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JL
When we arrive at the clinic, the receptionist directs us to the social services area, where the counselor immediately takes us into a small office. Uncle François and I take up most of the room and a good chunk of the air. He alternates between sheepish and belligerent when I call him out for his behavior. He gives me a flat no to being evaluated. Then I tell him I want to move Maman to Chicago, and he blusters before his resistance collapses.
A hostile glare accompanies his bellow. “I will go with you to the U.S.”
“You think the American authorities will let you in? Even if they gave you a tourist visa, they’d never let you stay…” I let out a humorless laugh. “You can’t hide the past.”
At that he deflates like a pricked balloon. “Fine. Maybe they can find me accommodation back in Montreal. No point in staying in Vancouver once Louisette is gone.”
I don’t mention she hasn’t agreed to move. Let him think it's a done deal.
“Your full name?” the social worker asks. She is around fifty, with an air of competence, perhaps from the broadcloth navy suit. Her graying blond hair is pulled back into a businesslike bun. She has a file folder in front of her, with a white form to the side.
“François Jules Martin.”
She writes on the folder, then says, “Tu préfères québécois ou Anglais?”
“English is fine.” He’s hunched over in the hard-backed chair, which rocks a bit from side to side. I can see the craving build for the next drink or the next hit. Or both.
She moves to the form, takes a few more details, then says, “I understand, M. Martin, that you would like to relocate back to Montreal.”
“Yes.” Even with just the one word, the gravelly note is evidence of decades of hard living. He clears his throat. “I have friends there. And my sister-in-law may emigrate to the U.S. No point in staying here in that case.” He sends me a look, reaches for a nonexistent pack of cigarettes, then puts a fist on the desk in disgust. “My nephew has made it clear I would not be able to move to the U.S.”
“Are you willing to go into a rehabilitation facility for up to two months?”
“I understand that is part of the deal.” He’s starting to shake. Is it the prospect of rehab, moving, or merely the need overwhelming him. He clamps his lips shut as his fingers desperately push into his biceps to keep the trembling under control.
“You and your nephew can sit in the lounge while I make the arrangements. We should have you scheduled to move to a facility in the next two hours.”
“What about my stuff?” Uncle François asks.
“Your nephew can bring your belongings after you have been admitted. Of course, they will be searched to make sure there are no drugs or alcohol.” She leads us into a utilitarian lounge with a few chairs and a small coffee machine. Instead of sitting down, he paces, muttering under his breath. A volcano builds and suddenly he slams his fist into the cinderblock wall.
“Tabarnak.” Then he hits the wall again. “Calisse.” This goes on until his knuckles are scraped raw, droplets of blood spattering the linoleum floor. He spews until he has no voice left, then slumps down to the floor, his back against the wall he just abused.
Once he’s quiet, I point to the coffee machine. “You want something to drink, Uncle François?”
“Water…” Still restless, he struggles to his feet and continues to pace, strangled sounds echoing through the room.
On shelf above the coffee are bottles of water. Room temperature, but better than nothing. The only sounds in the room are his footsteps and mine. I loosen the cap, hand him the water, and pace with him.
The door opens and a cheerful, rubicund man in his twenties walks in. Holding out his hand, he says, “François Martin?” Uncle François stares at him from puffy, reddened eyes but doesn’t take the proffered paw.
“And you are his nephew, Jean-Louis?”
“Yes.” I do shake with him.
“I’m Father Thibault.”
Uncle François steps back. “No priests.”
“I’m not here to bring you religion.” Father Thibault’s soft voice is soothing. “If you want to talk, fine. If not, we can all just sit here until all the arrangements are ready.”
He abruptly collapses into a chair. “I won’t go into a Catholic facility.” Uncle François’ hoarse voice wavers, but his words are precise.
“You don’t have to.” The priest has an emollient, reassuring tone. “Once the doctor evaluates you, a number of places will be available. Your nephew has indicated he would prefer you go into private accommodation.”
“Can’t afford it.” His voice slurs, making him harder to understand.
