Page 27 of The Bodyguard Affair
“Do you want breakfast to go?”
“It’s fine. I don’t really eat breakfast.”
Yet another reason to believe she’s been body-snatched. Despite her angry mood swings, she’s invited me to join her for breakfast nearly every day since I’ve moved in. It’s part of her daily routine, which Theresa is keen on cementing, so long as it’s safe for her to make, like toast, or yogurt and berries, or premade hard-boiled eggs. Predictability is important. As is allowing her the independence she needs for her mental health.
Still, daily breakfast is ironic, because she never bothered to make sure Emma and I ate breakfast when we were kids. If we were lucky, she’d slap a box of sugary cereal and a carton of expired, curdled milk on the counter before slinking to the couch to sleep off her hangover. We got by using the breakfast club at school—until I realized it wasn’t a magical place with bottomless eggs and toast. It was for poor kids, as my asshole peers pointed out. So I stopped going, preferring the ache of hunger to shame. Haven’t been a fan of breakfast since, unless you count black coffee.
Mom parks herself on the edge of the bed, the mattress creaking under her weight. “I had no idea you read.”
There are a lot of things you don’t know about meis what I reallywant to say, but don’t. In times like this, I think about what Emma would tell me.Give her a chance.I wish I could forgive as easily. Though it’s easier to forgive when you don’t know the full story.
In all fairness, Mom apparently turned things around before her diagnosis. A year or two after I first enlisted in the military, Em had her first baby at nineteen. She gave Mom an ultimatum: She couldn’t see the baby unsupervised unless she got sober. After that, Mom got herself into a treatment program and stopped drinking. She picked up a job at an antique shop in Westboro and, according to Em, was a completely changed woman, though I was never around to witness it.
Work became the perfect excuse not to visit for holidays or special occasions. Maybe part of me didn’t believe it, and the other half didn’t want to get my hopes up for fear she’d slip back into her old ways, like she always did.
“It’s for work. And I do read,” I lie. Maybe I’ll start, because this book isgood. It’s also suspenseful, with the whole assassination attempt subplot. I started it last night with the intention of skimming it just enough to write my report. Instead, I ended up staying awake until two in the morning. I’m over halfway through and I don’t want it to end. Reading Andi’s words wraps me in the same warmth and comfort I felt the night we met.
Mom clasps her hands together. “Oh, I got Theresa to pick up cornflakes. You like them with just a little bit of milk, don’t you?”
It was Emma who didn’t like her cereal the slightest bit soggy, but I don’t bother correcting her. Mom does this with a lot of things. Talks to me about food I apparently loved as achild, or shows I’d watch “on repeat.” Emma chalks it up to her Alzheimer’s disease, but truthfully, she did this long before that. I think it’s her way of trying to make herself feel better about missing out on so much, though it’s hard to give her that win. Especially when her version of my childhood is entirely inaccurate.
“Sure.” It’s easier tojust go with it(as Emma would say), even if it isn’t true. Otherwise, it might confuse her.
I’m desperate to change the topic to literally anything else. “By the way, I got all your groceries and meals prepped for the week. They’re in the fridge, labeled by time and day of the week. Anything else you think you’ll need before I leave?” I’m due at the airport in about an hour for the Squamish visit. Ivan and I have to do a security sweep of the jet before departure.
She shakes her head, knee bouncing, avoiding my gaze. “I’m fine on my own. Besides, I have Em. And Theresa,” she adds.
The timeline differs for everyone, but according to her doctors, Mom is on the cusp of entering what they refer to as “the middle stage”—a worsening of symptoms. She now requires more professional care and a stringent routine, because otherwise, she’d potentially forget things like dressing, bathing, and cooking. She also gets winded easily and struggles to carry on conversations without forgetting words or losing her train of thought. It’s the stage before the last—when she’ll become potentially nonverbal and lose the ability to eat, walk, and use the bathroom without assistance. I try not to think about it too much.
Until recently, Mom got by with the help of Em. For years, Emma stayed home with her kids, so her schedule was flexible. But when the opportunity came up to start her own salon, whichinvolves grueling hours, Em hired Theresa, a nurse. Theresa takes Mom on errands, ensures she’s eaten, assists with bathing and general hygiene, and doles out her meds. Up until recently, Theresa only came part-time, because Mom was okay to be left alone for a couple hours here and there. But it’s started to become dangerous. Just last week, she left the stove on for hours after making a pot of tea. I immediately went out and bought a teakettle that automatically turns off once the water is boiled. Now that she requires all-day care from Theresa, the bills are becoming wildly expensive. We couldn’t afford someone both day and night, which is why I took a short-term contract here in Ottawa and moved in with Mom until a spot opens in a home. I couldn’t let Em sacrifice her salon after all those years of taking on the brunt of Mom’s care.
Still, in-home care is unaffordable long-term. Luckily, we found an affordable memory care facility Mom liked. It has a space starting in September, which means I get to leave sooner than expected. The only problem is that Mom frequently forgets she’s moving there.
“And remember, I’ll be back in two days,” I remind her.
“Oh, that’s nothing, I’ll barely have time to miss you,” she says with a wide grin. She doesn’t like to acknowledge her illness, and I don’t want to be too overbearing, because it upsets her.
“If anything, you should be gone more,” Mom says, continuing through my silence. “All you do is work, sleep, work out, repeat. It’s hardly a way to live, sweetheart.”
“Well, I have a job. Adult responsibilities,” I say, though it comes out more pointed than I intended. “And I really don’t have time for much else.”
Either she doesn’t notice my tone or chooses to ignore it. “You haven’t dated since…what was that woman’s name? Charlene?”
“Charlene was my high school girlfriend, Mom. You’re thinking of Penny.”
“Right! Penny.”
I grunt, mostly because I hate talking about Penny. I met her last year in the States through one of the guys at work. She happened to be mutual friends with a guy I worked with. She was smart, worked in IT, and was able to work remotely.
I wasn’t looking for a relationship, but she seemed different than anyone I’d dated in the past. We were together for over a year, not that we saw each other much. She was the first girlfriend I had who didn’t seem to be overly concerned with my work schedule. In fact, she said she thought it was “sexy” for a man to put work first.
Penny seemed to be perfect for me and my lifestyle, so much so, I even brought her home to meet Em. A month later, she told me she’d actually met someone else while I was away. I was pretty fucking crushed. But to be fair, I understood. I’d been gone six months, so what the hell was she supposed to do for half a year? Sit at home and write me love letters?
We broke up and I moved back home. Not that I’ve ever considered Ottawa to be home. All I have here are shitty memories of being moved all around the city like a shelter dog no one wants. I’m just biding my time until Jones calls with a new posting so I can have my old life back.
“What happened with her?”
“Long-distance didn’t work.” Barely anyone in my line of work has relationships—successful relationships, at least. Beingaway from home seven or eight months of the year and leaving without notice, not being able to tell your spouse where you are, isn’t exactly a recipe for a successful relationship. In fact, I’m pretty sure the divorce rate is hovering around 90 percent, no exaggeration.
