Authors: Anthony Bidulka
that, even though my eyes, throat and head felt
fine, my stomach was feeling a bit odd and my
inner loner was acting up. After the tussle with
Luc Bussiere, being sprayed in the eyes by an
unknown peeping Tom and my discussions with
Kelly and my mother, I was feeling a bit unsettled.
I needed some time alone—and home wasn’t the
place for that. So, even though it was Saturday, I
decided to go to my office.
PWC is closed on weekends unless one of us
decides to work or see a client, so I had to use my
keys to unlock the front door. Except for subdued
sunlight the foyer was unlit, and the front desk
was deserted. Perfect. For a moment as I stood
there, admiring the festive Christmas decorations
no doubt thanks to Lilly, I felt something suspi-
ciously like Christmas spirit invade my body. I
even debated turning around and heading for the
nearest mall to do some shopping.
Nah.
For the next few hours I hung around my
office, drinking coffee, looking for SunLover on
gays.r.us, taking a half-hour snooze and catching
up on miscellaneous paperwork. I made some
phone calls, mostly leaving messages on answer-
ing machines, reminding Daniel about our visit to
Diva’s, the gay nightclub, that evening and every-
Anthony Bidulka — 205
one else about the tree trimming party at my
house on Sunday night. I could have done most of
this at home if I’d wanted to, but with my mother,
two dogs and all those boiling and blurping pots
and pans, my house seemed a little crowded.
Eventually I did leave PWC for the gym and a
much-needed blob-buster workout.
On the way home I took my time on Spadina, tak-
ing in the beauteous view of the park. Next to the
stately Delta Bessborough Hotel, an outdoor
skating rink had been carved out amidst a circle of
ash and spruce in an area that in summer was a
grassy plot. Where there’d been lawn was now a
sheet of ice covered with a sugary dusting of
snow. The trees were painted with hoarfrost,
transforming them from brown stick men into del-
icate-looking crystalline figures. The hotdog stand
had become a skater’s shack and former sun-
bathers were now bundled up tight in toasty
fleece jackets, colourful scarves and thick mittens.
Skaters seemed afloat on sparkling blades, doing
their figure eights, the temperature so low that
twirling wisps of cloud streamed from their
mouths. Although darkness had fallen on this
winter city, frosted spotlights encircling the skat-
ing ring created a dome of light about the idyll. I
could faintly make out the melody of holiday
tunes coming from dangling speakers high above
on boughs of trees, setting the scene to music. It
was a real, live Christmas snow globe.
I was feeling good. I’d had a nap, a workout
206 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
and some me time, and tonight I was taking a pos-
itive step in my case. Things were good.
And then I got home.
My mother was gone. Again.
After a search similar to the one I undertook
the previous morning, I found myself yet again on
the phone calling my neighbour.
“Sereena,” I began hesitantly, almost embar-
rassed to admit I’d misplaced my mother yet
again. “Ah…er…my mother?”
“Are you kidding me with this?” she asked,
sounding a little out of breath, as if I’d gotten her
away from something…strenuous?
“No, Sereena, really, she’s gone again.”
“Where was she the last time?”
“She said she was on a walk, but I don’t believe
her. Something is going on, she’s not telling me
something.” And then the guilt came pouring out
of me. “I told her I was worried about her being
alone while I was away and what do I do? I go off
and leave her alone all afternoon! Cripes, I can be
a dolt.”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to agree with you on that
this time,” she said almost nastily. “There’s a
frickin’ light on in the room above the garage.
What kind of poor-ass detective are you anyway?”
“What?” seemed to be all I could say.
“Look out your back window. She’s been up
there for a couple of hours.”
Sereena, although she’d never admit it, had
been watching out for my mother.
I craned my neck to do as I was told. Indeed,
the windows above my garage were alight. I bid
Anthony Bidulka — 207
my neighbour a sheepish goodbye and hung up.
Halfway to the garage, Barbra and Brutus
gamely cantering behind me, I was rudely
reminded I had neglected to put on a coat by the
hands of a winter wind. Reaching the door we
gratefully piled into the building, away from the
elements, where well-insulated walls kept out the
worst of the cold. The garage consists of two gen-
erously sized bays: one is for the Mazda and the
other had recently been cleared of boxes and gar-
dening paraphernalia to make room for my moth-
er’s van. In one corner is a narrow set of steps
leading up to the second floor. When I’d bought
the house I was told the second floor, originally
built to be a nanny suite, could bring in extra cash
as a rentable apartment. It was considered a sell-
ing feature—one I knew I’d never take advantage
of. Having a stranger living above my garage was
not my idea of enticing. I was more in the mar-
ket for privacy than revenue. After buying the
property, I barely took a second look at the attic-
like space other than to toss in cartons of stuff I
didn’t have use for but didn’t want to throw away.
So what on earth was my mother doing up
there? I had the sneaky suspicion cleaning sup-
plies were involved.
One by one the dogs and I made our way up
the staircase. At the top I opened the door and
peered in. Barbra and Brutus were more intrusive,
nosing the door wider and pushing their way into
the room. I followed. At first all I could see were
cartons and old furniture and dust motes set afloat
by the passage of the dogs. It smelled old and
208 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
musty. We rounded a collection of boxes piled to
the ceiling and found a small clearing bathed in
light and warmth. The light was coming from a
single bare bulb dangling from the roughed-in
ceiling. The warmth was coming from electric
floorboard heaters. In the middle of the clearing
was my mother. She had uncovered an ancient
recliner chair, positioned it directly in front of the
heater, crawled under a raggedy afghan and
promptly fell asleep in her makeshift nest.
The dogs wandered off to snort about in some
dark corner. I approached my mother’s sleeping
body. I knew she was sleeping because of the gen-
tle buzzing through her nostrils. I reached out to
touch her shoulder but stopped short. I don’t
know when I had last been so close to her face, to
really look at it. Her glasses had fallen partway
down her nose and slightly off to one side. Her
skin looked surprisingly soft for such a tough old
bird and had barely a wrinkle except for a few at
the corner of her eyes and above her upper lip. My
mother wore little if any makeup, and that was
only when she was going out in public or enter-
taining guests, but I could see that her lips and
cheeks, infused with the innocence of sleep, were
as naturally rosy as crabapples. Her hair, although
greying, was actually a dark brown rather than
black as I’d always thought. My gaze moved
down to her hands, one was perched on her chest,
the other on her lap. They were the hands of a
working woman, short nails, slightly oversized
knuckles and skin toughened from lifting heavy
things like bales and rocks, digging vegetables and
Anthony Bidulka — 209
weeds out of gardens and too much sun.
What had brought her here? What had she
expected to find?
I studied her face again, trying to find mine in
hers. I couldn’t. I touched her shoulder and called
her. My mother’s eyes opened wide and for a
moment she looked startled.
“It’s okay, Mom, it’s just me.”
She threw her body up and forward urging the
recliner into a sitting up position and hopped off
the chair. Her hands busied themselves straight-
ening her clothes and hair.
“It’s okay, Mom, you just fell asleep,” I said,
feeling a little discombobulated myself. “I was
worried about you. I didn’t know where you’d
gone.”
“I came up here, dat’s all, just up here, not far,”
she said quickly, not used to being caught doing
something out of the ordinary. “You must be hun-
gry.” She glanced at her wristwatch, a thin gold
one my father had given her decades ago. “Oi!
Look at da time, oh dear goodness, you must be
hungry.”
“No, I’m okay,” I said. “I was just worried.
Luckily Sereena saw the lights on up here.” And
then I couldn’t help a little admonishment. “You
didn’t leave a note like we discussed yesterday.”
“I vas just up here,” my mother repeated.
“But why?”
The dogs picked then to reappear and both
approached my mother for a greeting. She seemed
grateful for the interruption.
“You vere steell gone so I not vant to start da
210 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
supper until you vere back,” she finally answered,
fussing with the collar around Barbra’s neck.
“And I vonder about dis room.”
I was at a loss. I had no idea what my mother
was talking about or if perhaps she needed med-
ical attention of some sort. Why on earth would
she be wondering about this room?
“It’s just a storage room,” I told her to keep up
my side of the odd conversation. “We should go in
now.” I was feeling weird about the whole situa-
tion. And, God help me, I
was
hungry.
My mother nodded. We turned off the heaters,
extinguished the light and wordlessly paraded
down the stairs, through the garage, along the
backyard path and into the house. After we
regrouped in the kitchen, the dogs loitered aim-
lessly about, thinking there might be more activi-
ty forthcoming or at least a bit of sup.
“Dat’s a nice room up dere,” my mother, busy-
ing herself at the stove, commented with an obvi-
ously faked nonchalance. “You just poot junk up
dere?”
My face paled. I could feel the blood from my
head rushing south.
And my life heading in the same direction.
“No, no, no, Sonsyou, I just tinking,” my moth-
er answered every possible question I could think
of putting to her about why she was in my garage
storage room, short of actually asking whether she
was considering moving in there. She was slicing
away at some fatty hunk of meat and adding it to
a frying pan. “Come, seet down, ve eat, ya? You
must be so hungry!”
Anthony Bidulka — 211
“But Mom, what were you thinking…”
“Ay! Texoh booyd! Eat now.” She wanted me to
be quiet and eat. Things seemed back to normal.
By 9 p.m. mother was settled down with a cocoa
in front of the television in her bedroom watching
a
Colombo
rerun and I was freshly showered,
shaved and squeezed into a pair of jeans from gatt
and a plain black T-shirt. I slipped on some
Skechers that looked like runners but weren’t and
a heavily lined leather coat, said goodbye to the
dogs and went next door.
I was surprised when the door was opened by
Jared, Anthony’s partner—the model—holding
aloft a martini glass full of red liquid as if it were
an Academy Award he’d just won. He was wear-
ing a dark brown outfit that clung to his body like
syrup. I embraced him and, as always, marvelled
at the existence of something so beautiful. The
impeccable olive skin, the unique copper tint of
boyishly unkempt curls, the golden-green eyes.
And, also as always, I swallowed the old familiar
feeling that I’d like to be in love with him. Except
for the fact that he belongs to Anthony.
I followed Jared’s scent into a room decorated
by Sereena to resemble the lobby bar of a W Hotel;
dim lighting, low slung, white leather couches,
exotic topiaries and five-foot-tall, wrought iron
candlesticks that looked as if they’d been filched