When she returned to her bed, the walls of her bedroom were still bright with the sun. Her mother tucked her in, pulling the covers close to her neck. Samira sat on the edge of the mattress and uncapped a small plastic bottle. She lifted the container and dabbed a few drops of liquid on her fingertips, then she dropped them on Adele’s forehead. A few years ago when visiting a large outdoor Cathedral on the outskirts of Montreal, and being a devout believer in God, Samira had filled this tiny container with holy water. Adele looked at the bottle and remembered her mother’s journey up the steep steps. Despite her bad knees, Samira had trudged up the cobblestone leading to the alcove where a statue of the Virgin Mary was surrounded by a fountain of sparkling water. Once on top, Samira had leaned back against the grey slabs of concrete, regaining her breath before entering the shrine. It was rumoured that the water from this holy place could heal those with ailments. Adele had stood at the bottom, watching her mother as she rested at the entranceway. Adele had wished she had joined her mother instead of watching her bend alone, scooping the blessed water in the bottle. Getting up from her knees, Samira had wiped her dress, tightened the lid on the container, and stuffed it in her purse. Before leaving, she stood once more at the threshold and stared at the statue of the Virgin Mary.
Now Adele studied her mother’s unsmiling face while she anointed Adele’s forehead with the holy water she had collected from Montreal. Adele thought her mother looked old; the skin around her eyes was swollen and her cheeks were beginning to droop. She felt her mother’s fingers drawing the sign of the cross on her forehead. Normally, she would’ve pushed her mother’s hand away while performing such religious rituals, but this time she lay still and let her mother’s faith rub into her flesh. What harm could it do? she thought. She closed her eyes and allowed her mother to anoint her. The infertility had killed something inside her. Maybe this “holy water” would awaken her as Jesus had done for Jarius’ daughter. Adele stirred from her mother’s warm breath on her cheek, then she felt her lips on her face, softly kissing her. The mattress suddenly shifted and Adele heard the creaking of the floor. She fell into a deep sleep.
When she awoke, she heard the approaching footsteps of someone, making his or her way up the stairs and into her bedroom. Adele lifted her head from the pillow and glanced at Mona slowly walking across the room, balancing a tray laden with soup and crackers. She carefully placed the tray on the nightstand next to Adele’s bed. Then, she put her arms around Adele’s upper body and helped her sit up. Adele struggled with her sister, refusing to cooperate. “Stop fighting me, Adele,” Mona insisted, blowing strands of long, black hair from her eyes. “You need to sit up and eat.” After a few moments, Adele succumbed to her sister’s ministrations and let her arrange the pillows behind her back. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Mona held the bowl in her left hand, and then stirred the spoon in the soup with her right hand before lifting it to Adele’s mouth. Adele rested her head against the wall, turning her face away from her sister. She refused to open her mouth.
“Come on, Monkey,” Mona coaxed, playfully nudging Adele’s thigh. “I’m not that bad of a cook.” She held the spoon in the air.
“Fuck off!” Adele retaliated, bowing her head so her chin touched her chest while Mona moved the spoon towards her mouth.
Mona persisted. “Come on. Please, pretty please. Do you want me to beg?”
“Leave me alone! I don’t want to eat.”
“You have to. How are you going to get well if you don’t eat?”
“Who wants to get well? I’m defective, remember?” Adele raised her eyes and stared directly into her sister’s tear-filmed eyes.
She quickly looked down at the bowl in her hand. “Babba didn’t mean what he said.”
“Yeah, right.”
She looked up at Adele once more, the lines around her eyes softening. “You have to forgive him. He’s from the old country. He doesn’t know any better. He has that old country mentality. He wasn’t born and raised here like us.” She held the spoon against Adele’s closed lips again. Still refusing to cooperate, the broth slid down her chin. Mona sighed and gave up. She put the bowl back on the tray and grabbed a napkin to wipe Adele’s face. She then held her hands, gave them a squeeze and smiled. “Do you remember the time I gave you a fat lip?”
Adele turned her head from her sister.
“I will always remember that fight,” Mona laughed softly. “I think it was the last physical fight we had. Remember?”
Adele kept her eyes cast down.
“I remember you wouldn’t leave me alone. You were always following me, always trying to invade my space. I was sixteen and I didn’t want my little sister tagging along with me and then one day you overhead my conversation with Hassan. Do you remember him?”
Adele said nothing.
“Anyway, I was secretly dating him because I knew Babba would never approve of our relationship. He wasn’t Christian, wasn’t Orthodox. He wasn’t even Lebanese.”
“He was Iranian,” Adele finally said.
“Yeah, that’s right. Good memory. Well, when I heard your breathing on the other end of the phone, I freaked out, afraid of my secret getting out. You know how Babba was.”
“Was?”
“Is, is,” Mona corrected, laughing again. “After I hung up the phone, I chased you around the house until I caught you. You were shouting ‘I’m gonna tell Babba on you!’ Luckily, he was in the store working so he didn’t hear you and Mama was outside. I then pinned you on the floor….”
“You were always a better fighter than me.”
“I was also bigger, older. I shouldn’t have let my quick temper get the best of me.” She continued. “I pinned you on the floor between my legs. You struggled to get free. Then you grabbed my hair and pulled really hard.”
“Yeah, I remember that,” Adele said, tugging on her lower lip, trying not to break into a smile.
“You know how I am with my hair.”
“Who are you kidding? Your entire appearance. You can be so superficial, Mona,” Adele quipped.
Tossing her long, straight hair over her shoulder, Mona replied, “I can’t help it that I got all the good looks in the family.” Adele stared at her sister’s high cheek-boned face that was perfectly covered with makeup, not one blemish visible. She was beautiful, Adele thought. Adele knew that Mona’s exotic features and thin body, dressed in miniskirts and form-fitting blouses, attracted the attention of many men. When they walked down the street together, it was always Mona who got the leers and whistles. Adele was too conservative with her blazer and trousers, glasses that made her look like the serious and studious bookworm that she was.
Mona continued with her story. “After you pulled my hair, I slapped you across the face but you moved your head…” she hesitated, touching the gold bangle on her right wrist. “I ended up hitting you in the mouth with my bangle. I felt so bad when you started to cry. But I really thought you were faking it. You can sometimes be so dramatic, you know.”
Adele smiled. “That’s my privilege being the youngest in the family. I’m allowed to be a whiner.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Mona said, flicking her hand. “You ended up running into the bathroom and slamming the door shut. When you didn’t come out, I began to worry. I knocked on the door but you wouldn’t open it. You can be so stubborn.”
“It’s the Aries in me,” Adele explained.
“That explains why you and Babba always clash. Two rams in one family, always butting heads. Anyway, you finally opened the door and I saw your mouth. Your upper lip was as swollen as a balloon.”
“And you were really worried about getting in trouble for hurting me.”
“Yeah, you’re the baby after all.”
“I’m not a baby anymore,” Adele interjected.
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Monkey, but you’ll always be the ‘baby’ no
matter how old you are. When you’re fifty, you’ll still be the baby.”
“Really?” she said, sarcastically. “And you’ll always be the wicked sister who abused her helpless little sister,” she said in a taunting tone. Then the sisters began to laugh.
When they stopped, Mona softly brushed the hair away from Adele’s face. “It’s good to see you smile again.”
Adele asked in a low voice. “Do you think Babba is right?”
“What do you mean?”
“That a Lebanese man will never marry me?”
“I don’t know. There must be some that are more liberal than the ones we know. Anyway, who needs a Lebanese man, there are plenty of good Canadian men.”
“What will Babba say?”
“Do you really care what he thinks?”
“You all did. You all married Lebanese men.”
“That’s us, Adele. We’re different from you, you know that. You’ve always felt that way. You’re the smart one.”
“I’m not that smart.”
“And modest. My dear, dear Monkey, you know what?”
“What?”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.” Mona lightly rested her hands on Adele’s, then she picked up the bowl of soup and guided the spoon into Adele’s open, willing mouth.
The next morning, Adele awoke with a sense of calm. She stretched her arms over her head and turned to look at her desk. A small, flat package wrapped in gold paper sat in the middle of it. Slowly, she raised herself and moved her legs over the edge of the bed. She looked down at her body, lifted up her pajamas, and let her fingers trace the cotton bandage. After covering her belly again, she carefully pushed herself up, hands pressed deep into the mattress. She held onto the edge of the bed and dresser for support as she made her way to the desk. Holding the gift in her hands, she read the small card attached to it: For Adele, whose beautiful spirit inspires me. Love, Mona. Adele smiled. She slowly unwrapped the gift. It was a burgundy journal filled with mulberry paper. Pulling the drawer open, she grabbed a pencil and took slow steps back to her bed.
She sat up as she opened the journal, her fingers rubbing against the bumpy texture. Resting her back against the pillows, she looked out the window, taking quick glances up and down, as she began to sketch the clouds and sun in the immense sky. In the quiet of that morning and after her postoperative care, when others were at school or work, she let lines as tender as berries drip onto the paper. After a while, she let the journal drop beside her. Out the window, the heavy snow had slowed down to flyaway snowflakes. The questions in her mind were like the snow, swirling around. Would her future lover be sympathetic to her inability to conceive? Would her first time be similar to the experience of a woman with a womb or would it be as hollow as she felt at this moment? She was only eighteen, hadn’t yet experienced that intense first love, nor lovemaking. She didn’t know if a potential lover would still desire her—a woman without the organ that sustained life.
Suddenly exhausted by the weight of these thoughts, she slid down the pillows, buried her body under the covers and fell deeply asleep.
CHAPTER 12
THE SMELL OF PAINT FILLED HER NOSTRILS as she stood in front of the easel set up in her bedroom. With a paintbrush in her right hand, Adele left strong strokes on the canvas, browns and greys mixing together, blue as clear as an aquamarine stone. After a few moments, she smiled to herself, happy she had finished her latest project, one that depicted her ancestry in the ruins of Baalbeck and mountains of her parents’ homeland. When she painted, she forgot her father’s voice, the way he had said she was “defective.” Though she was still angry, she thought how good it was to be interested in something again. She put the brush down and sat on the edge of her bed, her face radiant.
It was the middle of June and the end of her senior year. Soon she’d learn whether she had gotten accepted into university. She had selected three schools: two in her hometown and one in another city. She knew what her parents would think of her going away to school: A good Lebanese daughter would never consider leaving her parents until she had a marriage license. But Adele had decided to apply to the University of Toronto anyway.
She suddenly heard the familiar squeak of the mailbox. She ran down the stairs, grabbed the banister, and swung her body over to the front door where she unlocked it quickly. Hand in the mailbox, she sifted through a packet of letters until she found the one she was looking for. The return address had the emblem of the University of Toronto. She stepped back, took a breath, holding the envelope up and studying the bold letters of her name as she walked into the dining room. She left the other mail on the table, and gripped hers tightly with both hands as she bounded up the stairs to her room.
Back in the safety of her bedroom, she sat at her desk and slit the envelope carefully. Her hands shook while she pulled the contents out and placed them on the desk. Unfolding a thin white sheet, she read it out loud:
Dear Ms. Azar,
Congratulations on your admission to the University of Toronto. As Dean, it is my great pleasure to welcome you to the Faculty of Arts and Science. We are pleased to admit you as a full-time student to the Honours Bachelor of Science with Major in Psychology program for the fall session.
Enclosed you will find additional information about your offer of admission.
Adele traced the words on the stationery; this was her escape. She folded the letter, got up from the chair, and dressed quickly. Then she stuffed the offer into her pocket and walked out of her bedroom, down the stairs, tracing the banister as if the guidance she needed was engraved in the nicks and worn grooves of the old oak.
Adele left the house and walked swiftly to Mrs. Foster’s home. As she walked, she wondered what it would be like to live on her own in Toronto. She wondered, too, if she’d have the courage to leave. She stood still and studied the house where she wished she’d grown up. The grass was unkempt. Dandelions sprouted between patches of earth and brownish-green blades. She closed her eyes and in her memory, she saw the former house in its splendour: a flourishing lawn and garden, Mr. and Mrs. Foster on the swing-chair, holding hands and watching her and her sisters race through the sprinkler. And though she wanted to leave this neighbourhood, she knew that she’d miss it and this house in particular. Opening her eyes, she walked up the steps of the porch. The swing-chair was gone and the veranda looked bare except for a few sparrows pecking at the birdseed Mrs. Foster must have left for them. As Adele approached the front door, her footsteps echoed on the wooden boards, making the tiny birds flutter their wings hesitantly, unsure of whether to take flight. Adele made their choice easy by tiptoeing the remainder of the way, leaving the birds to feast on the seeds. Once she reached the doorway, she pressed the doorbell and waited for Mrs. Foster. Within a few minutes, she stood before Adele with her hands in her apron pockets and a weak smile on her mouth. Adele looked down at the cracked beams. It hurt to stare into her neighbour’s face, which had become sallow over the last month. Her kidneys were failing and her memory too. Mrs. Foster would soon be in a nursing home.
“Hello, dear,” Mrs. Foster said, holding the screen door open for Adele. The tiny smile on the old woman’s lips was warm and inviting, but sad at the same time. Her blue eyes lacked the vivaciousness they had once held. She had lost weight and her face was gaunt, defeated. Adele quickly turned away when Mrs. Foster’s gaze connected with hers.
“Don’t feel sorry for me, dear. Everything must come to an end … especially for an old lady like me,” Mrs. Foster said, her smile weak.
Adele could feel tears burning her eyes as she looked at her friend again. She loved Mrs. Foster. “You’re not that old,” Adele teased. “Aren’t you just twenty-one plus the taxes?”
Mrs. Foster laughed weakly, then started to cough. Adele quickly patted her back. “Are you all right?”
Mrs. Foster nodded and cleared her thro
at. “I’m just laughing at your joke, my dear. Very funny.” She rested her hand on Adele’s shoulder. The older woman gently squeezed. “You’re too thin. You need some flesh on these bones.”
“I know, I know,” Adele replied light-heartedly. “Speak to my metabolism. I do eat, sometimes too much.”
“Well, your mother is a great cook. Her taboulleh is the best. You’re very lucky to have her.”
Adele said nothing.
“And…” she added, “she’s lucky to have you, too.”
Adele smiled, then followed Mrs. Foster into the living room and sat on the lone sofa with mahogany arms carved in the shape of hearts. The sofa was a little corny but definitely well-suited for the Fosters, who had been high school sweethearts. Sitting here in the sunlight, Adele saw the advanced state of Mrs. Foster’s illness. A multi-coloured scarf was wrapped around her head, strands of fragile hair falling around her face. A large skirt hung loosely on a body that had once been robust and sturdy. Now bones jutted through the cotton blouse, faintly showing withered breasts held in an oversized, laced brassiere. Adele’s mother wore the same kind of bra but it barely contained Samira’s overflowing bosom. Mrs. Foster scratched at her irritated skin. “No matter how much body lotion I use, I can’t stop the itchiness,” she said, looking into Adele’s eyes.
Cardboard boxes were stacked in neat piles. This room had once been alive with antiques of the past—a bookshelf that held old classics as well as Mr. Foster’s law books, a grandfather clock that chimed on the hour, a grand piano that Mrs. Foster gracefully played, producing music as sweet as the candied carrots she used to make for the Azar girls. But now there was only an old musty couch, a coffee table, cardboard boxes, and two unlikely friends.
Mrs. Foster reached over and took Adele’s hands in her own. They sat quietly together, but the clawing of a squirrel at the base of the living room window interrupted the silence.
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