The Allspice Bath

by Sonia Saikaley

  See you soon!

  Love, Mona

  CHAPTER 21

  ADELE’S ART EXHIBITION WAS HELD in a converted warehouse-turned-art gallery. There were more people than she had anticipated. She nervously paced the backroom, peering over the ledge of the wall and staring at all the guests who stood with their hands on their hips, tilting their heads slightly in that deep-concentrated sort of way, gazing at her paintings, her creations. She jumped when she felt someone squeezing her shoulder. It was Mona, who leaned in close and kissed her on both cheeks. “Thanks for coming,” Adele whispered. She glanced over Mona’s shoulders, searching the room for Rima and Katrina but the other two sisters were not there.

  “They couldn’t make it.” Mona reached out and clasped Adele’s hands in her own. They were trembling badly. “Don’t be nervous, Adele. Everyone loves your work. I heard glowing remarks when I walked across the room. And if they don’t like it, then fuck them.”

  The sisters laughed and then joined the crowd admiring the paintings that recreated their past and their parents’ homeland, and that evoked the smell of cedars, the bitter taste of olives, and the sweet, pinkish pulp of figs.

  As they left the art gallery, raindrops began to fall and Mona suggested that they go into a church nearby, not so much to get out of the sudden downpour but to talk.

  When they walked inside, the smell of incense floated in their nostrils. It was ironic that the closest church happened to be Orthodox. Adele made the sign of the cross and slid into the pew beside her sister. They sat on the bench, staring straight ahead at the altar and at the colourful icons of saints that lined the walls.

  After a brief moment of silence, Mona said in a quiet voice, “We need to talk about Babba.”

  Adele studied her sister’s face. The smile she had at the opening was now gone. Even the darkness from the clouds and low lights of the church couldn’t hide the sadness in her eyes, her sunken cheeks. “Babba’s very ill, Adele. I didn’t want to bring it up at your opening earlier. It would be just like Babba to ruin your show,” she laughed softly.

  Adele didn’t laugh. “What’s wrong with him? The ulcer again?”

  Mona shook her head, stared down at her hands on her lap. “It’s more serious. He has stomach cancer. The tumour has advanced to the point that it’s blocking the passage of food and that’s why he’s vomiting. He’s lost so much weight. He doesn’t look the same. The doctors say the prognosis isn’t good.”

  “What does that mean?” Adele said, alarmed by the news.

  “He’s dying. They give him a few weeks, a month at the most. The cancer is very advanced, very aggressive.”

  “No,” Adele said, “No, no,” she said again, surprised by her breaking voice. Mona reached over, put her arm around Adele and pulled her close. Adele rested her head on Mona’s shoulder.

  “Come home, Adele,” she whispered. “Come see Babba before…” Mona hesitated, wiping the tears from Adele’s face. “Come.” She lifted Adele’s head. She then clasped her hands together. “Come. Let’s pray.”

  With her heart throbbing in her chest, Adele lowered her head, joined her hands and prayed for a man she had once wished was dead.

  A few days later, she paced the living room of her apartment waiting for Mona to finish packing. She began to worry. What if things hadn’t changed? What if her father had remained the same? she wondered. She stopped pacing, stood still with her hands on her hips, stared outside; the sound of traffic began to float into the open window. Walking towards it, Adele leaned over and rested her hands on the windowsill. She spread her fingers and examined them as if the answer to her ‘what if’ questions rested in the lines of her knuckles. Suddenly she dropped her hands, swivelled and walked about the room. There had been a time, months ago, when she had imagined what it would be like to reunite with her father. She had devised various scenarios—him hugging her until she could no longer breathe, him slapping her until she was bruised or him being totally indifferent, walking about the house as if she had never left. She stood still and for a moment, she placed herself in her father’s worn shoes, felt the soft leather on her feet, the warmth left from him. Then she rubbed her face, flung herself on the sofa and began to cry. He was dying. The old man was dying! She had to set aside her anxieties, her fears. When Mona had finally emerged, suitcases in hand, the tears from Adele’s eyes had dissipated.

  They hurried down the wooden stairs, the creaks echoing through the hallway. As they emerged from the old apartment house, a strong wind forced the suitcases in their hands to hit against their legs. The sisters quickened their pace, nearly slipping on the leaves still wet from the early morning downpour. When they reached Mona’s car, Adele leaned on the passenger side and watched the wind hurl other passersby as if urging them towards their destinies. Adele winked at a little child, her tiny fingers entwined with her mother’s. The girl shyly looked away, pulled on her mother’s arm and hurried her pace. The mother looked up at Adele and smiled, then explained, “She’s shy.”

  “I was the same way. Still am,” Adele replied, light-heartedly. “Have a good day!”

  “You too!” the little girl piped up. Then she tugged on her mother’s sleeve again. “See, Mom, I’m not shy!”

  Turning away, Adele stared at Mona. She opened the trunk and carefully placed the suitcases inside. Then she walked over to the driver’s side. A smile rose from Adele’s full lips. Her eyes twinkled. “What?” Mona asked, playfully flipping back her layered hair. “Did the damn wind blow my hair out of place?”

  Adele shook her head. “No.”

  “Then why are you smiling so much?”

  “I’m happy, that’s all. I’m so glad we’re sisters again.”

  “We were always sisters, Adele,” Mona answered. “You just need to learn to pick up the phone more often. Better yet, get the internet. Email is the new form of letters.” She chuckled.

  “You know I hate computers,” Adele grimaced.

  “I know but you need to change that attitude.”

  “Do I have to?” she whined.

  “Yes, my dear Monkey. Get with the times. We’re no longer in the seventies.”

  Laughing, the sisters slid into the car.

  CHAPTER 22

  ADELE SLEPT THROUGH ALMOST THE ENTIRE five-hour drive to Ottawa. She awoke as Mona eased the car into the driveway beside her father’s grocery store. She rubbed her eyes and looked up at the sign to the store: the letters of her father’s name were chipped and the green paint was fading. Youssef’s Grocery was now Ousse’s rocery. Moving her hand along the yellow stucco of the shop, Adele felt the bumpiness she had memorized as a child all those times she had sat on the concrete stoop by the side of the door. Now when she pulled her hand away and examined it, crumbled stone stuck to her palm. For a while she stood still, studying the boarded-up store. Mona had mentioned that after Babba’s illness, they had decided to close the shop for good. None of Adele’s sisters or their husbands had use for the old corner store. A sadness overwhelmed Adele as she gazed at the emblem of her father’s livelihood. This building was dying too.

  Bits of memory flooded over her as she walked inside the house. She swore she could smell the strong scent of ahweh and allspice. Not much had changed over the years. She stood in the hallway for a few minutes, studying the cross that hung above the door. It was a bronze crucifix with Jesus’ arms splayed and feet folded over each, knees slightly raised and off to the side. Then she looked at the brown velvet curtains covering the large window of the living room. Only some light managed to push through the curtains, illuminating the porcelain figurines her mother had bought from gift shops in Little Italy. Time had not altered the interior of the Azar house. Adele turned her head towards the doorway leading into the dining room and kitchen area. Her mother’s voice rose in a high-pitched squeal, her footsteps hurrying on the hardwood floor. “Adele!” she shouted, wiping h
er hands on her apron. You’re home! My habibti is home.” Before Adele could open her mouth in reply, Samira pulled her close. Adele gently stroked her mother’s back as they clung to each other. Then her mother’s sobs began, shaking Adele so much that her legs grew weak and she thought she might fall to her knees. She hadn’t expected this welcome, such warmth. When Samira finally let go, Adele looked at her mother. It had been a while since they had stood face-to-face, since she had heard her mother address her affectionately as habibti, or honey. Tenderness filled her heart. Samira’s black hair was short and tinged with strands of grey; it also looked brittle. A few extra pounds rounded her high cheek-boned face and folds of skin now sagged around her cheeks and mouth. Her full lips were chapped and her palms cracked. Adele felt their sandpaper texture when Samira cupped her face and stroked her cheeks. “Too thin, habibti, too thin. Don’t you eat in Toronto?”

  Adele smiled weakly, resisting the urge to cry at the aged appearance of her mother. “The food doesn’t add up to yours, Mama. Nothing can replace your wonderful cooking.”

  Samira beamed. “Are you hungry?” She took Adele by the hand and led her into the kitchen.

  The table was full of food. Platters of maza—taboulleh, hummus, kibbeh nayeh, stuffed grape leaves—had been prepared and even a small glass bottle of arak sat on the table. Samira pulled out a chair then motioned for Adele to sit. Mona sat across from her. “Welcome home,” Samira whispered.

  Finally, the tears streamed down Adele’s face. Samira stood across from her, wiped her face with the end of her apron. “No tears. No tears, habibti. You eat your Mama’s food. Eat, no more cry.”

  Adele nodded. She sat on the chair and let her mother dish out large portions onto her plate.

  By the time Adele finished her meal, she was ready to go upstairs. She stared at the staircase and remembered all the times she had raced up these steps two at a time, whether in a fit of happiness or rage. Now she slowly ascended and listened to the creaky notes each one made. Midway, she stopped and looked down at the hardwood floor of the living room. She heard the voices of her sister and mother conversing in the kitchen. They had thought it was better for her to see her father alone. And she had agreed, but now with his bedroom only a couple feet away, she was not sure it had been wise to orchestrate this private meeting. After a moment of standing perfectly still, she thought she might faint, and tumble down the flight of stairs. But she brought her mind back to the present. Her father was dying. She couldn’t hold off this difficult reunion, couldn’t leave and return next week because he might not be around in a week. Taking a deep breath, she clasped the banister and pulled herself up and up, her feet seemingly taking over her shaky body. What could her father possibly do to her now? What could he possibly say to her? She was no longer a child; his words couldn’t bring her to tears anymore.

  It wasn’t his words that made her eyes well up as she stood at the open door of her parents’ bedroom. Mona had warned her but Adele hadn’t expected her sister’s description of their father’s illness to be so accurate. When she looked across at him, tucked quietly under the thin sheets, she hadn’t expected his potbelly to have vanished, his hipbones to be jutting under the covers, his body shrivelled and small like a child’s. She hadn’t expected the jaundice that had yellowed his pale skin. His sunken eyes were closed in a nap but as soon as Adele inched forward, the floorboards creaked, waking him up.

  “Sorry Babba for startling you…”

  “It’s okay,” he interrupted.

  Adele sat on the edge of the bed and hesitated for a brief second before resting her hand on her father’s fingers. She gently squeezed his hand; it had become smaller than hers. Tears fell from her eyes and landed on her father’s slowly rising chest. She realized every breath was a struggle for him. For a while, they stared at each other without speaking. She searched his face for signs of the man who had called her so many hurtful things, but all she saw was an old person with sad and sunken eyes. He was looking at her tenderly, his mouth opening and closing as if he wanted to say something. But he remained silent.

  Finally, in a cracked voice, he said, “Are you all right, babba? I know I haven’t said this often and I’ll always regret that…” he paused and looked past Adele’s shoulders, then brought his gaze back to her face. “I love you. I always loved you. I just didn’t know how to say it or show it. You’re my beautiful daughter. You’re worth more than a hundred boys put together. I should’ve been a better…”

  This time it was Adele who stopped the words. She got up and rushed out of the bedroom. Leaning against the hallway wall, she slid down and sat crouched, clutching her belly. She rocked back and forth. She couldn’t listen to the words she had so long yearned for when growing up. She glanced up and peered into the open door of his room. She watched her father weakly raise his hand to his eyes and drag his fingertips across darkened eyelids.

  It was late in the night when Adele felt someone’s hands on her shoulders, jostling her awake from her sleep. Samira then walked across the room and flicked on the light switch.

  “Hurry, Adele,” Samira said, her face pale. “It’s your father.”

  Adele rubbed her eyes and immediately sat up. “What’s wrong?”

  Samira shook her head. “I don’t know.” She motioned with her hands. “Come quick.”

  Without her earlier hesitation, she ran out of her room and into her parents’ bedroom. When she entered, her father was shivering under the sheets. She reached underneath the covers and began rubbing his legs and arms.

  “I’m so cold. I can’t stop shaking, Adele.”

  Adele rubbed harder in an attempt to warm his flesh.

  “Warm now?” she asked in a quiet voice.

  Youssef shook his head and spoke between chattering teeth. “No, no. Cold. I’m so cold. Help me.” Adele slid under the covers beside her father and pulling the blankets tightly over them, while her mother watched, her hands covering her mouth. Adele wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close, letting her own body warm his. She held him so tight that she could smell his flesh; the scent of old age and unkempt hair. Slowly, the shaking stopped. Adele held tighter, only shifting slightly even when she felt the urine slide down her father’s legs and onto the mattress, drenching her own pajamas. She didn’t flinch. “I’m sorry,” Youssef mumbled. “I’m so sorry.” His face crumpled and he began to weep. He was the man of the house—a Lebanese man—and he couldn’t even control the urine that trickled down his own legs and onto Adele’s. Her chest tightened; she thought her heart might explode. When she looked at her mother she saw that her hands were now pressed together in prayer.

  The next morning Adele awoke with the bright sun blinding her half-closed eyes. She blinked a few times before lifting her hand to cover her eyes from the light flowing through the large window of her parents’ bedroom and filling the entire space. She looked at her father lying next to her, his face tired and weary. Slowly, she slid out of the bed, her body stiff and her pajamas crinkled with her father’s urine, the odor permeating the air. She hadn’t realized things would be this bad, that the man she had once fought constantly with would be reduced to a helpless infant. She had heard and read about cancer but hadn’t realized how the disease robbed its victims of dignity—the vomiting, the shakes, the loss of bladder control. Now as she stood beside her parents’ bed and gazed at her father, depleted and worn, she began to understand the devastating effects of the illness. She turned away from him and looked out the window again. The sky was a pale blue, and the clouds were tinged with gold. When her father began to stir, she moved closer to the bed.

  “Good morning, babba,” he said, smiling weakly. “I’m sorry about last night.”

  Adele raised up her hand. “No need to apologize.”

  “But I need to,” he said, struggling to breathe. Each breath was shallow and sounded so painful that she wished she could help him by giving some
of her own breath. He turned his head to face her, his white hair dishevelled on the pillowcase. “I wasn’t a good father. I could’ve been better. I should’ve been better. Do you know how proud I am of you?” His voice began to break.

  She smiled weakly.

  “I’m so proud of you. You’re a very clever girl. Smarter than me, smarter than the entire family. I don’t know how such a smart girl came from me. Look at me,” he said, lightly patting his chest. “I’m a peasant boy, a retired grocer…”

  “Who supported an entire family,” Adele added.

  “I suppose,” he sighed, “but I didn’t support you in the way you needed.”

  Adele looked down at her hands.

  Youssef cleared his throat. “I wasn’t a good father. I yelled too much. I criticized too much and praised too little. I made your life miserable, so miserable that you had to run away. Why else would you have left?”

  She shuffled her feet, and grasped his hands, hoping to comfort him.

  “I don’t want to be remembered as a bad father. I hope one day you’ll remember the man that I have become. I hope you’ll remember the good memories. We did have some good times, no? Adele, please don’t remember all the junk I stuck in your brain. Please, will you do that for me?” He lifted his head off the pillow a little bit and looked directly in Adele’s teary eyes. “Adele?”

  Adele wanted to escape her father’s sudden openness, but he would not let her go.

  He pleaded, “Adele? Adele?”

  She couldn’t say anything.

  “I can’t make you forgive me,” he said softly, “but I need you to know how sorry I am for all the pain I caused you.”

  Why had she spent so much time fighting with her father? she wondered. And now he wanted her to forgive him, to remember only good memories. Was that even possible? She needed to be alone, needed time to think. She excused herself and went down the stairs and into the kitchen, where she grabbed a container of allspice. Then she flew back up the stairs and entered the bathroom. She let the bathtub fill with water and, as the water rose, she sprinkled in the allspice. Returning to her parents’ bedroom, she reached over to her father, slid her hands under his back, wrapped her arms around his frail body, and lifted him out of the bed. She struggled down the hallway, dragging him along the floor into the bathroom where she began to undress him. Her mother appeared at the door and said, “Let me help you, Adele.”