Miriam Toews - All My Puny Sorrows

Janice is not available at the moment.

Oh. Do you have an idea of when she will be?

I don’t have that information.

What do you mean?

I don’t have access to that information.

I’m just asking you when it would be a good time to call in order to speak to Janice.

And I’m just telling you that I don’t have that information.

It’s not information, it’s just an answer.

I’m sorry but I’m not authorized to answer that question.

About when Janice will be available? What do you mean not authorized?

You’ll have to call back later, I’m sorry.

But don’t you have a system or something for finding Janice?

I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do.

Can you page her?

Have a good day.

Wait, wait.

I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do.

You could make an exception.

I’m sorry? (She couldn’t hear me over the ice.)

I just want to hear my sister’s voice.

I thought you wanted to talk with Janice.

I know, but you said that—

I’d really recommend that you try again later.

Why doesn’t my sister want to talk to me?

I didn’t say she didn’t want to talk to you. I said she’d prefer not to come to the common room to answer the call. If I had to bring the phone to patients every time they got a call I wouldn’t have time for anything else. And we’d rather have patients make an effort to connect with family rather than the other way around.

Oh.

I’d really recommend that you try again later.

I agreed, sure, why not.

I hung up and threw the phone into the river. I didn’t throw the phone into the river. I stopped myself at the last second and muffled something like an already muffled scream. I decided I’d rather set the hospital on fire. I’d prefer not to have my soul crushed. Bartleby the Scrivener preferred not to until he preferred not to work, not to eat, not to do anything, and died under a tree. Robert Walser also died under a tree. James Joyce and Carl Jung died in Zurich. Our father died beside trees on iron rails. The police gave my mother a bag of his belongings afterwards, the things he’d had on him when he died. Somehow his glasses didn’t break, maybe they flew off his face into soft clover, or maybe he had carefully removed them and put them down on the ground, but when she took them out of the plastic bag they crumbled in her hands. His watch too. Time. Smash it. His wedding rings were bashed and nearly all of his two hundred and six bones broken.

He had seventy-seven dollars on him at the time and we used the money for Thai takeout because, as my friend Julie says about times like this: You still have to eat.

NIC WAS GOING TO SEE ELF in the evening after he got home from work and afterwards he and I would meet for a beer, we would stare at each other, embattled and bewildered, and talk about our next move. We were trying to assemble a team of caregivers who would work with Elf when she was released from the hospital.

Nic had very gently suggested to Elf that an element of co-operation was a key factor in her journey towards health. She wasn’t into the idea. Obviously. She said the only thing she saw when she heard the word team was four runaway horses. There’s no I in team , is there Yoli? She was quoting our high school basketball coach and she said that expression had always terrified her. What would this team do with her? she asked. What would Elf do with the team? Make lists? Set goals? Embrace life? Start a journal? Turn that frown upside down? She kept unearthing huge fundamental problems with the whole concept. Oh my god, Nicolas, she’d said. Journey? Health? Listen to yourself. I had also been listening to Nic and thought it sounded pretty good but Elf was up in arms, gnashing her teeth against the smarmy self-help racket that existed only to sell books and anaesthetize the vulnerable and allow the so-called “helping” profession to bask in self-congratulation for having done what they could. They’d make lists! They’d set goals! They’d encourage their patients to do one “fun” thing a day! (Oh you should have heard the derision in Elf’s voice when she said the word fun like she’d just spit out the word Eichmann or Mengele .)

The experts involved had the hardest time understanding our family’s extreme hostility to the entire health network. We had the hardest time understanding our family’s extreme hostility to the entire health network. When my mother had her lawn mower accident and was lying there in the grass next to two of her toes and the paramedics leapt out of their ambulance and ran over to her she looked at them and said what on earth are you guys doing here? When the doctor told my mother that I’d need a tonsillectomy she told him, yeah we can probably do that ourselves at home but thanks.

Mostly we just didn’t want Elf to be left alone. Nic would have to get back to his work eradicating the runs and I would eventually have to return home to Toronto to relieve Will of his babysitting duties so that he could get back to his classes on overthrowing the one percent. In the Mohawk language, Toronto is spelled Tkaronto and means “trees standing in water.” (I appreciate that our Canadian cities were named after things like mud and trees and water, especially when they are now given such monikers by overachievers as the Financial Hub or the Technology Centre or the Publishing Capital or the Most Cosmopolitan City in the World.) But in the meantime, this evening, I was going to share a bottle of wine with Julie, on the front porch of her rickety house in Wolseley, an inner-city neighbourhood where massive elm trees create a cathedral ceiling of speckled shade, while her kids watched a video inside.

Julie and I grew up together in East Village. We’re second cousins and our mothers are also best friends. (For that matter, Elf and I are also cousins, and sisters, but to understand this you have to know that only eighteen or so initiative-taking Mennonites came to Canada from Russia to get away from the Anarchist army, so … you know.) Julie and I bathed together as children, invented a game called Hide the Soap and experimented touching tongues with each other when it slowly became horrifyingly clear to us that it would be a thing we’d have to do a lot of in the future if we were to have normal lives with boys and men.

Julie’s a letter carrier, a hard-core postie who walks fifteen miles a day with two twenty-pound bags of mail on each of her shoulders. When it rains she opens one of those green mailboxes you see on corners with a key from a giant metal ring and sits inside it, smoking and listening to BBC News podcasts on her headphones. She’s been reprimanded several times by her supervisor for that and countless other acts of insubordination, like rolling up the waistband of her Canada Post — issued “skort” to make it sexier. Sometimes she gets a one-day or a two-day or a three-day suspension, depending on the severity of her crime, and that’s fine with her because then she can hang out with her kids before they go to school rather than having to wake them in the dark and shuffle them over to her neighbour’s house in their pyjamas. She recently split up with her husband, a very tall sculptor and painter working in oils, and so takes advantage of the Canada Post health plan that pays for her to see a therapist. Nothing is awful in her life, she’s quite happy, she just likes the luxury of being able to talk about herself, her feelings, her goals, her hopes, her disappointments. Who wouldn’t? Her therapist, a Jungian, had told her that she was the most optimistic person he’d ever encountered in all his years of practising therapy and that Julie’s dreamless sleeps were a constant challenge for him.