The Allspice Bath
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The Allspice Bath
PRAISE FOR THE ALLSPICE BATH:
“This lovely story will have you empathize and root for Adele, a young woman caught in the cultural crosshairs of her parents’ native country and their adopted land, who learns to listen closely and hear the strains of her brave new voice. “
—Shilpi Somaya Gowda, author of The Golden Son
“Sonia Saikaley’s The Allspice Bath is a deeply-moving portrayal of family life and an intimate exploration of the ties that bind. From the first chapter, we are drawn into the vibrant lives of the Azar family, particularly the Azar sisters, first-generation Lebanese-Canadians who have a foot in the culture of their birth and another in that of their parents’. The result is at times a precarious balancing act, brought to life with compassion and realism through Adele, our counter-culture, free-thinking protagonist. Saikaley shows with vivid, and at times heart-breaking prose, what it takes for a young, modern woman to breakaway from tradition in pursuit of her own dreams. This book will resonate strongly with any reader who has felt torn by living between two worlds, made sacrifices to pursue a dream, or faced the hard truth that it is often the ones who love us the most that hurt us the deepest. But as Saikaley demonstrates with enviable pathos, when it comes to family, where there is love, forgiveness is always possible.”
—Anita Kushwaha, author of Side by Side
“The title of Sonia Saikaley’s coming-of-age novel, The Allspice Bath, beautifully expresses the dilemma faced by its gutsy main character, Adele Azar: whether to conform to the strict expectations and traditions of her Lebanese immigrant family—literally, to sink into a bath of the spice most often used in Lebanese cooking––or to dare to rebel and live her life, her way. For Adele, there are no easy answers to the questions: who am I and who do I want to be? Growing up in Ottawa in the 1970s and 1980s as the youngest of the four daughters, she is constantly torn between whether to be a ‘good Lebanese girl’ or a ‘real’ Canadian—a struggle that begins with her mother’s first words to her, ‘You should’ve been born a boy.’ Adele chafes under the limitations placed on her by her family, resents the way her sisters bow to the wills of their father, boyfriends and husbands, and secretly longs to be the daughter of a kindly Anglo-Canadian woman living next door. But she is also unable to stop herself from seeking her father’s love and approval. When a medical crisis leaves young Adele ‘unfit’ for marriage, her father devises a surprising solution that takes the family back to the Old Country, a trip that will have repercussions on Adele’s adult life. Honest, unflinching and unsentimental, the story of Adele’s journey to womanhood, her self-transformation from resentful daughter to independent artist, from rejection of her family to reconciliation with them, captures the emotional complexities faced by many first-generation daughters of immigrant families.”
—Terri Favro, author of Once Upon a Time in West Toronto
“Sonia Saikaley’s The Allspice Bath exudes authenticity and sensibility. It is a brilliantly told tale of a turbulent father-daughter relationship set against the Lebanese immigrant experience in Canada.”
—Ian Thomas Shaw, author of Quill of the Dove
“Caught between her Lebanese family traditions and her Canadian upbringing, Adele continuously challenges the rigorous boundaries that are drawn by her unyielding father, Youssef, and his cultural beliefs. Her journey towards independence is wrought with unexpected obstacles that only reinforce her resilience. Saikaley skillfully presents complex and passionate characters who embody the conflicting perspectives of two generations of immigrants desperately trying to find themselves as they negotiate their positions between the old country and the new one. The story exquisitely interweaves the heart-warming images of family, home, and belonging with the inescapable sense of solitude that accompanies uprootedness and displacement. Through this unflinchingly honest novel the author presents an essential, timely, and highly misunderstood, perspective of being an Arab Canadian.”
—Lamees Al Ethari, author of From the Wounded Banks of the Tigris
“With grace, precision, and honesty, Sonia Saikaley opens a door to reveal the inner workings of families that are both shaped and disrupted by immigration’s clash of cultures.”
—Dimitri Nasrallah, author of The Bleeds and Niko
“The turning point for this bildungsroman happens in Lebanon, when Saikaley balances betrayal with descriptions of olive trees, dust, and messy stone walls. To grow, to survive, Adele must rebel against her family’s expectations, shifting between her two identities until she finds her way and by doing so changes her family.”
—Debra Martens, Canadian Writers Abroad
The Allspice Bath
a novel
Sonia Saikaley
INANNA PUBLICATIONS AND EDUCATION INC.
TORONTO, CANADA
Copyright © 2019 Sonia Saikaley
Except for the use of short passages for review purposes, no part of this book may be reproduced, in part or in whole, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronically or mechanically, including photocopying, recording, or any information or storage retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher or a licence from the Canadian Copyright Collective Agency (Access Copyright).
We gratefully acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund.
The Allspice Bath is a work of fiction. All the characters and situations portrayed in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Cover design: Val Fullard
eBook: tikaebooks.com
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: The allspice bath : a novel / Sonia Saikaley.
Names: Saikaley, Sonia, author.
Series: Inanna poetry & fiction series.
Description: Series statement: Inanna poetry & fiction series
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20190094559 | Canadiana (ebook) 20190094575 | ISBN 9781771336178
(softcover) | ISBN 9781771336185 (epub) | ISBN 9781771336192 (Kindle) | ISBN 9781771336208 (pdf)
Classification: LCC PS8637.A4495 A75 2019 | DDC C813/.6—dc23
Printed and bound in Canada
Inanna Publications and Education Inc.
210 Founders College, York University
4700 Keele Street, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M3J 1P3
Telephone: (416) 736-5356 Fax: (416) 736-5765
Email: inanna.publications@inanna.ca Website: www.inanna.ca
For Babba, whose presence I deeply miss.
PROLOGUE: 1970
“YOU SHOULD’VE BEEN BORN A BOY,” Samira Azar whispered to the baby in the small cart next to her bed. The hospital room was stark, and the shuttered windows didn’t stop the cold air from coming in. Samira’s body ached. She was still unable to get up and hold the child she had given birth to a few hours ago. Instead she glanced at the infant, listened to her gurgle, and watched the saliva gently sloping down her chin. She then turned her attention away from her child to the incision along her belly, hidden under the pale blue hospital gown and sterile blankets. “If you had only been a boy,” Samira repeated, her voice cracking. She knew the entire community would be talking, spreading the word that she had had another girl. “Poor Youssef. Four daughters and no son to continue his family name. What a shame!”
Samira turned her head towards the wall, buried her face in her hands, and wept. Hours earlier, she had learned that she’d never have another child. The cha
nces of providing a son to her husband were dashed when the surgeon cut out her womb, afraid the tumour he had found was cancerous. The infant opened and closed her mouth. Then imitating her mother’s whimpers, she wailed, her cries filling the room and echoing down the corridor of the maternity ward. Samira dropped her hands and patted her pillowcase, searching for the tiny rod. She pressed and pressed the button until a heavy-set nurse trudged into the room, panting and out of breath.
“Yes? What do you want?”
Samira flinched as if the words had tightened the stitches on her abdomen. She wiped her face. “Take … you take…” she said, searching her limited vocabulary.
“Come on. I haven’t got all day,” the nurse said, crossing her arms over her hefty chest. “Speak up.”
She pointed at the baby. “Take her. I no want see anymore.”
“But she’s only crying because she’s hungry. Don’t you want to feed her?”
“No, you take away. You feed her. I can’t,” Samira mumbled, rolling her head to the side. She stared vacantly out the window. It was the beginning of April but the towering evergreens were still thick with snow.
The nurse shook her head and walked over to the baby, who was wrapped in a cherry blanket. A pink ribbon was tied in the child’s soft brown hair. The infant continued to cry when the nurse bent down and picked her up. The nurse held the baby close to her breasts and cooed. Turning around to face the mother, she added, “I don’t understand you people.” She walked out, leaving Samira in the silent room.
The next morning the room was anything but quiet. Youssef Azar stood across from his wife’s hospital bed. He had a small protruding belly, one that would grow to the size of a six-month pregnancy, making his daughters ask in a teasing manner, “So when are you due? When is that baby going to pop, Babba?” He was short, smaller than his wife, with deep creases in his forehead, and a receding salt-and-pepper hairline.
Youssef kept curling his thick moustache in slow motion, but after a few minutes, he placed his arms on his chest and began his rant. “Allah, why did you do this to me?” he cried, addressing the ceiling. By the time he lowered his eyes and stared hard at the doctor beside his wife’s bed, Youssef’s voice was roaring, filling the entire hospital room. “What do you mean my wife can’t have any more children? She’s only thirty-five. She still has a few more years.”
The tall grey-haired doctor gripped the clipboard firmly in his hands, his long fingers trembling slightly as he flipped through the pages in front of him. “She had a hysterectomy. She doesn’t have a uterus anymore. Because your wife was in difficult labour, we had to perform a C-section. That’s when we discovered the large tumour in your wife’s womb. She was bleeding so much and the mass looked cancerous, so we decided that a hysterectomy was the best option.”
Youssef interrupted. “Best for whom? You or me?”
“Best for your wife,” the doctor asserted.
Samira looked down at her hands; they rested on her depleted, sore belly. This delivery had been the hardest for her. For some reason, this child had become entangled in the umbilical cord making a normal vaginal birth almost impossible. They could have both died—the child from suffocation and herself from excessive bleeding. Rolling her head on her pillow, she looked at the baby sleeping quietly in the nearby cart. She had long eyelashes, something the nurses had marvelled at when they had washed all the birthing and blood from her tiny face, then lifted her up so Samira could glimpse at the small creature who had almost died before entering the world. She now studied the baby closely. Her brown hair was two-inches long, and straight, not yet curly as it would become in early childhood. Her cheeks were plump, as if she were storing nuts for the long Ottawa winter, and she was a good size, too, almost nine pounds. A pink ribbon loosely held some pieces of soft hair, making them stand up on her perfectly-shaped little head. She didn’t have the compressed skull of most newborns, having escaped the birth canal. Samira’s eyes moved from the child to her husband. His right hand was clenched in a fist and he was waving it in front of the doctor’s long face. She was afraid that Youssef might punch the physician in the nose. They weren’t in the old country. He couldn’t take matters in his own hands like he could back home.
“So you’re telling me that I won’t have any more children? That I can’t have a son?”
“That’s correct. But you have four beautiful daughters.” The doctor smiled at the three dark-haired girls standing silently around the baby. The oldest, Rima, gently stroked the baby’s hair, without waking her new sister. She was seven. Rima’s long hair was in pigtails and she wore a knee-length, blue-and-white checkered dress. A large smile was plastered on her heart-shaped face as she gazed at the baby. Beside her, Katrina stood gripping the cart. She was smaller than Rima and more serious: no smile on her face. Her large round eyes darted back and forth from the baby to her parents. Her wavy hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail and her skin seemed even paler because of the hospital walls. The second youngest, Mona, was the one least interested in the new arrival for she had to give up her own baby status to make room for her tiny sister. Her bobbed hair swung around her face while she skipped close to the door and back to the cart again, sticking out her tongue at the baby, who blinked her eyes open, waking to the sound of her father’s voice.
“Kis imak!” Youssef shouted, throwing his arms in the air, nearly knocking the doctor’s wire-rimmed glasses off his slender nose, but he pulled his hand back before he could’ve hurt the physician.
Stepping back, the doctor frowned. He couldn’t understand why this man was acting so violently, couldn’t comprehend what he was saying. If he had knowledge of Arabic, he would’ve known that Youssef had offended him in the most insulting way. Kis imak. Curse your mother’s cunt. But he had no idea what words were hurled in his direction, so he said what he had felt should be said in the present situation, “Be grateful you have four children. Some people can’t have any.”
Youssef clenched his teeth. Then in frustration, he punched the mattress, startling his wife. She winced in pain.
The doctor touched her arm. “Are you all right, Mrs. Azar? Do you want more pain medication?”
Samira shook her head.
“No? You’re not okay?”
“No medicine. I … I okay,” she stammered.
Youssef cleared his throat. “My wife’s fine. Leave her alone. You’ve done enough damage.”
With his head bowed, the doctor quickly walked out of the room, turning back only once to see two of the small girls huddled around their mother’s bed.
The entire family visited Samira and the baby again the next day. Mona, Rima, and Katrina followed their father into their mother’s hospital room, trailing solemnly behind him. Samira smiled weakly while her daughters took turns kissing her on the cheeks. Then they looked at their baby sister wrapped tightly in a pink blanket, an early Easter present. Mona would have preferred a chocolate bunny.
“She’s a beautiful baby,” Samira said in Arabic, glancing at Youssef.
Youssef briefly stared at the infant. His thin mouth almost smiled but then he flicked his tongue over his chapped lips. “I don’t care if she’s beautiful. That doesn’t change the fact that she’s a girl.” He sighed. And a smile appeared on Mona’s face. This baby couldn’t take Mona’s place because she wasn’t a boy. Seeing the smirk on Mona’s face, Rima pushed her sister until she fell back against the radiator heater.
Mona began to cry and in a whiny voice she said, “Rima pushed me, Babba.”
Suddenly Youssef swung around, glared at his eldest daughter then raised his right hand. “Do you want a darbe?”
Rima quickly grabbed onto Katrina’s shoulders and stood behind her. Rima’s eyes teared. She shook her head, then mumbled, “No, Babba. I’m sorry.”
“Stop fighting then. Be a good daughter. Listen to your Babba like all girls should,” he said, his voice s
oftening. He dropped his hand and stared back at the baby. “Well, what do you want to call her?”
“I don’t know. I guess Jamil isn’t good now.”
“I know,” Youssef said, sighing again. “What about ‘Christine’?”
“Too many Christines. Salwa?”
“Reminds me of my cousin who fled to the States with a white man. Forget that name. I don’t want people to associate my daughter with that sharmouta.” Whore.
Samira sighed and looked out the window. Past the thick evergreen trees was the hospital’s small courtyard where benches were arranged in a semi-circle along the paved sidewalks. Wishing she could be there instead of this room with her family, Samira felt guilty and turned back to her husband. His swearing wasn’t new but it still bothered her. She never swore. Now the other patient in the room, a woman with strawberry blonde hair squinted her eyes and stared at Samira then Youssef. In Arabic, Samira spoke in a whisper. “This is a respectable place, Youssef. Please don’t curse.” She nodded her head in the direction of the woman across from her.
Youssef turned around and glanced at the new mother, who quickly looked down at the baby in her arms. He glared at his wife again. “Don’t tell me what to do, Samira. I’m the man of the family. I can damn well swear if I like to. I can do it here or any other place. Don’t you dare speak back to me! Don’t you remember who saved you from being alone in this country? Me,” he snorted. “Remember that. I gave you a roof over your head, clothes, food, money. You couldn’t even keep a job with your broken English. If it weren’t for me, you would’ve been sent back on the next available boat. And what have you given me? Four daughters.” He shook his head in disgust.
Blinking the tears from her eyes, Samira faced the window. She let her gaze fall upon her sleeping baby in the cart. A nurse suddenly walked into the room. She picked up the clipboard at the foot of Samira’s bed and stared down at the chart, then at the baby. “So what’s this lovely little girl’s name?”