Toronto Collection Volume 3 (Toronto Series #10-13)

by Heather Wardell

  Could Amirah be voluntarily covering herself? Was it possible she'd chosen to hide every sign of her femininity under the heavy black garments, without being pressured by anyone else?

  And if so, why?

  Chapter Thirty

  As the Sunday staff meeting drew to a close, I sat beside Leon and thought about going home with him. He'd found me at lunch time and told me his trip to Dubai hadn't been the same without me, and his hungry eyes told me what he'd missed. I'd missed it too, and as soon as the meeting was over I knew we'd be going straight to bed. Once his jealousy over Gunther had died down so had his intensity in the bedroom but things were still better than they'd been at the beginning and I wanted the closeness that sex would bring us.

  The meeting room door opened and Zainab stuck her head into the room, her grin even brighter than normal. "Almost done, Janet?"

  Janet turned, surprised. "I am. Why? Is something wrong?"

  "No," she said, and pushed the door fully open so she could wheel in a huge cake on a rolling cart. "Everything is wonderful. I just wanted to make sure we could wish you a happy birthday."

  Janet blushed, and the staff laughed and applauded as Zainab brought the cake up to her.

  "Zainab, you beast," Janet said, smiling. "I told you my birthday in confidence. And you go and tell everyone? What kind of secretary are you?"

  "The kind who brings cake?"

  "My favorite kind," Omar said, grinning.

  Everyone laughed, and Janet said, "Well, fine. We can finish talking about the possible playground rule revisions another time. Cake for all!"

  We clapped and she began cutting, but when she'd finished it turned out to be cake for all-but-one.

  She hadn't given herself a slice.

  There was tons left, and even if there hadn't been she should obviously not have been the one left out, but when Zainab tried to get her a piece Janet shook her head. "Thank you so much, but no. It's very sweet of you and I'm touched, but I'm not going to eat any."

  Zainab cocked her head to one side. "Because of Leroy?"

  Janet nodded.

  Someone said, "Your friend Leroy?"

  Omar had a bit of frosting on his lip, and Katherine picked up a napkin and wiped his face clean, shaking her head in amusement, while Janet said, "My boyfriend Leroy, actually."

  A few people, including Leon, made 'woo-hoo' noises. We'd seen the guy around the school but Janet had always just called him her 'friend'. Apparently their relationship had moved to another level.

  "He won't let you eat cake?"

  My voice came out more indignant than I'd meant it to, and certainly more indignant than it should have been to speak to my boss, and I cleared my throat and added more reasonably, "I mean, it's your birthday."

  Several others agreed with me, and Leon said, "You shouldn't deny yourself," but Janet gave us a sweet smile and said, "It's not that he won't let me. We're both working on losing weight, that's all, and while I do feel sure I'd love the cake I also love knowing that Leroy and I are working together to improve ourselves." Her cheeks, which I now noticed weren't quite as round as when I'd met her, turned almost the tone of her vibrant pink sweater. "And I love that more than I love cake." She grinned at Zainab. "Although I admit it's close."

  Zainab grinned back, and we all let the matter drop, but as I savored the delicious cake I thought about Janet. She'd been all in shapeless blacks and browns when I met her but she was blossoming now into rich color and sleeker shapes and I felt sure Leroy's presence was as a big part of that as it was of her weight loss. I found myself surprised that a relationship could be as good as that, with the two people working together on something that would make them both happier and healthier, building up each other's confidence and helping each other to feel good in their own skin.

  My surprise confused me: shouldn't a relationship be good? What was the point of being in one if it didn't make you feel strong and supported and more you?

  Katherine, next to me, interrupted my thoughts. "I really do want to eat this cake." She fiddled with the sleeve of her garnet sweater as she stared down at her half-finished slice. "But then I can't have ice cream later. Not without making myself feel sick."

  Omar nodded, looking at the bit of cake still on his paper plate. "I'm with you. So do you want me to..."

  Katherine bit her lip for a moment, then nodded and held out her plate. Omar threw it out, along with his own, then took his chair again. "We'll be glad of this when we eat our ice cream."

  She smiled and leaned her head on his shoulder. "You're like my willpower walking along beside me. You're the best."

  He wrapped his arm around her shoulder. "Second-best, maybe," he said, and cuddled her in a way that made it clear he thought she was the best.

  I glanced at Leon, suddenly expecting he'd tell me not to eat the cake so I wouldn't get fat, but instead he leaned in and whispered, "Eat up. I'll burn it off you in bed."

  My heart sank. It wasn't wrong, what he'd said, but it wasn't what I wanted to hear. I wanted something like what Omar and Katherine had said, something that proved Leon and I were really in love instead of just having sex. I needed to feel like somebody loved me and was on my side. Leon just wasn't the kind of guy to say that sort of thing, though.

  Amirah got up, threw out her plate, and said, "Good night, all."

  We echoed, and as she swept out of the room the urge to know why she covered and her sister didn't hit me so hard I couldn't resist.

  "Be right back," I muttered, and went after her.

  She turned back when I called her, eyebrows raised, and I said, "Um, I have a question."

  She smiled and waited.

  I didn't know how to word it, so I just said it. "Why do you wear the black and Nour doesn't? Is whoever makes you do it not worried about her, or--"

  Her eyebrows went so high they disappeared beneath the edge of her hijab. "Makes me? Who do you think is making me?"

  I felt myself blushing. "I don't know. I assume a man, but..."

  She held up a hand to stop me, but she didn't need to because I had no idea how to finish the sentence. "Larissa, I cover because I want to. I have four sisters and I'm the only one who does, because it matters to me. They don't feel the same way about it and that is fine. It's not forced on me. I choose."

  "But why? You could be so pretty if--" I bit off my words in horror. "I'm so sorry, I don't mean that. You're pretty now. I just meant if you wore colors and things--"

  "You are pretty," she said calmly. "Does it make you happy? Does dressing how you do bring you peace, and satisfaction? Do you feel that people see you as more than your clothing, more than your hair? Do you feel that what you wear suits your soul? Because I feel all of those things. I know who I am, and I do not need to wear what other people tell me to in order to feel like who I am."

  I stared at her, hardly able to breathe.

  "Can you say the same?"

  Now I couldn't breathe at all.

  She put her hand on my shoulder, her eyes soft. "You think me repressed." I tried to protest but she kept going. "You do. But it's all right, because I am not. I choose to dress this way partly because my religion recommends it but also because without the stresses of trying to meet changing fashion rules I can focus my energy on other things. Like being a great teacher and aunt and a faithful Muslim."

  While I tried to find something to say, she plucked at the sleeve of the black sweater I wore with beige pants. "You cover too, you know. I saw your eyes when I gave you the pink scarf, but I've never seen you wear it."

  I started trying to apologize but she smiled and shook her head. "I mean only that I know you loved it, and yet I've never seen it on you. Perhaps you should think about that instead of worrying about me."

  She smiled again. "Any more questions?"

  I shook my head.

  "Then I'll see you tomorrow."

  One last smile, and she turned and swept away. I watched her go, and I did think about why I'd never worn t
he scarf.

  I knew why. Because my father, and Leon and Greg and countless other guys, had told me I shouldn't be so girly, and I'd taken that in and accepted it and now couldn't go against it.

  And I dared to think Amirah controlled and repressed?

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I spent a long time looking at the pink scarf the next morning but in the end wore Muneera's amethysts instead, both because she'd clearly been disappointed I hadn't had them on the day before and because they weren't as threatening somehow.

  Feeling threatened by a length of soft pink silk wasn't logical but I couldn't help it. The scarf seemed to represent everything feminine and delicate and beautiful, and I felt like a force field between us prevented me from reaching out for it.

  Though I went to school feeling bad that I hadn't been able to put it on, Muneera's delight that I'd worn her gift made up for it. Khalid's nanny had called in to say he was throwing up so wouldn't be at school, which meant we had a great and productive day although I felt guilty about how much more I enjoyed teaching without him.

  My students' last class of the day was off in the art room, and I spent most of the time they were away marking their work and then a few minutes sipping a coffee and trying to decide what I should do about Khalid. Throwing up was a valid excuse, obviously, but what about all the other times when he'd been late or absent? I couldn't teach a student who didn't show up, but his mother must know he was away and be all right with it. Maybe that was just how things worked in Kuwait. I didn't like it, though.

  My musings were interrupted by the return of my excited students, each bearing a chunk of rough-looking soap before them. A cacophony of "Miss, look! Look at mine!" erupted, but I calmed them and made sure they were all sitting down to do their homework planners before saying, "Now, what did you make?"

  Hands flew up all over the room, and the kid I picked showed me his soap, which had been engraved with a wide-open mouth and slightly crooked eyes. "We carved them, Miss. It was fun."

  I smiled. "That does look fun. I did something like that when I was a kid, but it was with apples."

  They looked horrified, and the kid said, "But that's haram, Miss."

  I blinked. "Haram?"

  "Bad," he said. "Shameful."

  "You don't waste food," several kids said in unison, and the rest nodded.

  "Ah," I said, realizing I'd stumbled into a cultural contrast. "Okay. Well, then soap was a great choice. You're all going to take them home, right? The room will smell pretty strong if you leave them here over night." It was fairly stinky already.

  They chorused their agreement, but as she left the room Muneera ducked back and shyly held out her soap. "I made it for you, Miss."

  "Are you sure?" I leaned over and inspected it. "It's very pretty."

  It was, actually, with a big smile and carefully eye-lashed eyes. But to me the shape of the soap seemed like it would have suited a more melancholy expression instead.

  Surprised that such a thing had occurred to me, when I wasn't in the habit of examining soap for its artistic potential, I said, "You made it, Muneera, and if you want to take it home that's okay with me."

  She shook her head, then hung it so I couldn't see her eyes. "It's you, Miss," she whispered, staring at the floor. "I wanted it to be you."

  "Aw, Muneera, that's very sweet. If you're sure you want me to keep it, then I'll happily take it home and take care of it."

  She giggled. "It doesn't need care, Miss. It's soap."

  "Oh, right. How silly of me." I held out my hand and she laid the soap in my palm. "Thank you, Muneera."

  "You're welcome, Miss. Good night."

  I wished her a good night too and she vanished. Enjoying the peace and quiet of the empty room, I returned to my desk and set the soap in front of me.

  No doubt about it, the happy face Muneera had carved didn't suit the soap.

  An urge to try this craft myself hit me, far more intense than I'd have expected. This was the epitome of what my dad had called "stupid work", something that wouldn't last forever and wouldn't make any difference while it did last. But the kids' delight in their creations had been so obvious, and the piece had made a difference to Muneera because she'd been making it with me in mind, and though it wouldn't last past one washing for now it did mean something.

  Though I could hear my dad scoffing, I called Mohammed the taxi guy and soon had a car taking me to the Sultan Center. I bought a few other groceries I needed, and after a fruitless search for interesting soap also picked up a small sack of apples. They were a little lumpy and strange-looking, nothing like the ones I'd bought every fall from a farmer's market in Toronto, but they would do perfectly for crafting.

  Once my apples and I were at home, I microwaved a quick dinner while lining up ten apples along the back of my kitchen table then sat eating and studying the fruits to decide with which one to begin. I wanted an interesting shape, something I could work with, and I'd narrowed the field down to three apples when my phone rang.

  "I'm at the gym and someone just cancelled his tennis court booking. If you get down here fast we can play with Cesar and Latifa."

  "Sorry, Leon, I can't," I said without thinking about it. "I'm busy."

  "Doing what?"

  Carving apples? I couldn't say that. And then I decided I could. "I'm doing an art project. Copying something the kids did at school."

  He laughed. "So you're a fourth-grader now?"

  I'd been a lot happier back then. I hadn't realized all the things I'd want to change in my life. His amusement stung me, and I said, "Plus I don't like tennis."

  "Oh, come on, of course you do."

  "Actually, I don't. Haven't you noticed we haven't played for ages?"

  We hadn't played, in fact, since the day I'd hurt my ankle storming off the court. He had asked several times but I'd always had a valid reason why I couldn't. Today, my only reason was apples. Apples, and the fact that I hated the stupid sport.

  "Because you've been busy. Come on, come play. I don't want to find another partner."

  Something threatening seemed to lurk in those words, something deeper than tennis, and I almost gave in. I didn't want to lose him. But the desire to be creative that I'd felt in my room hadn't worn off and it gave me the strength to say, "Then play singles with Cesar. Or Latifa. I'm not going to play any more."

  He sighed. "Is this just because you're not an expert? Kind of petty, don't you think?"

  "Nope. See you tomorrow at lunch?"

  "If I have time," he said, with the threat even clearer now, and hung up before I could say anything else.

  I sat staring at my phone for several seconds, then deliberately turned away to look at my apples instead. I didn't enjoy tennis. Or volleyball or any of the other sports I'd tried so hard to like. Why force myself into a game on a night when I had something else I wanted to do?

  I plucked an apple at random from the collection and turned it in my hand, studying it, and it reminded me of how I'd used to study models' faces and pick out which of their features should be brought out and which I'd want to hide with makeup. No makeup for the apples, but the concept was the same, and how much I enjoyed doing it surprised me.

  I hadn't thought about having my own studio since I'd arrived in Kuwait, though I'd insisted to my mother that it was still in my plans, because I'd been too busy with school. I hadn't missed any part of that career, but now I realized I did miss the artistic side. Not dealing with Chaz or Hot Caramel, never that, but the creation of beauty.

  The carving I made from the first apple might not have deserved the label of 'beauty' but I loved it anyhow. A small pucker on the side of the apple had become a dimple, and the smile I'd carved next to the dimple had a whimsical sadness to it because my finger slipped on the knife and knocked the smile a little sideways. Rather than being upset by the lack of perfection, though, I found myself eager to go with it just as I had been on the rare occasion I'd been presented with a model with particularly un
usual features.

  Once that apple was finished, I picked up another, and I kept going without thinking until I reached for another apple and found none left on the table.

  Surprised, I counted the carved ones, and sure enough I'd used all ten. They sat staring at me, their little faces ranging from the original whimsical one through one that looked like it was considering carving me to the two that were giving each other sideways glances like they were flirting, and I sat staring back feeling something unfamiliar.

  I tried to tell myself it was silly to feel that way from such a ridiculous little project, but I didn't believe it and I did feel it.

  Pure joy.

  *****

  I took pictures of the apples, arranged in different groupings, so I could keep them with me in some capacity. By the time I finished the pictures, the carved places were already beginning to look brown, and I found myself wondering again whether spending time on something that wouldn't even last an hour had been stupid.

  But I still remembered the joy I'd felt in their creation and I knew it hadn't been stupid. My dad might well have said it was, but then he hadn't ever done anything artistic. Not once, that I could recall. He had been a carpenter, but the most utilitarian type. I'd never seen him even carve a decoration onto a cabinet or shelf. So he probably hadn't known the pleasure of looking at something and knowing you'd made it exist.

  I'd had a bit of that pleasure in making the gym's mural wall, but there'd been constraints there since I only had certain colors of paint and a certain skill level in my assistants. The apples had been free work, and they'd made me feel free too.

  I ate one of the un-carved ones while I sat savoring the happiness I felt, and it was surprisingly tasty so I decided not to let the carved ones go to waste. Instead of turning lemons into lemonade, I would turn apples into muffins.

  I found a muffin recipe online, since I'd never baked them before because Mom was a confirmed buyer of baked goods rather than a creator. She'd never even made chocolate chip cookies from scratch. As I worked my way through the recipe and chopped up my apple faces and let myself say goodbye to each one out loud though I knew it was silly, I wondered for the first time whether my mother might have wanted to bake, as my dad's mother had constantly done, but had felt she couldn't because of my dad's attitude toward all things related to his mother.