her brother’s mental health, Germaine thought, but that was her only complaint. The staff bubbled with enthusiastic smiles. The facility had a stellar reputation for providing excellent long-term care.  

However, Mark would never accept his new home with the same appreciation as the residents and staff at Grace Manor. He had been institutionalized before as a child, and the trauma he endured damaged him for the rest of his life. Mark pulled himself forward in his seat as if to stand.  

“Are you okay, Mark?”  

“Yeah, I need more cof…” his jaw dropped and he collapsed. 

“Mark?” 

The billions of neurons floating in Mark’s brain erupted with equal force simultaneously. He rolled his eyes back as a seizure racked his body into spasms. Germaine had witnessed her brother’s epileptic episodes hundreds of times before, and she reacted instantly by moving the coffee table out of harm’s way. Drool seeped from the corner of his mouth, his eyelids fluttered like a hummingbird, he yelled in a menacing voice as though he were hacking someone to death.  

The deep red, indented scar on the right side of Mark’s temple, a permanent reminder of the surgeries he had endured as a child to control his epilepsy, pulsed with slamming neurons. Germaine watched as her brother succumbed to another debilitating seizure, bringing back a flood of painful childhood memories.  

Early family life in a small town outside Montreal revolved around Mark’s complex health issues. But it was Mark’s uncontrollable and violent behaviour that really shook the family to its core. After removing part of Mark’s frontal lobe to control his seizures and aggression, a procedure that showed little positive effect, experts recommended that his parents place him in a special facility for his benefit and theirs. While his siblings played on the street and went to school like other children in the neighbourhood, six-year-old Mark was sent to his first institution, Mont-Providence. History would reveal that the children at this facility were brutally abused. Mark spent the next two decades shuffled among different care facilities that were supposed to manage his complicated emotional, physical, and mental health needs. The decision forced on Mark’s parents by experts in the early sixties would cause them lifelong guilt and their son irreversible trauma. Mark would never forgive his family for abandoning him. 

After several minutes, the groans and shaking stopped, and Mark slowly opened his eyes. 

“Mark, how are you feeling now?” Germaine asked. 

“Sleepy. I need coffee.” 

“Give yourself a few minutes to recover. I’ll get your coffee.” 

She set the half-filled coffee mug on the table and moved it in front of her brother. 

“Mark, your seizures are getting worse. What if next time you fall, hit your head, and there’s no one to help you, no one to hear your screams?”  

Mark did not respond. He stared at the coffee table littered with remotes, magazines, and his cell phone. Germaine could only imagine what turmoil was filling his mind, but she tried to ease his concern. 

 “It’s time to move to a place where you will be safe and cared for. The family will visit and take you out. Nothing will change except your address.” 

Mark lifted his head and looked at his sister with dark brown eyes intense with sadness. 

“That’s what you all said when you left me at Mont-Providence.”  

Michele G. Charrier is a Canadian author based in Mont-Tremblant, Quebec. She has a degree in Radio and Television Arts from Ryerson University and is currently pursuing a Graduate Certificate in the Humber School for Writers' Creative Writing Program.

Image: Unknown Person Putting Hands on Glass (Pexels)

Edited for publication by Marie-Eve Carrière , as part of the Professional Writing and Communications Program.

HLR Spotlight is a collaboration between the Faculty of Media & Creative Arts and the Faculty of Liberal Arts & Sciences and Innovative Learning at Humber College in Toronto, Ontario. This project is funded by Humber’s Office of Research & Innovation.