Fourteen jewel-like stories unveil the tender chaos of lives unlived and loves unspoken
In Elephants in the Room, Betty Jane Hegerat masterfully uncovers the quiet fractures of ordinary lives-the unspoken regrets, the buried griefs, and the fragile threads of connection that bind families across generations.
From a devoted son's frantic dash to help his mother glimpse the Queen to a reluctant father's stunned reunion with the daughter he never knew, from a woman dressing her mother-in-law for an eternal restbto a boy's guilty reckoning with a bully's untimely death, these unforgettable stories illuminate the elephants in our lives we ignore at our peril.
With tender wit and unflinching insight, Hegerat explores the weight of what we leave unsaid: the ache of lost chances, the solace of small mercies, and the stubborn grit that carries us through. As poignant as a stolen glance, as resonant as a half-forgotten lullaby, the stories in Elephants in the Room whisper the unvarnished secrets of family ties-where regrets loom large, and small acts of grace light the way home.
THE QUEEN IS COMING
My mother phones at eight o'clock in the morning on March 27. "Charlie! The Queen is coming for the big celebration. I want to go to the party," she says.
It takes me a minute to register that she's referring to Alberta's one hundredth anniversary as a province. "Too crowded, Mom," I mumble.
"You sound sleepy, son."
I've given up reminding her that I work nights. I do data entry at a bank. Suits me well, and I'm free to ferry Ma to medical appointments and funerals-pretty much her only outings these days.
I'd cruelly hoped, when I heard about the pending royal visit on CBC Radio this morning, that Ma would be having one of her bad days. That the news wouldn't penetrate the fog.
"You know I hate crowds," I tell her.
"You're fifty-seven years old," she says. "You should get over these little fears of yours." She sighs. "This will be my last chance to see her."
My mother's obsession with the Royal Family began in 1948 when she and Princess Elizabeth were both pregnant. I was born two days after the little prince. If the royal had been a girl, I would have been named Ernest, for my father.
"The tickets are free," she says. "All you have to do is get in line." I imagine her head trembling as she speaks. "I hope I can find my hat."
In Ma's royal album, there is a picture from 1951. The two of us standing on Ninth Avenue, Ma in a dark wool coat, matching felt hat with a brim and feather. Me, buttoned into a heavy brown coat cut down from Ernest's overcoat just a few months after he had died in a streetcar accident. I'm clutching a small Union Jack in my chubby fist.
The princess was wearing a mink coat that day, and a matching hat that hugged her head. Ma had a milliner fashion a replica of that mink cloche hat out of a piece of fur no one has ever identified. My sister, Annie, swears it's cat. The hat has only ever been worn for royal viewings. Four in all.
I grudgingly agree to get tickets to the Saddledome reception. But I oversleep on the morning they go up.
Ma is surprisingly cheerful. "Never mind. I'm not sure I could have endured the program. They say it will be hours long."
"Right!" I say in jovial response. I've had nightmares about chasing her runaway wheelchair down ramps. About the accidents to which this proud woman is now prone and the mortification of both of us.
"We'll just go down to the public viewing," Ma says. "Maybe she'll do a walkabout." She's getting excited now. "Wouldn't it be wonderful if Charles were coming?"
"Don't know why he isn't," I say. "He's fifty-seven. He probably loves riding around with his mother."
"He's busy," she snaps. "He's getting married again, you know."
Ma loved Diana, is sour on Camilla, but says at l
