“Why aren’t you with the other students?” Madame El-Sawaya asked, lifting a glass of water to her lips.
“I’d rather be here if that’s okay.”
“Sure.”
Adele coloured in the three-dimensional box she had drawn on the sheet.
“I’m sorry about the way I acted earlier—getting all frustrated with the class,” Madame El-Sawaya said suddenly, taking another sip from the glass before placing it down on the desk. She stared across at Adele.
“That’s okay,” Adele said, moving uncomfortably in her seat. She kept her eyes on the sketch in front of her.
“It’s just … it’s just that things can be so difficult sometimes.”
Adele stopped drawing and looked up at her teacher. Her eyes were red. “Are you all right, Madame El-Sawaya?”
“Yes. No … I don’t know. God, I’m sorry for acting like a blubbering idiot.”
Adele had never seen this side of her confident teacher.
“I’m returning to Lebanon,” Madame El-Sawaya said abruptly.
“When?”
“Next week.”
“Oh, you’ll be missed,” Adele said.
“You’re too nice, Adele. I know my students don’t like me.”
But Adele did. “I’ll miss you.”
“Thank you, Adele. That’s really sweet.”
“Why are you returning home?”
The teacher hesitated then cleared her throat. “My father’s dying.”
“I’m sorry,” Adele said in a low voice.
“Cherish your parents, Adele. Because one day you’ll turn around and they won’t be there.”
She looked down again. She thought about her father and his words; they were synonymous. Cherish Youssef? And his words? Where would they go? Adele wondered to herself. A few minutes later, she asked, “Will you be coming back to Ottawa?”
“No,” she answered. “I’m going back home for good.”
The other students began returning to the classroom, taking their respective seats. Adele’s eyes were still locked onto the teacher’s gaze. When she finally turned away, she noticed Zeina squeezing Myriam’s shoulder. She whispered, “I told you she was weird.”
Youssef touched his daughter’s shoulder after she slid into the car. “School isn’t that bad, is it? You survived another week,” he said with satisfaction.
“Yeah,” Adele mumbled, slamming the door shut.
“I won’t have to pull you out of bed next Saturday because you’ll be excited to come back, right?”
Adele didn’t reply but stared out the window, watching a tearful Madame El-Sawaya standing in a group with some of the other teachers.
“Well, what did you learn?” Youssef asked in Arabic.
“Some sentences.”
“Recite them to me.”
“Hal tata … kalleem al-’arabeeya?”
“You’re not saying it right, Adele,” her father said. “Say it again. Try harder.”
She repeated the words again while gazing in the car’s side view mirror and watching her teacher hug her colleagues goodbye. The butchered Arabic words rolled off Adele’s tongue.
When the next Saturday arrived, Adele knew she wasn’t going to Arabic school or, more precisely, she knew she didn’t want to ever go again. She didn’t know for certain how she was going to get out of it, but she knew she couldn’t go anymore. Adele got out of bed, resolving to be steady as she explained to her father why it was time for her to stop her Arabic studies.
Dressing quietly, she looked out the window. The sun had begun its ascent into the world once more, colouring the clear, pale sky a milky pink. No sounds could be heard except the soft breathing coming from Mona’s mouth. Adele glanced across at her sister, cocooned under her blankets, sleeping peacefully. As soon as she was fully dressed, Adele slowly crept out of the room and made her way down the stairs. She knew her father was waiting for her in the store, ready to drive her to her lessons. Taking a deep breath, she entered the grocery store and stood across from her mother who was standing behind the counter beside Youssef.
“Remember to count the change correctly, Samira. Can you do that?”
Samira nodded her head, cupping her hands together.
Adele hated it when her father talked to her mother as if she were a child. This wasn’t the first time Samira had worked in the store and in spite of her poor English language skills, she knew how to count and return change. Adele clenched her teeth.
Youssef quickly glanced at Adele. “Look who decided to get up all by herself for Arabic school. This is a miracle! For once in my life, I don’t have to drag you out of bed for your studies. Allah has blessed me today with an obedient, loyal daughter!” he said, smiling. Then he stood in front of Adele, placing his hands on her shoulders.
She looked down at the floor and shifted her feet.
“Let’s go,” Youssef said, guiding her to the door.
“Um … Babba,” Adele stammered. “I don’t think I need to go to Arabic school anymore. I can learn to speak it from you and Mama. I’m not learning much at that school anyway. Too many students and only one teacher. You and Mama can teach me. This way I’ll have two teachers rather than one.”
“What?” Youssef said, the smile on his face disappearing. “Listen. We’re not going through this again. You’re going to school whether you like it or not. The teachers are good. I can’t teach you to read or write.”
Adele looked up at her father’s face. He looked humble and very old as he admitted his illiteracy. “I know, but you can teach me to speak Arabic. That’s more important to me than writing and reading Arabic. When am I going to use those skills? I only need to learn how to speak it. You can teach me that,” she changed from English to Arabic, searching her limited vocabulary. “Please, Babba. I don’t want to go to that school anymore.”
“That’s what this is all about. You don’t like the people there?”
Adele nodded. She wanted to tell him about Zeina and her bullying and was about to when Youssef barked.
“Those people are your people, Adele! Most come from Kfarmichki, our village.”
“I’m not from a village. I was born here, not some village,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Those people aren’t my people. They’re yours, not mine. You’re the one from a village, not me.”
Youssef raised his hand. “I should slap you.”
“Go ahead.” Adele stood her ground. “Slap me and I’ll call the cops!” She faced her mother and said, “Mama, I can’t go to that school anymore. Please tell Babba. You know how hard it is to learn another language. Look at yourself; you can’t speak English well.” Samira’s eyes suddenly filled with tears and Adele immediately regretted uttering those words.
Youssef stomped across the store and pushed Samira to the side as he took his spot behind the counter. He lifted his hands in the air. “Forget it! You don’t want to go to school, then don’t go. I don’t care anymore. But one day you’ll regret it. You think you’re better than those kids but you’re not.”
“I don’t think that,” she mumbled, tightening her arms on her chest. “They tease me,” she finally confessed.
“Well, I’d tease you too. You’re nothing but a stupid girl who can’t even speak her own language.”
Biting her lower lip, she fought back the tears. “I know how to speak my language. I know how to speak English. Better than you!”
“Get out! Get out of my store. I can’t stand the sight of you!” Youssef said, banging his fists on the counter, which made Samira jump.
Adele glanced at her mother, waiting for her to say something, but she remained silent. She simply tucked her hands in her pockets, then turned and stood at the threshold that led back to the house. Adele imagined her going into the sanctuary of her kitchen where she’d lose hers
elf in the warm spices. With her lips pressed together and her eyes still wet, Samira frowned at Adele. “You should go to school,” she whispered. Adele’s eyes burned with tears now too. She suddenly hated her mother then. She knew Adele was suffering but she didn’t speak up for her, nor help Youssef understand the reason behind her decision to stop school. Samira just dug her hands deeper into her pockets. Turning away from her mother, Adele ran out of the store.
CHAPTER 3
ADELE KEPT RUNNING AND AS SHE SPRINTED down the street, slowly gathering her wits, she remembered herself as a little girl playing in the snow and asking questions, fascinated by her mother’s past. “Mama, tell me about Kfarmichki.” Fresh snowflakes had begun to fall from the sky and Adele had tilted her head back and stuck out her tongue to taste the snow.
Samira had gazed at her daughter, her large eyes now closed as she let the snowflakes land on her tongue. “Try some, Mama,” Adele had said excitedly, as if the snow were an exotic delicacy.
Samira had smiled back and shook her head. “Not for me, habibti. Snow,” she had said, grimacing, “makes me too cold. Makes me think of returning home.”
“Okay, let’s go back if you like. We don’t have to walk anymore,” Adele said, misunderstanding.
“That’s not what I meant. I meant going back to Lebanon.”
“Tell me about it,” Adele had repeated.
“What’s to tell?” Samira had teased her, egging on the curiosity in her daughter.
“Come on, Mama. Please. Tell me about the village—the goats, the mountains, the ocean, your family there,” Adele begged.
“I don’t think so. It’s not interesting for a city girl like yourself,” Samira had replied and laughed. When she laughed her entire face lit up, as if the sun was shining through her skin.
“I’m not a city girl,” Adele had pouted, tapping her right foot on the ground.
Now, she vehemently denied her connection to the village she had once begged her mother to describe in detail. She stopped running and grasped the metal spikes of the fence surrounding her neighbour’s place. She stood still and watched Mrs. Foster raking the leaves on the wide lawn. There were piles of leaves everywhere. She became aware of the rich colours of autumn, taking her mind away from the argument she’d had with her father. And she fervently wished she lived in this huge house with Mrs. Foster. She glanced back and forth from the porch to her neighbour. Mr. and Mrs. Foster were childless. She could be their child, she thought biting her lower lip until she tasted blood. With the back of her hand, she wiped her mouth. Mrs. Foster would never hurt her, would never make her feel stupid. Her neighbour wouldn’t call her names or yell at her for no reason. But it was pointless to wish for a new home when she already had a family and parents. Suddenly, Mrs. Foster was standing in front of her, reaching across with her gloved hand and patting her shoulder. Adele was startled out of her thoughts.
“I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Mrs. Foster smiled. There was kindness in the fine lines around her large blue eyes.
And Adele let her mind imagine the possibility of having her as her mother. In the haziness of her dream, she blurted out, “Do you think I can come and live with you?”
Mrs. Foster lifted her hand from Adele’s shoulder and gripped the rake. She didn’t say anything though.
Adele longed for her to say “Okay, my dear. Pack your bags and head on over.” Looking across at Mrs. Foster, Adele bit her lip again and prayed her wish would come true.
Mrs. Foster opened her mouth, then cleared her throat and politely asked Adele to help her with the leaves.
Adele spent the night feeling guilty. She lay in her bed and listened to the sounds of her mother’s footsteps as she crept down the hallway, opening bedroom doors and peeking in at her sleeping daughters. This was a nightly ritual for Samira before she headed into the bedroom she shared with Youssef. Adele squeezed her eyes tight when she heard her doorknob turn. The floorboards groaned while Samira walked towards Mona’s bed first, then came to a stop beside Adele’s. Pretending to sleep, Adele lay perfectly still, keeping her eyes closed. She could feel her mother’s fingertips tracing her forehead, drawing the sign of the cross on her skin. Whispering, Samira said a little prayer before slowly withdrawing her hand and tiptoeing out of the room, carefully closing the door behind her.
Adele opened her eyes and stared at the moonlit wall. She turned her head and looked at Mona curled on her side, the blankets loosely hanging over the edge of the twin bed. She sighed loudly, trying to wake her sister. Then she whispered, “Mona, wake up. I have a question. Mona.”
Mona turned over on her back and mumbled, “What’s wrong? Did you piss yourself?”
Adele giggled quietly. “I’m not a baby anymore. I don’t do that.”
“Why are you waking me up then?” she asked, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. The light of the moon shone bright on her skin.
“Do you ever wish you belonged to another family?”
Mona stopped rubbing her eyes, straightened her shoulders and stared hard at Adele. “That’s a stupid question. There’s nothing wrong with our family.”
“But…” Adele said. “But Babba is always telling us what to do. He won’t let us be like other kids. We were born here, not in Lebanon. Why should I take Arabic lessons when my English friends don’t? Doesn’t that make you mad? Babba’s so pushy.”
“Yeah, but that’s just the way he is. He gives us money, takes us places, and buys us clothes if we need them. Who cares if he pushes us? Anyways, you should learn Arabic.”
“I don’t want to,” Adele said, her voice cracking.
“That’s your problem then, isn’t it?” Mona fell back on the mattress and pulled the covers up to her neck. She said harshly, “I can’t believe you want to belong to another family. What family would want a big mouth like you? You’re lucky to have this one. Now shut up and let me sleep, okay?”
Silently, Adele turned on her side and stared at the window, watching the first year’s snowflakes brush against the glass. She wished she hadn’t opened her big mouth at all.
The next day the snow continued to fall in big flakes, sticking to Adele and her mother’s woollen scarves and coats. They trudged along the snow-covered sidewalks towards the shopping mall. “When I was a young girl about your age, I spent a lot of time with my mother learning to cook, helping her out with housework.”
“Didn’t you have to go to school?” Adele asked, speaking in her broken Arabic. Samira looked down at her daughter. The green flecks in Adele’s light brown eyes were more apparent in the bright light of the November day. Her eyebrows were thick, but not unbecoming. Unlike her sisters, she hadn’t yet begun plucking them. But it was her open-faced smile that drew others to her, including her mother. Adele looked up and noticed her mother examining her face and she smiled back at her.
“I had to stop going to school when I was in grade three,” Samira replied. “Because my parents were farmers, they needed me to help them with the farm work. They couldn’t keep me or my siblings in school.”
“Oh,” Adele replied. She couldn’t imagine not going to school.
“It wasn’t that bad. I did learn how to read Arabic. I can read my language,” she said proudly, raising her chin slightly.
“Tell me more,” Adele prodded.
“Why are you so interested?” Samira suddenly asked.
“You’re my mother. I want to know you,” she said, trying to copy the relationship she had with Mrs. Foster.
“Well, when I was growing up, the homes in the village didn’t have indoor plumbing so I had to lug a bucket to the river to get water for washing dishes and clothes, not to mention myself!” she said, then laughed out loud. “By the time I was thirteen, I knew how to cook almost all of the Lebanese dishes—taboulleh, hummus, grape leaves, kibbeh nayeh, koosa. My allspice dreams.”
A
dele asked, “What are ‘allspice dreams?’”
“Well, I don’t really know how to explain it but since I was a girl, I knew I wanted to be married and raise a family. I didn’t have the fancy dreams city folks did. I just wanted a simple life with my husband and kids. So my friends and I came up with the term ‘allspice dreams.’ You know how often I use this very important spice in our dishes, well, I wanted it to reflect my dream of becoming a wife and mother—two very important roles for Lebanese women. I wanted to be a wonderful cook, whose house would be filled with this rich smell every day. My ambition was the same as all the other girls in my village: to get married, have children, and be remembered as a wonderful mother and cook. Allspice dreams. I hope one day you’ll realize this dream too.”
“No,” Adele said too fast. “I don’t want that dream. I want to be an artist!”
“But artists can get married too. And paintings can’t bring joy to your life like a family can.”
“I don’t want to cook for a husband. I want to paint each and every day.”
“Then you’ll be a very lonely woman when you grow up, habibti. Every woman needs a husband.”
“Not me,” Adele insisted.
Changing the topic, Samira continued with her earlier thought, “Most Lebanese people love visiting one another and my village was no exception. There were no strangers. We’d have family gatherings almost nightly, sit outdoors, and spread colourful embroidered cloths across the tables in the yard where the olive grove surrounded us. Then the women of the village would bring out tons of plates for the maza, sometimes up to forty dishes! The adults would drink down the food with glasses of arak.”
Adele interrupted her mother. “You mean the white stuff you sometimes rub with a cotton ball on my teeth when one of them is sore? It tastes like licorice.”
“Yeah, you’re right, habibti. But it does help a toothache, doesn’t it?”
Adele nodded.
Samira went on, “My whole family—my uncles, aunts, cousins, and grandparents—would all scramble to speak. It was quite loud sometimes, but so much fun. If only I were a child again!”
The Allspice Bath Page 4