The Allspice Bath

by Sonia Saikaley

  She rummaged through her dresser, found a clean pair of underwear and slipped them on. Afterwards, she fell back on her bed and stared up at the white-specked ceiling. The ache between her legs made it feel like the bones inside her were shattered. She suddenly wondered, too, if she was still a virgin. She knew the bleeding wasn’t from her period because it wasn’t that time of the month. She remembered reading somewhere that when the hymen broke, there was blood and this bleeding meant the loss of one’s virginity. Had the bike accident made her lose her virginity? She turned on her side and started to cry, then squeezed her arms around herself to make herself stop. She had to be brave. She promised herself not to tell her sisters about the accident. And definitely not her mother. Their mother and father mustn’t know.

  “Adele!” Youssef shouted from the bottom of the stairs. As Adele came fully awake, she still felt the dampness between her legs, the stickiness that usually accompanied her menstrual cycle. She stood up, lifting the band of her underwear and cautiously peering down; dark stains had formed on the cotton briefs. Oh no, she thought, I’ve lost my virginity again! If only she could confide in one of her sisters, but she knew they wouldn’t understand. Her father yelled once more. “Adele!” Hurrying out of her bedroom, she dashed towards the linen closet, grabbed a sanitary napkin and ran back to her room, placing the pad on another pair of underwear. She then opened the closet and pulled out her jeans.

  “Adele! Where the hell are you?” Youssef barked again as if his voice had a volume dial.

  She quickly slipped on her pants then heard her father’s heavy footsteps creak on the floorboard. He now stood outside her door. She jumped under the comforter of her bed before her father entered the room. He crossed the bedroom and threw the covers off her body. “Get up,” he said. “I need you to deliver some groceries to Mrs. Foster. Katrina can’t do it because she needs to come in and help your sisters and mother with Rima’s party. Christ, get up,” he said, poking her in the ribs.

  “I can’t go,” Adele said, not up to delivering groceries after her accident. Her vagina still ached.

  “Why? Are you sick?” he sighed deeply. Then glanced at Adele who clutched her stomach and moaned. Suddenly concerned, he asked, “What hurts?”

  “My stomach,” she answered hesitantly, sitting back on the bed. “It hurts. I think I have the flu.”

  “You don’t look ill to me.”

  Looking down at her bare feet, Adele dug her toes into the thick carpet. “I can’t go. I feel like I’m going to throw up.”

  Youssef rested his hand on her forehead. No fever. “You feel fine,” he said, letting his hand drop to his side. “You’re just faking it. Go get the box in the store and deliver it.”

  “Really, Babba,” Adele persisted. “I don’t feel well.”

  “Look, Adele, I’m tired of this bullshit. I know you don’t like working in the store but you have to learn.”

  “I’m not lying. You’ve got to believe me, Babba,” she said in an anguished voice.

  “Stop it!” Youssef shouted, his hands slashing in the air.

  She suddenly fell silent, casting her eyes on the floor again.

  “I’m so tired of this bullshit.” He looked around the room. His eyes stared at the bookshelf then he stood in front of it and fingered the spines of the books. Grabbing one, he threw it at Adele. She raised her arms to protect herself but the book hit her in the chin. “You and your damn books. That’s all you care about. There are more important things in the world than books, you know. Work is more important than useless books, so you’re doing as I tell you. Get the box and deliver it to the customer. You know, if you didn’t read so much, you’d have perfect eyesight like your sisters. You’ve ruined your eyes with your reading.”

  Adele leaned her elbows on her knees and rested her head in her hands. Her back shook as she cried. “Books are useless crap,” Youssef snarled.

  “No, they’re not,” Adele mumbled. “What would you know anyway?”

  Youssef stood by the doorway and asked, “What did you say?”

  “Nothing, Babba.”

  “Even with your reading and writing, I’m still smarter than you any day.”

  “Yeah and that’s why you’re a grocer,” Adele said sarcastically, getting up from the bed and wiping her face. She immediately regretted her words.

  Youssef cleared his throat and spoke in a low voice, “The box is in the store on the counter. Mrs. Foster’s waiting for the groceries.” He sounded hurt.

  “Okay,” she replied quietly, leaving the room. Her father followed her and stood at the top of the staircase as she ran down the steps. At the bottom of the stairs, she turned to look at him. His shoulders drooped. His face was crumpled. Adele heard him sigh. She turned and ran into the store.

  When Adele rested the box of groceries against the fence to open the latch leading to the Fosters’ house, she saw weeds. The small garden used to be filled with vegetables, but the stalks were all dead now. It had only been a year since Mr. Foster’s death and Mrs. Foster was still coping with the grief and memories that were now her only companions. It had been a few weeks since she had visited Mrs. Foster. Lately, Mona had been delivering the groceries. After Mr. Foster’s death, Estelle barely ventured outside of the house with the exception of the front porch where she would sit on the swing chair and gaze out into the street in a vacant way. Her deep-set blue eyes lacked the glimmer they had had when her husband was alive. She used to walk in a purposeful way, but now Mrs. Foster hobbled down the hallway with her shoulders hunched, her stride slow and unsteady. She unlatched the screen door and held it open. Adele carried the box down the long, dim hallway. Once in the kitchen, she began to unpack the groceries and place them in their respective spots. She knew this kitchen as if it were her own. After she was done arranging the items, she turned and looked at her elderly neighbour who sat down heavily on one of the wooden chairs at the kitchen table.

  “Thank you, dear,” Mrs. Foster said. She pulled out a small change purse from the pocket of her loose dress and pushed some money across the table for the groceries.

  “How are you doing, Mrs. Foster?” Adele asked, slipping the money into her pocket.

  “Some good days,” she said, lifting her hands in the air, “and some bad days. To be completely honest, dear, there are more bad than good. Pull out a chair and sit with me for a bit. Are you in a hurry, dear?” Mrs. Foster asked, motioning to a chair.

  “No, I have time. The party for Rima isn’t for another few hours. My parents said that you couldn’t make it. That’s too bad. It would’ve been nice to have you there,” she said, pulling out a chair next to her neighbour and smiling.

  “I know but I can’t….” Mrs. Foster paused and then sighed.

  “I understand,” Adele said quickly, rubbing her hands together. A black and white photograph of Mr. Foster, wearing a golf shirt and a grin on his face, was held up with a magnet on the fridge door across from the kitchen table. The horn-rimmed glasses were large on his long face but from the comfortable way he posed, hands in his pockets and shoulders relaxed, Adele knew the photographer had been his wife. Mrs. Foster suddenly reached over and placed her hands over Adele’s.

  “You have long fingers. The sign of an artist….”

  “Maybe,” Adele answered, blushing, turning her eyes away from the photograph to look at Mrs. Foster. “I love the art classes I’m taking in school.”

  “Good for you,” Mrs. Foster said. “My Harold had long fingers, too, but of course yours are so very pretty.”

  “Thank you,” Adele whispered as she gently squeezed Mrs. Foster’s hands.

  A small grin appeared on Mrs. Foster’s face. At the same time, she lightly tugged on one of Adele’s spiral curls. “And these curls! I always wanted your curly hair,” she said, laughing.

  “If we could only trade.”

  Mrs. Foster
winked and smiled. “If only….”

  Adele continued, “I have always wanted straight hair like the rest of the kids in my class.”

  “Hmm … people always want what they don’t have. But you know what? There are folks who pay a lot of money to get those beautiful curls.”

  “You’re right,” Adele laughed. “I guess I’m lucky then.”

  “You bet! Lucky and pretty. I used to be pretty,” Mrs. Foster said, touching her grey hair. Adele noticed how badly it needed to be washed. There were dark shadows under her eyes and the skin on her face was puckered and dry.

  “Would you like me to wash your hair, Mrs. Foster? Help you bathe?” Adele quickly asked, hoping her neighbour wouldn’t take offense.

  “Are you sure you have time? I know how busy young people are these days.”

  “I have all the time in the world for you. Anyway, remember all those times I barged in on you and begged you to turn on the sprinkler so my sisters and I could run through it on your front lawn?”

  “It was my pleasure, dear,” she answered, smiling. She got up from her chair, held up her finger and said, “Hold on a moment. I found something the other day when I was going through old photo albums. Just one second.” She walked into the living room.

  While she waited in the kitchen, Adele focused her gaze on the stainless steel utensils that hung on an antique holder, then turned her head towards the pale walls which were stained with grease and dust. How had things fallen apart so quickly after the demise of Mr. Foster? Adele remembered a time when everything in this beautiful house was spotless and clean.

  Mrs. Foster walked back into the kitchen with an old photograph in her hands. She passed it to Adele who snorted with laughter when she saw it. “My sisters and I were quite the bunch with our cute swimsuits!”

  In the photo, the Azar sisters stood on the lawn in exaggerated poses with a spray of water hitting their already soaked hair and bodies. Adele’s tiny belly protruded from her swimsuit while Rima held her up in her arms. Katrina and Mona stood beside them, grinning widely.

  “You girls were like my own children,” Mrs. Foster said, resting her hand on Adele’s shoulder. Adele looked up at her and smiled. She wanted to tell her that she was like the mother she never had but Adele knew this was cruel because she had a mother. She wanted to confide in Mrs. Foster about the accident on her bike. If anyone would understand, it would be her. But Adele was too ashamed. Her face paled as she thought about the blood and pain.

  “What’s the matter, dear?” Mrs. Foster asked, noticing the change in her face.

  “Nothing,” Adele answered. She got up from her seat and changed the subject. “Well, let’s see if I have any talent as a hairdresser.”

  In the bathroom, Adele undid Mrs. Foster’s dress and slipped it off, then helped her out of her undergarments. Adele filled the tub with warm water while Mrs. Foster stood watching her, her hands on her hips, her skin exposed with all its wrinkles and brown spots, so different from Adele’s own mother who always pulled her robe tightly around her body when leaving the privacy of a bath. Mrs. Foster grasped a fold of flesh from her belly; it shook in her unsteady hands. “Look at this. See what age does to you? I once had smooth skin like yours. Now I’m as wrinkled as a prune. Ah, don’t get old, Adele,” she joked. “But that’s impossible to do, right?”

  Adele nodded and smiled, kneeling on the floor and testing the water with her fingers. Then Mrs. Foster turned to look at her reflection in the mirror, the steam from the bath already fogging up the glass. Her shoulders drooped and her breasts sagged close to her waist; they were lined with fine purplish-blue veins. “But, I must confess I look pretty damn good for an old lady, don’t you agree?” she said, arching her left eyebrow. The old woman preened in front of the mirror.

  Adele looked away for a second. She wasn’t sure what to say in response.

  Mrs. Foster turned from her reflection. She had a look of deep concern on her face as her eyes stared at Adele. “Don’t be ashamed of your body, dear. This is the only one we can be truly intimate with, really. One day, you’ll find someone and fall in love and so on. But he won’t know you like you’ll know yourself. It’s your body. Get to know it. Have fun!”

  Adele chuckled but her cheeks turned red.

  “Don’t be embarrassed, dear.” Then Mrs. Foster cleared her throat and reached into the medicine cabinet for a small container. At first, Adele thought it was some sort of medication but it was actually a glass bottle filled with allspice, the same spice that Adele’s mother used for cooking. Mrs. Foster freely sprinkled some in the water and explained that she had heard about the healing properties of allspice. Somewhat sceptical, Adele pursed her lips in a tight line but then she softened her gaze and let the older woman fill the tub with this strong spice. Before slipping into the tub, Mrs. Foster bent down and kissed Adele on the forehead. “You’re a good person. So sweet. You are so kind to humour an old woman!”

  Adele’s eyes began to tear. Maybe she could confide her injury to Mrs. Foster. She wiped her eyes quickly with the back of her hand and watched her neighbour as she submerged her body in the water. They sat silently before the rippling of the water from the movement of Mrs. Foster’s body and Adele’s hands, slapping a bar of soap across a facecloth, echoed in the humid air. Adele scrubbed the older woman’s back with the cloth, gently moving it over the folds of loose flesh. She then massaged Mrs. Foster’s scalp and lathered the shampoo until her head was covered with suds. Adele scooped some water into a silver canister and slowly poured it over Mrs. Foster’s head, rinsing off the shampoo. At the same time, Mrs. Foster rubbed her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” Adele said. She brushed the wet strands of hair away from Mrs. Foster’s face. “I got shampoo in your eyes.” Her blue eyes were red and puffy. And she took deep breaths as if struggling for air.

  With trepidation, Adele stroked the woman’s forehead like her mother did whenever she was ill. “Are you okay?”

  Mrs. Foster took a second to calm down before she answered. “I miss him so much, dear,” she whispered as she gripped onto the edge of the bathtub with her hands. Then she leaned her head on the side of the tub while Adele lowered hers. She felt like slipping out of the bathroom door, the emotions were so raw, so open. She was unfamiliar with grief. “I miss him so much. I miss Harold.” Mrs. Foster’s body began to shake with sobs. Adele patted Mrs. Foster’s wet hand and blinked back tears. After a few minutes, Mrs. Foster raised her hand and rested it on Adele’s face; it felt hot against her cheek but Adele didn’t move back. “Thank you, dear. I really appreciate your help.”

  Adele smiled and said, “No problem, Mrs. Foster. Would you like to get out now?”

  Mrs. Foster nodded. Getting up from her knees, Adele grabbed a towel and held it open for her neighbour. This time she didn’t look away as Mrs. Foster stood up, her flesh glistening from the bath, her nakedness open. Adele then helped Mrs. Foster out of the bathtub, wrapping her carefully with the soft bath sheet.

  A few hours later, Adele closed her eyes to the image of Mrs. Foster weeping in the bathtub but then opened them when she heard someone tiptoeing into her bedroom. She saw her mother slip a flower-print dress on her bed then exit discretely out the room. Samira had bought this dress for Adele to wear to Rima’s party. As she slipped into the dress, the memory of her elderly neighbour’s grief entered her mind again. She looked down at her hands as if they were still wet with soap. Her whole body began to shake and she started to cry with the memory of her neighbour’s sorrow and her own, remembering the pain she felt from the accident on her bicycle. She cried harder. Wiping her eyes with the back of her hands, she stared out the window and followed the sun as it fell behind a grey-stoned apartment building in the distance.

  After a while, she turned away from the sunset and gazed at her reflection in the mirror. The dress hung loosely from her body, one size too large for her thin frame
. She lifted her hands and traced the open-collar of the dress, fingering the gold necklace she wore with a pendant of the Madonna and a turquoise stone used for protection against the evil eye. She jumped slightly when she noticed Rima standing by the doorway. “You scared me,” Adele said.

  “Sorry, Monkey,” Rima said, looking cheerful. She came and stood behind her sister, ruffling Adele’s curly hair. “You look great, kiddo. Maybe you’ll find a boyfriend at this party. You never know.”

  “I’m not interested in finding a boyfriend.” Adele preferred drawing and reading her books to thinking about boys.

  “Not now but one day, that’s all you’ll be thinking about. Boys, boys, and more boys,” Rima said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  “Whatever.” Adele sat on the bed next to her sister. She looked into her beautiful face, which was covered with makeup. Adele didn’t like it. Her sister didn’t need much makeup. Rima’s complexion was perfect, without a single blemish. She had recently cut her long wavy hair and now wore it in layers. The white jumpsuit she wore accentuated her skin, making her look very tanned, even though Rima avoided suntanning at all costs, because she was afraid of wrinkles.

  “Are you happy, Rima?” Adele suddenly asked. “Is this what you really want?”

  “What do you mean, Monkey?” Rima said, staring at her hands. The long tips of her fingernails were painted white.

  “Are you sure you want to marry Ziad?”

  “What kind of question is that?” Rima said. She moved away from Adele and sat at the foot of the bed.

  “It’s just that he’s so much like Babba.”

  “You don’t know him,” Rima answered harshly. “You’re just a kid. What the hell would you know anyway?”

  “I’m not a kid. I’m fourteen years old. I’m a teenager,” Adele insisted.

  Rima glared at her. “Don’t start pouting.”

  “Why would you marry someone like Babba?”

  “Ziad’s not like Babba.”

  “Sure he is. I see the way he treats you. He thinks because he’s a man that he can treat you like a nobody. Don’t you want more? Don’t you want to go to college or university? You’re only nineteen.”