It amazed Stellla what a strategic marriage in this day and age could still accomplish. With a wealthy developer for a husband why wouldn't such doors open to
her sister-in-law that for Stella would remain closed, and not simply closed but forever nonexistent? Her brother and sister-in-law were on a first name basis with
everyone in Hollywood, not to mention those occupying every level of elected office in Canada. Or so it would seem. One tiny donation to supported housing for
the mentally ill--Shirley had handed the cheque over in front of cameras and microphones representing every level of local and national media--and now she was a
household word, her surgically-enhanced smile gracing the pages of every daily and weekly publication in the city. Stella let the paper drop onto the gritty faux-
Persian carpet her mother had given her, the one that Shirley had kept rolled up in the basement crawl space of one of the three--or was it four--houses that she
owned with her husband, Stella's brother. She had given it to Stella... when? She easily lost track of time, probably from the medication. She lit a cigarette--along
with coffee, her single real luxury. She knew that she must quit. She wasn't breathing right these days. Lung cancer had killed her mother--when?--Not long after
she'd given Stella the rug. Her brother of course hadn't personally handed it to her, but had returned it to her mother. Stella had to talk a worker in her boarding
home into helping her retrieve it;. It was going to be her first real foray into independent living, and the rug would do wonders to make her subsidized apartment feel
more like a home. She had never met Shirley, neither had she been in contact with her brother since before their marriage some thirty years ago. Last she heard
he was considering runnning for elected office as a local riding had become open and the Conservative Party had especially named him as their first choice of
candidate.
She lay back on her unmade bed and sucked in the soothing harsh smoke, then released it in a billowing cloud of blue. The light from the window lit up the
smoke, making it something glorious, like the clouds surrounding a Raphael Madonna. She knew she shouldn't be smoking in bed, nor that she should be even
smoking. it wasn`t really a pleasure. She didn`t know how she would live without it. One day she might quit. One day. Her case manager, and the occupational
therapist at her mental health team were becoming relentless in their nagging. Stella had otherwise done well. She had become something of a model client. She
even had her own business now: `Phat Gurrlz: Vintage Boutique for Bodacious Babes. She was a business partner there with Jill, a woman she`d met at several
coffee house events that Stella had sung at. Jill was really the brains but said that she loved Stella`s sense of style, which suited her fine since according to her she
sometimes didn`t have the mental organization to adequately run to the bathroom, much less run a business. Jill was tolerant and compassionate, overlooking
Stella`s fiscal incompetence and problems with punctuality, and even taking care of nearly all the details. Stella had only to be there, decked out in their featured
finery, purring like a latter-day Mae West to all the women of size, and some skinny ones too, who patronizerd their shop.
That was the first, last and only time she had seen Shirley, who had happened to be in the neighbourhood at the time, and had happened to wander into the
store. Of course she didn`t know that Stella worked here, much less that she owned the establishment,nor even who she was. They had never met before. But
Stella`s mother who had always been careful to keep them apart on her brother`s insistence had shown her plenty of photographs. Her mother didn`t at all like her
daughter-in-law, and often complained and moaned to Stella about her son`s woeful and inadequate choice of a wife. She was from an eastern European country
and had not lost her thick accent. According to Stella`s mother Shirley also was shrill, loud and temperamental with a nasty disposition and a tendency of hitting her
children and sometimes her husband. She never made it to their wedding. Stella must have been just out of high school. A skinny, small and pale pimply boy
terrified of everyone and already fighting early-symptom schizophrenia. Her name was Derek then, and he was just too ill to attend. No one in the family knew
about her change of identity. She still hadn`t gone in for the surgery. She wasn`t sure if she ever would. She still rather enjoyed standing while peeing. Stella had
not had to go on hormones in order to produce a nice little set of breasts. She supposed she had always been more or less a natural hermaphrodite. She was
forty-six and still a virgin. Sex had been always for her something rather scary and foreign. While she was sure that she liked men and the odd woman the idea of
doing "that"with anyone, no matter how attractive just didn`t seem real or natural to her.
For ten years, except for the six-month relapse that had kept her from her mother`s funeral, she had gone more or less free from significant symptoms of
mental illness, ever since she had begun dressing as a woman. She no longer heard voices. She no longer suspected that people were trying to get into her
apartment, and that they were watching her through the window, through the television, through the computer. Ever since she put on her first dress. She steadfastly
remained on medication. There were chances she was not willing to take.
In her livingroom on the couch slept her new friend Darren Waterhouse. She won him at bingo. This had been a charity bingo for AIDS research that Jill had
talked her into attending with her. Darren was being raffled off as first prize to the lucky woman or man who cast the winning ticket. Not knowing exactly what to
do with him Stella invited Darren to her apartment with Jill along as chaperone. She couldn`t say that she was attracted to him. He was handsome all right, tall,
about twenty with tousled brown hair and rather bad posture. He got around on a skateboasrtd that he had always under his arm whenever he wasn`t riding on
it. He had been dared into offering himself as first prize partly by his older gay roommate and partly out of financial desperation, as he was also offered plenty of
pocket money for expenses. Stella decided he was sweet if rather louche, but she was in no way inclined to share her bed with him and told him as much once they
were seated with Jill in her livingroom. He seemed relieved to hear this, which irked her slightly. Now he was phoning her nearly every week, sometimes asking to
stay over if his roommate--who was wildly attracted to him--became intolerable to be around. This time Darren was on Stella`s couch because of problems with
his girlfriend, not to mention his roommate. She didn`t mind and rather enjoyed his company. It sometimes got too lonely here for her but for her cat who was only
a little more quiet than Darren.
She heard a soft meowing at the door and, bothered about having to make the effort, heaved herself off the bed and opened the door. In walked a large long-
hair calico, white underneath. Her name was Colores, so christened by Diego, a Mexican mental health worker who had been seeking a home for his cat, since he
was returning soon to Oaxaca where he was born. This remained a silent pact between Stella and Diego, since it was against Mental Health regulations for his sort
of exchange to be done between worker and client. But she had fallen in love with Colores and had had her now for nearly five years. The cat leapt onto the
bed ahead of Stella, waiting for her to return. She lumbered back onto the bed, propping herself again against her collection of sumptuous cushions and the cat
snuggled onto her ample lap purring ferociusly. She stubbed her spent cigarette in the ashtray and gently stroked the adoring cat. She heard the sound of Darren
getting up and walking to the bathroom, and the loud sound of his peeing suggested that he still hadn`t learned to close the door behind him. She glanced at the
local weekly she had been reading, trying not to get upset about the article about her rich sister-in-law, homelessness and mental health. Then to the waterfall roar
of the fllushing toilet, Darren opened her bedroom door.
``Have you never thought about knocking first?"
His face reddened slighty and he mumbled "sorry." He was shirtless and his skin seemed as tired and lacklustre as the rest of him while he sat at her feet on the
bed. He reached over to pet the cat who responded courteously.
"Got a cigarette"
"Got a cigarette what?"
"Please?"
"Here, help yourself."
"Can I have two more to take with me?"
"No, I paid almost ten bucks for this pack."
"I'll take my pants off if you give me them."
Handing him five cigarettes Stella said, "Here's what you get if you promise to keep your pants on and wear a shirt too."
"Don't you like my body?"
"Just do as you're told."
He returned fully dressed in a T-shirt and baggy jeans.
"Sit over there", she said, motioning to a chair in the cornier.
"Huh?"
"I like my space. It's nothing personal."
"I thought you liked me."
"I like you very much. I just don't want to sleep with you is all."
"Everyone else does."
"My, aren't we proud of ourselves. And, anyway, is it going to kill you to be turned down just once in your life?"
"Why did you bring me back with you?"
"I thought you were kind of cute."
"But no more?"
"I still think you're cute. I just don't want to sleep with you. I don't sleep with people. I'm asexual."
"Oh puh-leez!"
"You'd think that it's something disgusting and extra-kinky from your reaction. Darren, I like you, you're always welcome here. You're good company. Now
you have only to respect my boundaries."
They smoked in silence.
"Aren't you going to open the store today?"
"Jill's there. I'm taking the day off."
"Wanna go out for coffee?"
"You buying?"
"I don't have any money."
"Oh, have it on me then!"
She was at the back table, lher favourite. It was a corner nook, raised on a pedesal, with a comfy upholstered seat, commanding a view of the crowded cafe.
Stella had remembered to carry with her her black cover sketch book and coloured pencils. With Darren leaving after a bout of incurable boredom she could do
now what she most enjoyed. Halfway through applying red to the rose petals in her drawing she saw again her sister-in-law from whose whippet-thin frame
flapped like a national flag the plus-size burgundy blouse she had bought at Phat Gurrlz. Every table in the cafe was occupied, and carrying a latte in one hand
and a plate adorned by one lonely biscotti in the other she stood helplessly looking around, her unnaturally smooth face struggling to contain her sense of panic.
"Sit here if you like", Stella said.
"Oh, you don't mind? There is nowhere to sit in here." She sat down. "Thank you, that's very kind of you," she said in her thick accent, as though handling an
impromptu TV interview.
Shirley reached into her tote bag and pulled out a book, determined to not have to run the risk of conversation out of mere gratitude to this stranger. Stella
scribbled some more red onto her rose petals, wondering if she should say anything at all. Shirley seemed intent on ignoring her and on being ignored, having not
even the courtesy of noticing her sister-in-law's artwork, not even acknowledging the great deal that Stella had given her on her goddamn blouse last week.
"Suddenly Stella said, "I like your blouse."
"Oh, thank you," she said not looking up from her book.
"You don't remember me, do you?"
She tried to ignore her.
"I sold you that blouse last week. Phat Gurrlz. Main and Broadway. I own the place."
"Oh sorry, I didn't know it was you. Yes, thank you, you have some beautiful clothes in your store." She looked up at Stella and offered her the benefit of her
smile, which she herself had to admit was beautiful and radiant. Then she returned to her book.
Feeling a little more courageous, Stella ventured, "And how is James?"
"James?"
"Your husband."
"Oh, he's fine--how do you know my husband anyway?" She was not smiling this time. She rather glared at Stella.
"He's my brother."
"James doesn't have a sister."
"He didn't have a sister, you mean. I used to be his brother. Derek."
"Huh?"
"Four years ago, April 17, 2005 to be exact, our mother, Doreen Waterhouse, died from lung cancer at the age of seventy-four. Now I have her red and bllue
Persian carpet that used to be rolled up in your basement. James by the way will be fifty-five this June 16, and you have two kids together, a daughter, lMelissa,
who just graduated in Fine Arts--she would be twenty-three now--and you have a son, who is twenty and a college drop out who rides a skateboard, who as
well as being my nephew is now a new best friend for me since I won him at bingo two months ago. Now do you know me?"
"This is a lot to absorb. Why have we never met?"
"James has always hated me. I've been ill, I was mentally ill for a long time. I also started out as his brother and, well, you get the picture."
"What did you say your name was before?"
"Derek. Did he ever mention me?"
"Your mother has, on occasion."
"On occasion," Stella echoed, slowing her breathing, and dodging the wound nearly inflicted on her.
"Your brother is a very busy man. He doesn't even have time for me or for his own children for God's sake. How do you know my son?"
"I won him at a charity bingo a couple of months agol He was first prize."
"My son was first prize at bingo?"
"He never told you?"
"Of course he hasn't told me!" now Shirley was no longer containing her anger or her disgust. She looked Stella up and down with undisguised loathing.
"What do you do with him?"
, "What do you mean what do I do with him. He's my nephew, and even if he wasn't, he's only a friend."
"Did you know he was your nephew when you made...your bid on him."
"No. That came later. He was over at my place. He visits often. Sometimes he sleeps over...on the couch, I wouldn't have it any other way, and he's perfectly
well-behaved, but he was over at my place and he saw my John Waterhouse print of Echo and Narcissus and he says to me, "The guy who painted that is my
ancestor, and I said nothing, but he told me enough about his family so that it didn't take a genius to figure it out."
"He doesn't know that you're...that you're his--"
"His auntie? No, not yet, but wait, I see him coming in."
At first Darren's eyes grew large with horror when he saw his mother sitting with Stella, then hiding it with a forced jollity he said, "Of all places to see my
mother in!"
"How could you do this to me!" his mother screamed. She stood up. "How could you shame me like this!" She slapped her son hard across the face. She
burst into tears. "Look at you. Is this what I raised you to be! Darren, you are coming home with me right now."
"I'm twenty years old, Mom. I'm not a little kid any more. I'm an adult," he said coolly, holding his right hand against his injured cheek.
"You will do as you're told. Why haven't I heard from you these last two months? Where the hell are you anyway?"
"I'm living with Gretchen."
"Gretchen?"
"My girflfriend."
"Your what? 'Gretchen!?' That is a German name. You mean to tell me you are dating a German girl! My own son!"
He looked at Stella, then at his mother. "I actually came to get this," he said, pulling his skateboard out from under the table. "You two can stay here and duke
it out if you want."
"Darren," his mother said, this time in a lowered voice. He did not stop or look back. "Darren," she repeated. While curious patrons looked on he went out the
door, dropped his skateboard on the pavement and sped off down the sidewalk, the roar of metal on concrete hitting the air like the ginding wheels of hell.
Shirley was seated again at the table, staring down at her half-eaten biscotti.
"He'll come back," Stella said.
She didn't answer.
"Shirley, I'm very sorry about what just happened. I--"
Darren's mother sighed deeply. Not even the Botox nor whatever else she had had done to her face could disguise now the grief, the age, and the toll of the
years. The vintage burgundy blouse, vastly too large for her, hung from her toned frame like a garish shroud. Stella suddenly wanted to know, but knew
better than ask, just what was her real reason for coming into Phat Gurrlz last week, being the type of customer never seen on Main Street, much less inside a
grungy vintage boutique. She sighed again and reached her hand across the table and put it in Stella's, who held it gently while the two of them sat quietly
together in the back of this crowded cafe. Stella struggled to work up the nerve to explain to her sister-in-law that they might have met at her mother's funeral had
she not been languishing in a psychiatric ward at the time. She was not going to mention that her son was not living with his girlfriend. Shirley picked up her
biscotti, and with her teeth, broke tfhe end offf with a loud snap, chewed thoughtfully, then let it rest in her plate again. She wrenched her hand from her sister-in-
law, then with both hands covered her face and leaned over the table in silence. Stella picked up the red pencil, and continued to colour in a rose petal. Shirley
uncovered her face, sipped from her latte, then stared into space, her head resting on her elbow, as though Stella wasn't there, as if no one was there, as if no one
occupied this table, nor her own personal world but herself, Sirley, Darren's heart-broken mother, sister-in-law to a bizarre outlandish freak who had sold her the
vintage blouse she was wearing. Now, nearly invisible, she shared with her the back table of a cafe she would never have let herself be seen in.
She got up from the table, said to Stella, "Very nice to have met you finally after all these years. Pleae keep in touch," then walked out of the cafe, her
expensive high healed boots striking noisily the linoleum just like the iron-shod hooves of a medieval war-horse patrolling the cobble-stone streets of ancient
Warsaw or Prague. Her half-consumed latte and her half-eaten biscotti cluttered the table like a defiled and inadequate offering languishing atop a pagan altar.
As soon as she knew Shirley was gone, she got up, carried the latte and biscotti to the service counter, where she left them, grabbed a serviette, and scoured the
table till only she could be satisfied that it was clean again, then pitched it in the garbage. She sat down, picked up a green pencil cfrayon, and
proceeded go work on a leaf. Then she dropped the pencil, since her hand wouldn't stop trembling. She sat back, closed her eyes and breathed deeply,
once...twice...a third time, then sat again in quiet meditation wanting only to feel calm again, wanting only to forget about Shirley, about Darren, about her
brother, and even about herself, Stella. She practiced breathing again, one...two...three...one...two...three...one...two...three. She could feel her heart beating, a
bit slower now, calmly, rhythmically. She opened her eyes. No one was looking at her, perhaps had noticed nothing. Just as well...She fixed her gaze
towards the window, then, satisfied that no one would return to defile her sanctuary, Stella reached for a light blue pencil crayon and resumed colouring.
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