The Allspice Bath

by Sonia Saikaley

  Adele lifted her head from the letter and looked out the window. She stared past the maple trees and gazed at the sky. In the clouds, she envisioned Elias, the gentle lines around his eyes. She frowned, then flinched at the thought of his bruised face. Why did he return home? she wondered. But she couldn’t judge him because she had initially returned home too. She shook her head and continued reading the letter:

  It is all so sad. Elias seemed like such a nice man. I still believe you would have made a beautiful couple, but that’s in the past, isn’t it?

  Babba’s still angry with you for leaving. When you last visited, his temper exploded a thousand times over. Now Babba is calmer. It’s weird but he just sort of learned to accept you’re not here anymore. And you know what’s more odd? He seems sad. He mopes around the store, neglecting the shelves until a customer complains because he’s out of something. He seems very small, Adele. His shoulders slouch, his head hangs low. He has even lost that infamous potbelly! And you’re not going to believe this. One day, I caught him behind the counter, staring vacantly out the store window and I asked him if he was okay and he turned around and said, “I haven’t been a good father.” My heart swelled as he spoke those words. I wanted to deny it, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t believe the pain in his face, too. He looked up at me and squinted as if he were in agony. A few minutes later, he turned and looked out the window again.

  Oh, Adele, why have you stayed away so long? I know how hard Babba was on you when we were growing up. But we’re still family. I know we betrayed you when we went to Lebanon. Please forgive us for that. We’re still sisters. I won’t lecture you because I know that’s probably the last thing you need to hear. Please call me. I think it would be good for us to talk. Too many tears, too much time has passed since we last talked. Don’t you think it’s about time we learn to heal? You’re the artist, after all. You know all about suffering and how it can eat you up. But in all that suffering, there is hope. Ah, I haven’t become new age, only as wise as the wisest person (and bravest) I have ever known — you! Call me, Monkey.

  Love, Mona

  Adele stared at the phone for a while before she finally lifted the receiver out of the cradle. With unsteady fingers, she dialled Mona’s phone number.

  Weeks later, the phone calls turned into a visit. For two days, Adele scrubbed down the walls and floor of her apartment, tidied her paint cans and various sketchpads and papers, bought fresh flowers to liven the lonely place she had made her home for the past three years. Her sisters would be visiting her and she wanted to make her small dwelling inviting and comfortable. For the first time since her departure from her family she considered whether her decision to live a separate life from them was a good one. She began to feel sorry for herself. As she scrubbed the hardwood floor, she felt her body tense. She moved forward, sponge firmly gripped in her hands, knees sore and red from the friction of wood rubbing on skin. She wanted to pick up the phone, cancel the plans with her sisters, to have time to think. But hadn’t she had plenty of time to think? For a moment she stopped and stared out the large window, watching how the thin branches of a tree supported a squirrel. The tiny creature jumped from twig to twig, its black, beady eyes focused on reaching the trunk. She listened to the birds singing and car doors slamming. Then a light rain began to fall. She returned to the tedious task of making her reflection flicker on the spotless floor. By the time her sisters arrived, the lemon scent of the floor solution flooded the room.

  “Oh my God, it’s so good to see you again!” Mona said, pulling Adele into her arms. She squeezed her so tight that Adele nearly lost her balance, forcing Mona against the wall near the hallway. Adele lost herself in the defined bones of her sister’s slender frame, one that had stayed about the same size, if not smaller, from the last time they had seen each other.

  With the sun now pouring through the window, and the light rain vanishing, Adele felt a sudden warmth for the sisters she had not seen for so long. The doubt faded with every embrace, greeting each one with a hug, and a thousand missed “hellos,” and “I love you.” She breathed deeply, hugging each of her sisters until she had to finally free herself because her body surged with so much love that she thought she’d drown in tears if she didn’t let go. Adele led them inside and then gave them a brief tour of the place she now called home.

  The windowsill of her large window in her living room, as well as the oak bookshelf next to the couch, was filled with clay figurines of naked women and men that she had sculpted over the years in her art classes. The robust breasts and flaccid penises glimmered in the sunlight. They were fine pieces of art, Adele thought. But she noticed the expression on her sisters’ faces when they looked at the figurines and then at each other. They furrowed their brows, pursed their lips, even looked at the floor, eyes cast down to avoid the finely-detailed testicles and chiselled pubic hair. But Adele didn’t flinch or blush. She picked one of the sculptures and held it up to her sisters. “What do you think?” she asked, as she turned the sculpture around so that they could view it from all sides.

  There was silence then Katrina finally answered, “You couldn’t have painted some clothes on them?”

  Adele laughed out loud. “That defeats the whole purpose of ‘nude’ modelling. The human body is a beautiful piece of art: a masterpiece. These sculptures,” she said, placing the figure back on the shelf, “will always fall short of the genuine article.”

  “Okay,” Katrina said quietly. “You’ve changed, Adele, since the last time we saw you. You’re no longer sweet…”

  “You mean ‘innocent,’ don’t you? What you should really say is I’m not so much a victim, a puppet under Babba’s control.”

  “Let’s not bring that up. Let’s have a pleasant time,” Rima said, resting her hand on Katrina’s shoulder.

  “Rima’s right,” Mona said. She reached across and squeezed Adele’s arm. “Please, let’s not argue. We haven’t seen each other in a long time. This isn’t the time to bring up the past. Some things you can’t change.”

  But Adele had changed. She wore makeup if she felt like it and she didn’t shave her legs for a month if she was busy with her art. She no longer adhered to the strict rules of what it meant to be a good Lebanese woman. She had a new style. She wore scarves around her neck, dangled earrings and jade bangles, wore flower-printed, loose-fitting pants and East-Indian-style shirts. And she was no longer a virgin.

  “Let’s have fun,” Mona said cheerfully, cupping Adele’s cheeks with her hands. “Okay, Monkey?”

  Adele couldn’t help but smile at the family nickname. Others had tried calling her that when she had shared her pet name, but it didn’t roll off their tongues in the same way as it did when her sisters used it.

  “Does the Monkey want to visit the zoo?” Katrina teased, playfully nudging Adele’s shoulders. Then Rima joined in, tickled Adele under the ribs.

  Adele laughed, wrapping Rima’s arms around her belly. She was the baby of the family again. Her heart told her she was still loved. And she walked out of the apartment with a smile on her lips, her sisters at her side.

  They wandered for hours through hurrying crowds of downtown Toronto. They browsed in shop after shop, walked through Kensington Market, and rested on a bench by Lake Ontario, enjoying the warm sun on their faces. Adele sensed her sisters were relieved she had not brought up the topic of their strict upbringing again. But Adele wanted to talk to them about their childhood and had stopped herself from doing so several times. She wanted to tell them how she felt, how the painful memories would sometimes make it difficult to get out of bed, but she didn’t know how to begin. Instead they talked about the lake, the shopping, and the latest gossip in the Ottawa Lebanese community. They ate falafel sandwiches bought from a vendor and drank warm soft drinks. When the sun began to set, they decided to head back to Adele’s apartment. They walked quietly up the steps to her apartment door, their shared silence
broken only by the sound of their footsteps and the classical music coming from her neighbour’s stereo. When she had closed the door behind her sisters, Adele spoke. “I have to ask you something.” She didn’t address a particular sister, just let the question hang in the air, waiting for one of them to reply. “Has Babba really changed? Has he become kinder?”

  Katrina stared at Rima. Rima stared at Mona. And Mona stared at them both. But no one’s eyes fell on Adele’s probing gaze. They avoided her and the now uncomfortable silence overshadowed the violet dusk that crawled on the musty walls, and the framed paintings and photographs that hung there.

  “Who’s this?” Rima remarked, pointing at a charcoal portrait of Scott. It was positioned on the wall closest to her bedroom. She had wanted to destroy it, but Adele couldn’t bring herself to do it. She still cared about him even though he was no longer a part of her life. He was the only person she had ever been intimate with. Now in the sunset that filled her apartment, Adele glanced at the image, and replied. “That’s Scott. I used to date him.” She wanted to say, “we were lovers” but she bit her tongue. She knew her sisters would never understand. They were traditional, even in their choice of husbands.

  “Used to date him?” Rima asked, raising her left eyebrow.

  “Long story. We won’t get into that now. Let’s make dinner, drink a toast to our reunion.” Adele walked into the kitchen and began chopping some parsley and tomatoes while her sisters set the small wooden table.

  The second bottle of wine was half empty when Adele told them more about Scott. “I met him about four months ago. He’s an artist too. It’s like we were meant to be together but then things came crashing down … more precisely, I came crashing down,” she laughed, intoxicated by the wine.

  Katrina frowned, then looked at Rima and Mona. Adele noticed the disapproval in the ridges on her forehead. “What do you mean?” Katrina asked, looking back at Adele.

  She hesitated for a moment, fiddling with the near-empty bottle. “I had sex with him, and then everything changed. I was consumed with guilt about what I did. Our upbringing came back to haunt me, I guess.”

  “Well, you should feel guilty,” Rima snapped. “Our parents didn’t raise you to be a sharmouta.”

  Adele opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “I’m not a whore. We were dating. It wasn’t a one-night stand.”

  “My God, Adele, what were you thinking giving in to this guy, this Scott? Couldn’t you have waited until you’re married? We all did. Jeez, I thought you would’ve matured over the years but you’re still the same disobedient child, always getting herself in over her head. Now you’re not a virgin. What decent Lebanese guy would want you now?” Rima lectured.

  Adele laughed sarcastically. “You sound exactly like Babba.”

  Rima ignored her, and looked away.

  Then Mona spoke, picking up where her eldest sister left off. “You can be so pig-headed sometimes but what you did was stupid. How are you going to explain to your future husband about the lack of blood on your wedding night?”

  Adele placed the wine bottle down on the coffee table, sighed and looked out the darkened window. The streets had grown silent over the evening and even the music from her neighbour’s stereo had ceased. She had thought she would be safe with her sisters, and then they attacked her.

  “How are you going to explain that, Ms. Know-it-all, huh?” Mona asked.

  “I can always blame it on the doctor who gave me my first pelvic exam!”

  Her sisters looked at each other, then lowered their heads as they remembered the experience Adele had endured years before. Adele turned on her heel and ran into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. She sat on the toilet with her head in her hands and heard the shuffling of feet on the floor outside the bathroom door, the clattering of plates and glasses in the kitchen. But in a few minutes, these sounds were drowned out by her sobs.

  On the way back to the living room, she felt sad and confused. Maybe it was the wine—she had never drunk so much wine—but no, it was the presence of her family, a past she had tried to disguise in the oil colours she mixed on her palette and then placed on the canvas. Her sisters were fast asleep on the foldout couch. Rima’s arms were splayed across Mona and Katrina’s chests. They looked comfortable together, Adele thought. In spite of their presence, she had never felt more alone. The darkness engulfed her as she crept past her sisters and walked into her bedroom, and crawled under the sheets of her bed.

  She awoke in the morning to the cheerful song of the sparrows on the tree outside the window. Morning was her favourite time of day. She loved the fresh breath of the world blowing into her room, making her heart swell with a sense of connectedness. But when she remembered the previous night’s argument with her sisters, she frowned. She got out of bed and listened to the rattle of pots and pans travelling from the kitchen down the hallway to the slightly open door of her bedroom.

  She pulled on a robe and walked into the kitchen less than enthusiastically. “Good morning,” she said, wiping her eyes of the restless sleep she had endured.

  “Hello, Monkey,” Mona said, smiling. “Look, we were just talking about what happened last night and we want to apologize. You’ve always been a little eccentric…”

  “You’re an artist, after all,” Katrina added in a light tone.

  “Aren’t all artists fucked up?” Rima said, laughing.

  Mona continued, “Well … we’re sorry we upset you.”

  “You don’t have to apol…”

  “Yes, we do. It was shitty of us to gang up on you. I don’t agree with what you did, but it’s your life and well…” she stopped, then continued, “it’s your life and…” She tried again but still couldn’t finish her thought.

  Adele was shocked and delighted. She suddenly realized that she wasn’t dreaming: her sisters had opened their minds. They had changed. And maybe it wasn’t hopeless to think that her father had done the same.

  After that visit, the letters from Mona, with postscripts from Rima and Katrina, began to arrive more frequently. They wrote more intensely about their father, and reminisced about the good times in their childhood. One letter brought Adele back to a memory she would later transform on canvas. It read:

  Dear Adele (a.k.a. Monkey),

  I was driving towards the Experimental Farm on my way to the grocer’s when I decided to take another route, so I turned on the narrow streets surrounding the farm. Do you remember those colossal trees that lined that area? Remember how Babba used to zig-zag the car on the deserted road and how we burst into laughter? As I was driving, I did the same thing and then a strange thing happened—instead of laughing, I burst into tears. I haven’t cried like that since childhood. How odd that a happy memory brought such sadness. There were happy moments in our childhood, weren’t there? I guess I was crying because there were so few. All the other stuff suffocated the good memories. Can the noose be loosened, can the chain of a swing help us soar, and keep us floating rather than being confined by the rope around our necks?

  On that joyful note, how are you? Have you finished your latest painting yet?

  Love, Mona

  Dear Adele,

  Thanks so much for the letter and photograph of your work-in-progress. It’s looking good. Mama and Babba would be so proud of you. Really, they would. I know you may disagree but think back to your Grade 8 graduation. I know the dreaded junior high school years are the last thing you want to remember, but humour your older sister for one moment. Grade 8 graduation: Principal requests applause be held back until the entire class had gathered their diplomas. Babba and Mama stand up and clap so loud when they see you walking across the stage to get yours. Their pride captured on a roll of film by our neighbour. Ah, the angst of teenage years! But in spite of your embarrassment, they were so proud of you. May I show them the photograph of your art? I will understand if your a
nswer is no but think about this, if we hadn’t had the parents we had, hadn’t had the childhood, though difficult as it was, would you be the artist that you are today?

  Ah, I sound so wise! Who’d have thought me—the pretty one—would be so philosophical! Ha! Ha!

  Lots of love, Mona

  P.S. Rima and Katrina agree—you’ve become a wonderful painter!

  Dear Adele,

  Babba and Mama pass on their good wishes to you and want to thank you for letting them see your work-in-progress. You should have seen Babba’s face when he saw the picture. A smile (now that’s no small thing, as you know) appeared on his mouth. What’s more extraordinary were the tears that came to his eyes! He said your art took him back home. The image of the olive grove and the young man gathering the year’s harvest delivered him to his homeland again. I will always remember that look of pride on his face and only wished I had photographed it for you to see. Just take my word for it, Adele, you brought him to tears. Now that’s a big accomplishment—to elicit emotion from your hardest critic (though, I believe he’s becoming your biggest fan)! You should hear how he brags to all the customers about his artist daughter. I’m envious to say the least. After all, I thought I was the favourite! (just teasing)

  Love, Mona

  P.S. Do you think Babba and Mama can come visit? Rima and Katrina send their love too!

  Dear Adele,

  Something is wrong with Babba. At first, we thought it was just the flu but the vomiting is consistent after each meal and sometimes even on an empty stomach. The 24-48 hour flu bug shouldn’t last over a month. Mama and Babba are sorry they can’t make your art show but given his recent illness, it’s not a good idea for him to travel. He’s scheduled for various tests and we hope it’s just an ulcer and nothing else. I’ll see you next week for your opening. And hopefully I’ll have good news about Babba’s condition.