same Alan, the brother I remembered from my childhood, my hero. At least it wouldn’t be all of him. And I was right. A piece of him had been lost in the desert of New Mexico. Of course, “lost” is a subjective term in the blurred boundaries of mental health. He may see it very differently. Still, sometimes when he’s at his most stable, in his best moments, he’ll make me laugh. He’ll tell an old joke or give me fashion advice or make fun of our parents, smile mischievously with that twinkle in his deep blue eyes, and I’ll see my brother’s charisma, humor, and kindness shining through.
During this same period when Alan was first hospitalized, Kim, Eric’s girlfriend (who later became his wife), found a small lump on the side of Eric’s face, which turned out to be a tumor. It was benign, but pushing on his facial nerves. If it grew any larger, it could do serious damage, so he had to have emergency surgery. There was a short period when my mother and father were shuttling between hospitalized sons, one at the Clarke Institute and one at Mount Sinai Hospital in downtown Toronto.
My family’s issues were weighing heavily on my mind while I was at school, as you can imagine. It was hard for me to be away at such a difficult time. I felt completely helpless and scared for my siblings. I was trying as hard as I could to keep it together, but the littlest things would set me off. Once I accidentally put a pair of red shorts in with my white laundry. When I took out the wash, I had turned everything pink. I came upstairs and started to cry, and I just could not stop. My roommates didn’t know what to do. Eventually, Cami called my mother.
“Do you want me to come to Montreal?” my mother asked. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
“No,” I told her, trying desperately to pull it together, “you can’t leave. You have bigger battles to fight right now.”
Thankfully, my mother’s best friend, Linda—the one who’d made the marriage bet—had moved back to Montreal several years earlier. Every Friday night, Linda would have me over for dinner. No matter what dramas unfolded in my life, I knew that one day a week I would eat well and be mothered.
Linda lived in Hampstead, a beautiful part of the city filled with old homes. She had a small kitchen with a little wooden breakfast table in a nook and very little counter space. She had a wall-mounted convection oven in addition to a regular oven, but otherwise, she didn’t have much in the way of serious gear. It was extraordinary to me that Linda could prepare these intricate and elaborate meals in this tiny kitchen.
In those days I was a bit of a ragamuffin. To Linda I must have been like a Pygmalion project. Linda is a most regal-looking woman, elegant and stylish, with silver hair that she wears either down and long or slicked back in a perfect chignon. She’s about five foot nine, rail-thin, and utterly graceful, with the carriage of a ballerina. Her clothes are custom-made. You wouldn’t think this woman ate if you saw her. How could she cook? you might wonder. She might break a nail! But she was a force in the kitchen.
My mother cooked intuitively and never had patience for kitchen minutiae. Linda, on the other hand, was all about the details. She followed recipes to the letter and was always poring over cookbooks and magazines. She was methodical about her cooking, which was new for me. She swore by that age-old rule: never serve something for guests that you haven’t made before. Unlike my mother, who lived to experiment, Linda would dutifully practice and perfect her dishes.
Every Friday night, Linda’s table was full with family and friends. I became a kind of adopted daughter. I usually arrived for dinner in my overalls and secondhand brown cardigan. She never commented, but her younger son would always tease me.
Here, she served an elaborate, multicourse dinner. It was the first time I saw salad served at the end of the meal, or multiple
During this same period when Alan was first hospitalized, Kim, Eric’s girlfriend (who later became his wife), found a small lump on the side of Eric’s face, which turned out to be a tumor. It was benign, but pushing on his facial nerves. If it grew any larger, it could do serious damage, so he had to have emergency surgery. There was a short period when my mother and father were shuttling between hospitalized sons, one at the Clarke Institute and one at Mount Sinai Hospital in downtown Toronto.
My family’s issues were weighing heavily on my mind while I was at school, as you can imagine. It was hard for me to be away at such a difficult time. I felt completely helpless and scared for my siblings. I was trying as hard as I could to keep it together, but the littlest things would set me off. Once I accidentally put a pair of red shorts in with my white laundry. When I took out the wash, I had turned everything pink. I came upstairs and started to cry, and I just could not stop. My roommates didn’t know what to do. Eventually, Cami called my mother.
“Do you want me to come to Montreal?” my mother asked. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
“No,” I told her, trying desperately to pull it together, “you can’t leave. You have bigger battles to fight right now.”
Thankfully, my mother’s best friend, Linda—the one who’d made the marriage bet—had moved back to Montreal several years earlier. Every Friday night, Linda would have me over for dinner. No matter what dramas unfolded in my life, I knew that one day a week I would eat well and be mothered.
Linda lived in Hampstead, a beautiful part of the city filled with old homes. She had a small kitchen with a little wooden breakfast table in a nook and very little counter space. She had a wall-mounted convection oven in addition to a regular oven, but otherwise, she didn’t have much in the way of serious gear. It was extraordinary to me that Linda could prepare these intricate and elaborate meals in this tiny kitchen.
In those days I was a bit of a ragamuffin. To Linda I must have been like a Pygmalion project. Linda is a most regal-looking woman, elegant and stylish, with silver hair that she wears either down and long or slicked back in a perfect chignon. She’s about five foot nine, rail-thin, and utterly graceful, with the carriage of a ballerina. Her clothes are custom-made. You wouldn’t think this woman ate if you saw her. How could she cook? you might wonder. She might break a nail! But she was a force in the kitchen.
My mother cooked intuitively and never had patience for kitchen minutiae. Linda, on the other hand, was all about the details. She followed recipes to the letter and was always poring over cookbooks and magazines. She was methodical about her cooking, which was new for me. She swore by that age-old rule: never serve something for guests that you haven’t made before. Unlike my mother, who lived to experiment, Linda would dutifully practice and perfect her dishes.
Every Friday night, Linda’s table was full with family and friends. I became a kind of adopted daughter. I usually arrived for dinner in my overalls and secondhand brown cardigan. She never commented, but her younger son would always tease me.
Here, she served an elaborate, multicourse dinner. It was the first time I saw salad served at the end of the meal, or multiple
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