Flight of Aquavit (26 page)

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