The Allspice Bath

by Sonia Saikaley

  Adele moved back, pushing her mother’s hands away from her face. “I know.” Even now, that’s all that mattered to her mother, Adele thought.

  Samira said nothing and stuffed her hands into the pockets of her coat. At that moment, the intercom came on and announced Adele’s flight. She quickly embraced her sisters, then mother before boarding the plane. Not looking back once, she imagined her mother and sisters shaking their heads and criticizing her.

  PART IV: 1992

  CHAPTER 18

  ADELE DREW THE STONE HOUSE of her father’s childhood home with a coal pencil, sketching grape leaves climbing along the side boulders of the residence and, at the same time, remembering her introduction to Elias, how he had stood shyly in the front yard before joining the family for maza. And now, in Canada, working in a studio at the University of Toronto, Adele drew this memory. She was immersed in her art when a man entered the studio and began to set up a blank canvas on one of the easels. She hadn’t heard him cross the room and was startled when he stood in front of her, his right hand stretched out to her in greeting. “Hello, I’m Scott.”

  Slightly irritated, Adele put down the pencil and looked up at the young man. His brilliant green eyes kept glancing at her drawing. He wore a red baseball cap, which he removed to reveal a mop of blond hair. His face was clean-shaven. She breathed in wisps of his aftershave and, when she looked across at him, she thought he was beautiful. The strong, square jaw reminded her of Elias, but he was an English-Canadian version. His complexion was pale and his eyelashes were light. He wore a loose, long-sleeved blue shirt over his khaki trousers and a beaded necklace, the kind sold at vendor stands in Kensington Market.

  She held onto his hand longer than she would normally, but there was something soft in the way his warm palm stuck to hers. “I’m Adele.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Scott said. He pointed to her sketch. “That drawing is very interesting. Is it a place in Europe? It looks so old. You don’t look European, maybe Persian. Are you?”

  The question caught her off-guard; she had no idea what to say. She wasn’t used to his directness. “No, I’m Canadian.”

  “Really? With your thick black hair and big brown eyes, you look so … so….”

  Adele stood with her arms tightly folded across her chest, suddenly feeling awkward and embarrassed by his probing questions. “So what? Un-Canadian?”

  “No,” he paused, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. You just look so exotic, that’s what I wanted to say. I’m sorry if I’ve just insulted you, that wasn’t my intention.”

  “What was your intention then?”

  “I think it would be nice if we went out for coffee.”

  “I don’t drink coffee.”

  “Then tea or juice.”

  “I’m busy today.”

  “Maybe another time.” Scott walked back to his knapsack, pulled out a sticky note and scribbled something on it before peeling it off and handing it to Adele. “Here’s my number for next time.”

  That night, lying in bed, Adele thought about Scott. She wondered what it would feel like to lie next to him, her head on his chest, listening to the rise and fall of his breathing, her hands tracing his ribs, his flat belly, and then she also let her mind travel further below to a place she had not yet visited. His flaccid penis grew with her touch. At this moment, she let her hands move down her belly, cringing only slightly when she felt her scar, until her fingers were in her underwear, spreading open her lips and she imagined Scott entering her body gently and slowly, her hands on his back pulling him closer to her. A few minutes later, she moaned softly while her thighs trembled. After, she closed her legs and turned on her side and slept as the moonlight spilled shadows on her bedroom walls.

  The next morning, Scott sought out Adele, standing next to her in the art studio and offering to help her set up before their class.

  “Thanks, but I’m fine,” Adele said quietly, her cheeks turning red.

  “Well, do you want to help me?” Scott laughed. He had a deep laugh, originating from his belly and when he laughed, he threw his head back slightly, blond curls bouncing.

  “All right.” Adele held the easel while Scott positioned the canvas on it, setting his paintbrushes and palette on the side table.

  “Thank you, Adele.”

  “No problem.”

  The instructor walked into the room and began to teach the morning’s lesson but Adele’s eyes kept moving from her canvas to the young man beside her, who winked when he caught Adele taking a peek. She turned away quickly, and this time focused on the task at hand.

  A couple of days passed and Adele held the yellow sticky note with Scott’s number in the palm of her hand. A few times she had put it down and hid it in her desk drawer, between piles of other papers, and just as quickly as she had placed it there, she reached back in and pulled it out again. Now she stood in front of the telephone, the note in her hands, and felt light-headed at the thought of speaking with Scott. Taking a deep breath, she finally picked up the receiver and began to punch in the number. She was about to hang up on the fourth ring when someone answered.

  “Hello,” a deep voice said.

  Unsure if it was Scott, Adele asked, “May I speak with Scott please?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Hi, Scott, it’s Adele,” she said, her voice slightly shaky.

  “Hi Adele. How’s it going?”

  “Good and you?”

  “Pretty good now that I’ve finished the piece I was working on earlier today. I love painting but sometimes it can be so frustrating. Isn’t it odd how what we love to do can also cause so much grief?”

  “Like the way you can love and hate someone at the same time?” Adele asked.

  “Yeah, that’s true. Love can be complicated but I think people make it more difficult than it really has to be, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose.” Adele cringed, wishing she could think of something more intelligent to add to the conversation.

  “Do you have plans tonight?”

  “Not really.”

  “Do you want some?”

  “Some what?” Adele asked softly. She fidgeted, the floorboards creaking under her weight. She cringed again. She felt so awkward.

  “Plans, of course!” Scott laughed. “I know this really cool Indian restaurant.”

  “I’ve never tried Indian food before.”

  “Really? Do you like spicy food?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Well, I’ll go easy on you and choose mild dishes. Is it a date?”

  Adele smiled wondering if Scott would laugh if he knew this was her very first date, but she didn’t mention it; instead she agreed to meet him that night.

  Later that evening in a small Indian restaurant, Scott told Adele about his family. His life was so different from hers: his mother was a psychologist and his father was a lawyer. He was an only child. He had grown up in the affluent part of the English district of Montreal, had attended private school then later McGill University where he studied law. But in his second year, he had decided to abandon his father’s dream of him following in his footsteps.

  Scott explained how he had moved to Toronto with a girlfriend and how their relationship ended after only a few months in the new city. The scent of curry engulfed them as a waiter in white and black served them steaming plates of curried chicken, samosas, and rice. It was a Monday night and the restaurant was quiet; there were only a few customers, so the evening felt intimate.

  As they started digging into their meal, Scott suddenly seemed preoccupied. “What’s wrong?” she asked gently.

  He was silent for a moment, then said, “My father called with his monthly lecture.” Scott rolled his eyes.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s when my father bribes me with countless offers of European vacations and
money if I return to law school.”

  “Those offers don’t sound too bad to me,” Adele said, laughing.

  “I guess but it’s the way he goes about it. He doesn’t get it. I’m not into money like him. I don’t need, or want, the six-figure income, the huge house, and cottage. Those things don’t matter to me. I just wish he could accept my decision, accept me the way I am. What about my happiness? I’m his only child for God’s sake.”

  She laid her fork on her plate, reached over to Scott and rested her hand on his.

  He glanced down at her hand, then mustered a smile. “I’m sorry to be such a whiner especially on our first date.”

  “You’re not a whiner and don’t be sorry. It helps to talk.”

  “Now you sound like my Mom.”

  She raised her right eyebrow. “Is that a good thing?”

  “Most definitely. One day we’ll go visit my parents,” he said very casually. “We’ll make it a mini-vacation. A weekend in Montreal. What do you say?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, her tone serious. But she broke into a smile, and quipped, “Your father may think I’m a bad influence, being an artist and all.”

  “And an Arab on top of that!”

  Her eyes darkened. “What do you mean by that?” She pulled her hand away from Scott but he grasped it and brought it to his mouth. He kissed her knuckles.

  “I’m sorry. Your heritage makes you unique. Eccentric…”

  “Eccentric? I thought that’s what my art made me!”

  “Let’s finish eating before the waiter kicks us out in favour of the boring TV show!” They glanced back and saw him hovering in the doorway between the kitchen and the restaurant. A small television was perched at the edge of the bar, and his eyes were darting back and forth.

  Adele suddenly asked, “Do your parents dislike Arabs?”

  “No, it’s not that,” Scott said, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s just that they think…”

  “What?”

  “With everything going on in the Middle East, they think Arabs are hot-tempered.”

  “Yes, we’re passionate people and what’s so wrong with that?”

  “Nothing, Adele. Can we change the subject?” he said in a low voice.

  “I just don’t understand why your parents wouldn’t like a particular group of people simply because of what they see on the news. Have they ever been to Lebanon or anywhere else in the Middle East?”

  “No.”

  “Do they even have Arab friends?”

  “Adele, please, let’s talk about something else.”

  “Do you dislike Arabs too?”

  “I wouldn’t be here with you if I did.” Scott smiled and reached across to take Adele’s hand. He then leaned in and kissed her on the mouth. She kissed him with the inexperience of a young teenager. “You’re a great kisser, let yourself go,” he murmured in between their open-mouthed kisses, encouraging her. They were oblivious of the waiter by the kitchen door.

  “Hmm … thanks,” she softly laughed. Finally freeing herself, she exhaled deeply. “I suppose we should finish eating.”

  Scott nodded. They abandoned the silverware and picked up the remaining rice and bits of chicken with their fingers.

  A few months passed and Adele’s world began to make room for Scott. They talked and talked, wove their stories together, listened to each other’s lives, shared laughs and the occasional bout of sadness. And now Adele was going to meet his parents for the first time.

  When Adele crossed the cobblestone laneway, leading to the spacious front porch lined with huge pillars, she felt herself return to her childhood neighbourhood, to Mrs. Foster’s big white house. She felt a pang of grief for her old friend, no longer in this world. She was buried next to her late husband and Adele wondered if they were at last reunited. Sometimes she missed her so much that Adele would suddenly be overwhelmed with a longing to see Mrs. Foster. Sometimes she would even leave her apartment, and head down the street to have a chat with her dear friend, and then remember Mrs. Foster wasn’t alive, and she’d realize she herself was no longer in Ottawa, but in Toronto.

  Now she stood in front of this similar-looking home and before she knew it, her eyes were filled with tears. Scott looked at her puzzled, raised his hand and rested it on her face. Adele lifted her hand, rested it on top of Scott’s, and for a while they stood on the porch with their hands connected, then their lips.

  Finally freeing herself from his embrace, she exhaled deeply. “I suppose we should go inside. What will the neighbours think? The Miller boy has lost his mind—he’s dating a gypsy!”

  Scott wrapped his arm around her, and pulled her close. She rested her head on his shoulder. “My sweet gypsy girl,” he whispered. “I love you.”

  She didn’t know what to say in return, so she did the only thing she could think of: she pulled away and stood in front of the large door, waiting for Scott to unlock it.

  CHAPTER 19

  THE WOMAN WHO MET THEM in the hallway introduced herself as Kathy Miller, Scott’s mother. She wore a yellow cardigan sweater around her shoulders, the arms tied together, hanging over the V-neck of her powder pink blouse. Crisp cream-coloured dress pants fitted perfectly on her small legs. She had the appearance of someone who was about forty-five but Adele had learned from Scott beforehand that his mother was fifty-eight. Her dirty-blonde hair fell around her high-cheek boned face in layers. Her lips were covered with a neutral-coloured frost. And she wore the same expression of warmth that Adele loved in Scott’s face. She looked nothing like what Adele had expected. In her naivety, she thought Scott’s mother would be heavy-set like her own mother, with dark circles under her eyes, and puckering skin, furrows creasing her forehead as Samira did. The folds of Samira’s flesh were chiselled with the old world whereas Mrs. Miller’s skin was smooth, youthful. Adele wondered why her mother always looked so far into the distance rather than gazed at the present moment. Resentment surged through her.

  “Hello, Adele,” Mrs. Miller said warmly. It’s so nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you from Scott.”

  She stretched out her hand and firmly shook the older woman’s. “It’s very nice to meet you, too. I hope Scott had only good things to say,” she said, giving him a friendly shove.

  “Of course!” he laughed. He then embraced his mother. For a while, they stood clasped together, his mother’s hands brushing his mop of curly hair. Adele wondered what it was like to be hugged so tightly by a parent. She imagined the sensation of her mother’s body melting into hers, but she couldn’t recall such a memory. Perhaps there were moments in her early childhood when her mother or father took her in their arms and hugged her tight. Now she folded and unfolded her arms, stood uncomfortably in the foyer while her boyfriend embraced his mother with such love, a love that was returned by small gestures: ruffling Scott’s hair, stroking his face, and smiling widely at each other.

  Mrs. Miller led them into the living room. Adele admired the long leather sofas and overstuffed armchairs. Several pieces of modern art were interspersed throughout the large room, which had a spectacular view of the river. The midday sun poured through the enormous bay window. This room was so different from the drab white walls of her parents’ home where old Italian furniture, paintings of tacky flowers, and sagging brown velvet curtains hung; the Miller house was inviting and silent. Adele believed she could lose herself in the sereneness. She took a seat next to Scott on the tan couch, placing her hand on his thigh and leaning close to him. He lifted his arm and rested it lightly on her shoulder. She could never do this at her parents’ house: affectionately touching her boyfriend would be inappropriate, dirty, disrespectful, ayb, she had learned in her upbringing. But now her body relaxed in the warmth of Scott’s presence and the house he was raised in.

  “Mrs. Miller, you have a lovely ho
me,” Adele finally said.

  “Call me Kathy.”

  “Your house is really beautiful, Kathy.”

  “Thank you. I tried to make it as comfortable as possible. My husband and I have such busy lives that when we come home, we just want to relax or as the young say ‘chill.’”

  “Bravo, Mom. You’re very hip for an old broad.” Scott winked at Adele, then turned his smiling face towards his mother.

  She got up, ruffled his hair once more and said, “Adele, see how my petit garçon insults his old Maman? No respect at all!”

  Adele thought there was no way she could tease her parents in such a manner and she couldn’t help feeling resentment for the parents she had been given. She turned to look at Scott and noticed he was eyeing her with concern, ridges forming on his forehead. He took her hand and squeezed it gently. “Are you all right?” he whispered.

  “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?” she said, more curtly than she had intended. She shifted her shoulders, and tried to peel away from Scott. But he wouldn’t let her. He leaned close and kissed her on the mouth in front of his mother. Taken aback, she dragged a sleeve across her face. Adele glanced at Mrs. Miller, whose smile tightened, then turned into a full frown. Realizing her mistake, Adele turned her head to the window and watched a crow swoop against the surface of the river then flutter its black wings, leaving a spray of water in its wake.

  “Come, let’s have lunch. Your father went into the office this morning and called to say he’ll be late, Scott. We should start without him.”

  “As usual. Nothing ever changes, does it, Mom?” Scott sighed.

  “Give him a break, Scott. Let’s have a good time. Can we do that?” Scott reluctantly nodded. Adele took Scott’s hand and let him guide her into the dining room.

  A big, burly man with brown hair, almost as dark as Adele’s, rushed into the dining room just as they had started eating. “Sorry I’m late,” he said loudly. Then he reached across and introduced himself to Adele. “Nice to meet you, Adele.”