It’s a heart-thumping, personally damaging experience, or it can be. Here’s an excerpt from Remember (working title)–my novel about a protagonist who dissociates–presenting her project at a board meeting.

During her ten-minute presentation, she notices Peter’s behaviour and thinks he might be on the spectrum. He sits at the board room table looking down at the sheets of paper in front of him. He is hunched over in his dated suit. Not once does he look at Dana while she speaks. When he does raise his head, he stares directly across at the wall facing him, then down at the papers, up and down as though to the rhythm of his own drummer. His fingers are busy dog-earring the corner of the agenda in front of him and his feet scrape the floor, restless as a squirrel. Although her instincts tell her to be cautious, she tries to suspend judgement. The other board members express sincere excitement about Dana’s work and are especially impressed with her data project—she is collecting data about conversion rates from referral to resident, by demographic and type of mental illness—just as CARE Canada appreciated her skill in gathering data, and her unique gift at making it meaningful. 

            Peter sits forward, the fingers of one hand still playing with the grimy curl bobbing at the edge of the agenda.  

            “What does this data tell us that we don’t already know? We should be looking to the professionals and published research. This is anecdotal. Let’s be careful about making decisions based on…,” his voice trails off. His eyes are darting about and he nods rapidly, silently begging the others to nod too. He shifts forward over the table and then to the back of his seat several times during this short speech.
            Based on some young female’s findings? Some idiot with multiple identities? Dana silently finishes his sentence, or is it Diane’s thought? Their minds are in unison. We have two strikes against us—being female and having a mental disorder. Oh, and being young. Young female. We can smell it on him. Women are defined by the secretarial support they give men. 

            Mary Ellen, a fellow board member, furrows her brow. “Peter, no one is claiming that this is formal research. It’s simply helping us take the research and apply it to our context. I personally find it very informative to know the conversion rates from applicant to resident in our homes, especially the gender data. And the immigrant data is most revealing—it helps us know where to put our outreach efforts. I’m not sure I understand your concerns?”

            “We’ll talk about it off-line,” Peter mutters, and glances up at Tom. Dana leaves the meeting soon after that, closing the door to the boardroom and walking to her desk. Her heart is thumping in her chest and her throat is tight. Diane? she says inside. In the act of sitting on the swivel chair at her desk, her body continues to slump down, her backbone rounds and her head drops forward for a couple of seconds. 

Anthony, the financial officer, who sits across the room, glances over at her. “Looks like you had fun in there?” he asks. 

            It is Diane who straightens, looked over at him, and says: “Who the fuck is Peter?” And then whips her hand over her mouth in mock shock—did I just say that? She glances at the board room door, leans toward Anthony and says: “Someone’s got a pickle up their ass. Is it just me or is he like this with everyone?” Anthony shows surprise and amusement at her odd remonstrations. 

            “Who, Peter? Never noticed,” he shrugs and goes back to pounding the keys on his computer. The office PCs sit tall and proud like toy soldiers on their own special desks next to the regular paper-laden ones. Diane sums up Anthony in one word—accountant.

            She glances at the clock on the wall above the board room. Five o’clock. They’d be at it for another hour. She puts away Dana’s presentation, tidies her desk and turns off her PC, signalling the end of her workday. Then she stands up and strolls to the office supplies closet. She opens it. At first, she examines two large markers—one blue, the other red. Huge-tipped, they are used to create hand-drawn signage posted at Carebridge residences until professional signs can be made. She thinks for a moment. Then she sees the can of yellow spray paint. She puts the markers back in their place and picks up the can. She remembers what it was used for. Erika, Carebridge’s Executive Director, attended a peaceful awareness-raising rally in downtown London last month for mental health day. She spray painted the face of a placard made from a cardboard box. On top of the yellow background, she stenciled: ‘Carebridge Cares’ and below that: “Come live with us!” using the dark blue wide-tipped marker. Yellow and blue, Carebridge’s colours. The sign lays on the floor of the cabinet.

            Diane picks up the can, puts it in Dana’s handbag and goes out the back door without glancing at Anthony. She walks directly to the back of Peter’s Buick. She pulls out the can of spray paint and places the bag on the gravel, avoiding a puddle. After shaking the can with five forceful strokes, in three easy movements she sprays the ♀ symbol for female in bright yellow on the trunk of his Buick. Despite the balmy weather, the Buick’s metal is cold, and at first, the warm paint congeals at the edges, as though deciding whether or not to dry. When she is finished, she puts the lid on the can, tucks it into the fold of her jacket, picks up the bag and goes back into the office. Anthony is no longer at his desk. Diane passes into the supplies room, turns the can over and wipes the nozzle with a tissue from her pocket. Then she replaces the can on the shelf in the supplies closet. She leaves the office through the front door and heads for the bus home. She doesn’t look back. The bus comes within a few minutes and as it passes Carebridge, she looks out the window on the other side of the street. She lets out a sigh and bites a nail.

(Excerpt from Remember (working title), by Valerie Hickey)

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     I don’t mean to condone vandalism as retaliation, but rather to expose the interiority of those among us who struggle for the resilience to deal with the Peters they encounter at work and anywhere.