“Yes, I love books,” Adele said, smiling.
“What have you read lately?”
“Letters to a Young Poet.”
“Ah, you like the classics.”
“I also like contemporary books. I’ll read almost anything.” She continued to smile.
“What are your ambitions? I see you’re a recent high school graduate. Are you planning to attend university?”
“Well, I’ve been accepted at the University of Ottawa, but I’m planning to apply to the University of Toronto,” she stopped, not adding the word “again” then continued. “There’s a program there I really want to take and hopefully I’ll be accepted for the winter session.”
“And what program is that?”
“Fine Arts.”
“An artiste!” The woman laughed out loudly. “I thought you were an artist.” She reached across and held Adele’s right hand, stretching out her long fingers. “You have the hands of an artist.” Her touch was warm and gentle but Adele still blushed until the woman finally let go.
Adele cleared her throat. “I’m a hard worker too.”
“I can only pay minimum wage but the benefits are that you’ll have all the free reading material you want and you’ll be one of the first people to hold a new book in your hands. Does this sound appealing to you?”
“Yes, very much so.”
“Well, let me think about it and I’ll call you in the next while. Out of curiosity, when can you start?”
“Right away.” The sooner the better but she didn’t say this out loud. She shook the woman’s hand. “Thank you for your time, Ms…?” Adele realized that she didn’t yet get the woman’s name.
“Oh, my apologies, dear. I’m Bertha Freudenberg.”
“Thank you, Ms. Freudenberg.”
“Call me Bertha.”
“Okay. I look forward to hearing from you, Bertha.” Adele left the store but turned around one more time to see Bertha waving and smiling at her. She waved then walked down the street, cars now zooming past her.
Bertha Freudenberg telephoned the next day. “Are you still interested in working at my bookstore?” she asked after Adele had greeted her.
“Of course. Thank you very much for this opportunity,” Adele replied enthusiastically.
“There’s one condition though.”
Adele hesitated briefly. “Yes?”
“Well, I have a friend who owns a local art school and I explained to her that considering where you’re going to work and how lousy the pay is, that you might like to take some art classes,” she stopped and laughed. “She offered the lessons for free. How does this all sound to you, my dear?”
“Oh, it sounds great. I don’t know what to say. This is very generous and thoughtful of you, Ms. Freudenberg.”
Bertha interrupted. “Call me Bertha.”
“Oh, Bertha. I’m so very grateful. Thank you so much.” Adele’s voice cracked.
“So I’ll see you tomorrow at ten in the morning.”
“Thanks again, Bertha. I really appreciate this.”
“You’re welcome, dear. See you tomorrow.”
After hanging up the phone, Adele dashed to her bedroom, flopped down on her mattress, and grinned. Things were slowly happening. She got her first “real” job all on her own and would be taking art classes. She thought she had done pretty well for herself considering her father thought she didn’t have a brain. She cradled the pillow in her arms and imagined the life she had always wanted, could almost see it in the bumpy surface of the white ceiling above her, her paintbrush creating stories in brilliant shades. In two days her father would return and she would explain her need to move to Toronto and pursue her dream of becoming an artist. She promised herself not to let him dissuade her this time around and she knew that it would take all the courage she had to do so.
The two days passed quickly. When the alarm rang out with a song from the radio, Adele threw off the covers from her body and sat up, somewhat dazed. The past few days were a blur. She had started a new job and registered for the fall session at the art school; now her family was scheduled to return today. Finally, she got out of bed and walked into the bathroom. She stripped off her pajamas and climbed into the shower, letting the water awaken her tired body before heading to the bookstore.
A few hours later, she returned home, somewhat worried about what awaited her. As soon as she opened the front door, the scent of her mother’s cooking engulfed her. She was amazed at how her mother could enter the house even after an overseas flight and jetlag, head into the kitchen, chop up parsley, grind some beef, stuff the grape leaves and prepare a feast of allspice dreams. Where did she find the energy and creativity? Nothing seemed to stop her, not even the unpacked suitcases, the clothes to be changed into, the greetings of welcome, and so forth. Now Adele entered the house and expected to be bombarded with words of insult and perhaps a raised hand but there was no such welcome, only a few strained smiles and a quick look from her father who disappeared upstairs, walking past Adele with a weary face. Adele was about to say “hello” but Mona motioned for her not to, then returned to unzipping the suitcase in front of her and pulling out a package of dried fruit. She passed it into Adele’s hands. “Here, I got you some figs and dates. I know how much you like them.”
“Thank you,” Adele said, then asked, “How was your flight?”
“Okay, given the circumstances. What did you expect? Babba and Mama to be happy that they had to cut our trip short because of you,” Rima answered, unzipping her bag and pulling out some bundles filled with the black grinds of zahter and white powdered kishk. She walked into the kitchen and Adele followed, not asking any more questions. When she saw her mother, Adele leaned in and tried to kiss her on the cheeks but Samira turned the other way and spoke to Rima who handed the packages to her. “No, habibti, take some for Ziad and the kids. I know he loves this stuff.”
“No, it’s okay, Mama. Keep it for Babba and Adele.”
“Nonsense. Get me a container from the cupboard. What time are Ziad and the kids coming over tonight?”
“They’ll be here in about an hour, Mama,” Rima said. She passed another package into Samira’s hands.
“No, no, habibti. Too much. Keep for yourself. Anyway, I don’t need much, only some for your father. Adele only thinks about herself so she might as well cook for herself,” Samira said, taking the tupperware from Rima’s hand and pouring some of the Middle Eastern powder and spices into it.
“That’s not fair,” Adele finally said, unable to remain silent. “I’m the one who should be angry. You arranged a marriage for me to a man who can’t even fuck me!”
Samira stomped over to her and slapped her hard across the face. Adele’s head snapped back. “You have a dirty mouth! You’re not like your sisters at all.”
“I learned to swear like dear Babba. And stop comparing me to my sisters. I’m sick of it!” Adele yelled. She became aware of heavy footsteps pounding down the stairs, then the hallway, and then kitchen, until the sound stopped completely and her father stood in front of her, his skin darkened from his stay in Lebanon. Deep creases throbbed in his forehead as he frowned, and pursing his lips, spit out. “You’re no longer welcome in my home.” Grabbing Adele’s arm, he pulled her out of the kitchen and into the hallway leading to the front door. “Get out!”
Dumbfounded, Adele looked at her sisters. Rima stood quietly while Katrina and Mona did the same. Adele was glad their husbands and children hadn’t yet arrived to take them home. Out of the corner of her eye, Adele watched her mother dart around the kitchen doorway and yank onto Youssef’s shirt. Adele couldn’t believe what was happening. Samira clutched onto Youssef’s shoulders until he finally let go of Adele. She stumbled into the living and fell back on the couch, her head in her hands.
“Stop it, Youssef! Stop! She’s still our daughter. She made
a mistake. Let’s forget about what happened in Lebanon and move on. Anyway, it’s a blessing in disguise that she didn’t marry Elias. He has nothing, absolutely nothing. How was he going to support Adele? She would have had to support him for the rest of her life. Remember how hard it was for us when we first arrived in Canada? Why burden Adele with a husband like that. She’s more Canadian than Lebanese. I don’t know how I managed to raise her like that but I did. We did.” Samira stopped talking and wiped the tears from her eyes with her apron.
Adele lifted her head and a surge of love pulsated in her body for her mother.
Youssef grunted something under his breath then stomped into the kitchen while Samira moved closer to Adele and brushed loose curls away from her face.
“Where’s my food, Samira? Where’s dinner?” Youssef shouted.
“In the oven, of course.” Samira leaned into Adele and whispered, “Where does he expect it to be? In my ass? Just back and he’s already hungry,” Samira sneered.
“That’s Babba,” Rima said, nudging Adele’s shoulders.
“Yeah,” Adele mumbled.
“Come on. Help us unpack the food and gifts we got,” Rima said, joining Katrina and Mona, back on their knees and unravelling packages of spices and jewels of the Middle East.
It was now mid-October and the experience Adele had encountered in the mountain village of her parents’ ancestral home seemed a distant memory, like the pain of grief. The body healed and the mind seemed to forget or perhaps it was simply so filled with everyday things that it couldn’t possibly contain every heartache and every loss. Adele had moved on. She still worked in the bookstore and took her art classes.
One morning, she heard the caws of the crows. It was nine in the morning. She wiped her hands on her faded jeans, leaving trails of paint on the worn denim, and stared out the enormous studio window of her art school. Suddenly her eyes fell upon the canvas in front of her. She had painted a picture of her father’s yellow grocery store and their adjoining house, including the grapevine structure in the front yard, showing her parents’ attachment to their homeland. If the house hadn’t been so modern, any viewer would have thought this small corner store was situated in the Middle East. The colours were bold and rich. For a few minutes, she stood in front of the painting, taking deep breaths. At this moment, she hated the childhood she had experienced under her father’s roof and she also hated herself for feeling so weak.
The back door to the studio suddenly opened. Adele startled, dropping the paintbrush in her hand, yellow paint splattering on the tiled floor. The art instructor quickly picked up the brush and handed it back to Adele, who rested it on the table next to the easel, then knelt down and wiped the paint from the floor with a rag. The instructor spoke in a soft voice. “Sorry, Adele. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“It’s okay, Cheryl,” Adele answered politely, now standing up.
Cheryl was one of the new instructors and was in her mid-thirties. She was completing a Ph.D. in Fine Arts and worked at the school to pay her tuition fees.
“What a great painting! I really like what you’ve done with the structure of the store.” She raised her right hand, which was covered with an intricate henna design, and pointed very close to the canvas, following the lines of the store’s exterior with her finger. Cheryl was a newlywed and had married an Indian man named Tariq. “The stucco looks so real. Great job. You’ve come a long way, Adele.”
“I still have a lot to learn though. My technique could be better and the shadows are not so good yet.”
“Art’s not a sprint. And you’ve improved a great deal. Don’t be so hard on yourself, kiddo.”
She wanted to ask Cheryl how she was supposed to live with her father’s harsh words consuming her thoughts. Instead, she nodded politely but silently ignored Cheryl’s words and blended the colours on her palette, trying to mix the perfect shade of lemon.
“Keep up the good work,” Cheryl said, patting Adele on the arm, then whirling out of the room.
Adele picked up her brush and inched closer to the canvas, acutely aware of the smell of the oils as she worked on the sign to her father’s store; Youssef’s name became forever embedded in her painting. She was surprised how deeply she loved her father’s store.
After her hours in the art studio, Adele walked around the downtown core until she came upon a post office. She quickly pulled out a brown envelope and looked down at it for a long time, checking the address more than once, making sure it was going to the right place; it contained her second application to the University of Toronto. Before dropping it into the mailbox, she looked down at it one more time and closed her eyes tight, as if praying. Then she slid the envelope in the slot.
She quickened her pace. A cool wind blew through her coat, raising goosebumps along her forearms. Shaking, she tightened the collar of her coat and walked even faster. But the autumn air wasn’t the only thing responsible for her shivers. Her nerves were producing so much adrenaline that they were forcing her into the flight or fight response. She knew it was time to approach her parents and let them know she was ready to venture on her own.
As soon as she entered her father’s store, she raised her chest and pulled her shoulders back trying to look as tough as she hoped: a responsible, capable adult who could function on her own in her own apartment, cook her own meals, clean her own place, do her own laundry and grocery shopping. But as she stood in front of her father, her body went limp, her shoulders drooped, and her chest curled in. Her father was behind the counter, slightly stooped over, his hands resting on his thighs, his chin tilted into his chest.
“Hello, Babba,” Adele said quietly.
Youssef quickly got up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Hi Adele. I didn’t hear you come in. Already finished your classes?” There was something different in his expression, Adele thought. His face was pinched up in pain and his cheeks were white, almost ghostly, and his lips were dry and chapped.
A sudden stench wafted in the air and Adele knew why her father had been bent down. Youssef took the wastebasket from under the counter and was about to head out the store to the garbage cans outside.
“Let me take it, Babba.”
“No, you stay in the store until I come back.”
“You’re not feeling well. Let me help you.” Adele tried to grab the canister from her father’s hands but he pushed her away, nearly making her trip against the shelves of potato chips.
“No, I’m all right. Just a little flu bug. Nothing serious.”
Adele stood at the counter and stared at her father walking around the building. He disappeared for a few minutes then returned with the basket now empty and clean; the smell of vomit was replaced with the scent of rainwater, probably from the bucket her father kept outside beside the trashcans.
“So did you have a good day, Adele? Are you enjoying the art classes?”
“Very much. How are you feeling, Babba?”
“I’m fine,” he said abruptly, then his tone softened. “But business is slow, as usual. I think I may have to close the shop soon.”
Adele frowned, sad at this prospect.
“Don’t worry. It’s probably time for me to retire anyway. I’m old now.”
“You’re not that old, Babba.”
“My bones disagree with you, babba,” Youssef sighed. Adele had noticed her father’s appearance had become haggard over the past months, his skin was beginning to gravitate downwards, his hair was now almost completely grey. And she was surprised, too, by the way he hardly argued anymore with her or her mother.
“We’re all getting older, including me. I’m almost nineteen—an adult now.”
“A baby to me and your Mama. The youngest in the family. You know, Adele, your Mama was right. Elias wasn’t for you. You deserve better.”
Adele’s mouth opened. Where was this coming from? And why
now? Now when she had the courage to leave her parents.
“Babba?”
“What is it?” Youssef’s tongue flicked over his dry lips. He reached into the cooler for a bottle of water and Adele couldn’t help but look away when his hands began to shake as he uncapped the bottle and held its rim against his mouth.
“I’ve applied to the University of Toronto again…”
Youssef interrupted. “What for? You can go to the University of Ottawa. I don’t know why you decided not to go when you were accepted. When you get married, then you and your husband can move to Toronto if that’s what you really want to do. But now, your home is with me and your Mama. You can go to a university here.” Youssef began to cough and retch, and suddenly he was on his knees again in front of the wastebasket. Walking around the counter, Adele quickly patted her father’s back until he was done. She handed him some water and watched him as he tilted his head and swallowed a few drops, most of them sliding down his chin.
He stood up again. “You can’t move out.” His eyes were red and Adele couldn’t tell whether it was from the vomiting or whether he was really sad at the prospect of her leaving. “You can’t,” he repeated, his voice cracking. Staring down at the floor, he shifted from one foot to the other.
“Okay, Babba, okay. Don’t worry. Why don’t you go inside and rest. I’ll work in the store.”
Youssef smiled weakly. He walked past her and stood at the doorway leading to their home for a few minutes before he disappeared. The only thing Adele could hear was the hum of the cooler and Youssef’s footsteps shuffling up the wooden steps.
There were times in her childhood when she’d hide under the dining room table, her tiny hands clasped together. She’d pray her father’s footsteps would fade further away from her hiding place, pray that his voice would become as sweet as the syrupy layers of her mother’s baklava, and that Youssef would suddenly become animated with love instead of anger. She was only a child but she knew her father could be gentler, especially when he’d reminisce about his homeland.
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