“Likewise,” Adele answered, smiling.
Mr. Miller pointed out the large window. “Those damn crows seem to have settled in our backyard. Apparently, they can smell death.” He faced his wife. “My dear, I guess you should read the obituaries and see if we know anyone,” Mr. Miller said, pouring a large portion of mash potatoes into his dish, topping it off with gravy and, at the same time, scowling at the crows circling around the house. He turned and briefly looked at Adele. “My wife has a habit of checking the obits. I guess when you reach a certain age this is what old farts do!” He laughed and Adele mustered a laugh too. But she noticed that Scott and his mother remained silent.
“In some civilizations, crows are considered good luck,” Scott piped up.
“That’s crap,” Mr. Miller scoffed.
“Why do you always have to be right, Dad?”
“Because I usually am,” he laughed.
From the corner of her eye, Adele watched father and son bicker over something as mundane as crows. Ian Miller was nothing like his son. He had a well-trimmed beard, greying in some places, and a loud, abrupt voice. When he spoke, it felt like the chandelier above the dining room table was shaking, as though from the tremor of a small earthquake. He wore a long-sleeved white dress shirt and navy blue trousers, having just returned from the office even though it was a Saturday afternoon.
“I’ve been reading up on Buddhism and crows are often seen as protectors,” Scott continued.
“So you’re not Christian anymore?” Mr. Miller said scornfully. “Have you become a Buddhist? Are you now chanting and meditating on top of painting and forgetting that you have certain responsibilities in this life? I would’ve hoped you had come to your senses, that you would’ve dropped that useless art major and returned to law. You know you’ll always have a job at my firm. How do you expect to support a family with an artist’s salary?”
“Now how did we get from crows to Buddhism to my failure as a son?” Scott paused, then glanced at his mother. “Help me, Mom. You’re the psychologist.”
But she didn’t say anything, just pushed the food on her plate. Adele thought of her mother and how she’d do the same thing. Maybe Samira and Mrs. Miller were not so different as Adele had originally thought.
Mr. Miller cleared his throat. “That’s not what this is about. I’m worried about your future. I thought you said you had good news on this visit, so I assumed…”
“That’s your problem, Dad. You’re always assuming…” Scott’s voice cracked and he stopped suddenly. Adele reached over and squeezed his hand.
Mr. Miller looked at Adele. “My apologies for this outburst, Adele. May I ask you something?” He rested his elbows on the table and clasped his large hands together. He didn’t wait for her reply. “How do you put up with my son? He’s so damn sensitive. Look at him.” He now pointed at Scott. “He’s on the verge of tears for God’s sake.”
She held onto Scott’s clammy hand, wanted to steady the tremor in his body. But she looked away from his tense face and stared at Mr. Miller. “Scott is bright, kind, generous.”
“Generous?” he scoffed. “With what money? My money, of course, because he doesn’t have a penny to his name.”
“He might not be a lawyer but at least he’s a decent and creative man,” she retaliated.
Mr. Miller pursed his lips and then what came out of his mouth, resounded on the colourful, pastel walls, “I thought your kind only looked at a man’s wallet.”
Adele made a sound that was half sob, half laugh. Then she turned and looked at Scott’s mother, but Mrs. Miller eyed Adele dismissively, then quickly looked down at her plate once more. Letting go of Scott’s hand, Adele pushed back her chair. It scraped the hardwood floor, but she didn’t care whether she had left marks on the glossy finish. “Excuse me,” she said, before grabbing her overnight bag from the hallway and leaving the house.
She stepped outside and sat on the wide steps of the porch, her elbows pressed on her knees, her head in her hands. Were all families fucked up? she wondered. Were all fathers flawed in some way or another? Was this a universal thing rather than a cultural one? A few minutes later, she heard the front door open, the sound of footsteps behind her and before she knew it, Scott had slid his body behind hers, wrapping his arms around her waist. She felt his breath on the nape of her neck, felt beads of wetness slithering around her collarbone. His heart throbbed so hard that she felt it against her back. She patted his arms and watched the neighbours across the street busying themselves with their lawns or expensive cars.
They left immediately. On the ride back to Toronto, they shared a comfortable silence. Adele lost herself to the green pastures and countless trees that flew along the roadside. As a child, she had enjoyed long family drives. Her father used to cajole them in the car, some of her sisters preferring to stay home and watch TV. Adele never needed coaxing. She was always the first one in the green Chevy, making certain she got a window seat. On these rides, she’d forget her father’s yelling, if only for a few hours, and witness a gentler side to him. They’d cruise along the highway, sometimes stopping for ice cream or pastries at one of the small towns in the Ottawa Valley. Now she leaned her head back on the car seat and smiled at the beautiful memory of the family drives with her father. Turning her head to the side, she glanced at Scott and noted that the lines around his deep-set eyes were no longer strained. With her left hand, she stroked his face. She felt the muscles around his mouth lift into a smile. How she loved him, his gentle soul. For a while, she rested her hand on his cheek. His green eyes flitted from the road to her face. “You’re beautiful,” he suddenly said.
“Hmm … so are you,” she murmured, her eyes fixed on him. He looked so young in the light of dusk.
“Now you’re making me blush,” Scott laughed.
Adele finally dropped her hand, and rested it on his thigh.
“Pull over,” she said, her voice firm.
“Why? Are you going to be sick?” His eyes looked concerned.
“Do I look ill?” she teased. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were wide and shining. She felt Scott’s thigh tense beneath her palm. He quickly pulled to the curb of the road and turned off the ignition. Then, she opened the door and got out of the car. She walked to the trunk and motioned for Scott to open it. His eyes stared at her through the rear-view mirror, unsure of what to make of Adele’s peculiar behaviour.
After a few seconds, she slammed the trunk shut and walked to the driver’s side. She leaned on the edge of the window, a thick blanket in her hands. She planted a quick kiss on Scott’s mouth. “Come on,” she said, standing straight again. “Let’s go for a walk.”
“Now? Don’t you want to head back home?”
“You ask a lot of questions, Mr. Miller. Perhaps you were meant to be a lawyer after all,” she giggled.
Scott frowned. His hands clutched the steering wheel.
She quickly reached into the car and squeezed his shoulder. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t funny.”
“Not really,” Scott agreed, but he opened the door and slid out of the car. “Wherever you lead, I will follow.”
They followed a trail into a wooded area along the highway. Tufts of weeds tickled their ankles as they gingerly walked hand-in-hand, the blanket tucked under Adele’s arm. As they ventured further away from the paved road and the occasional zooming vehicle, the terrain changed from deep bush into a lush, green pasture with sporadic white birch and pine trees. Freeing her hand from Scott’s, Adele spread the blanket out and laid it down on the ground. The fleeting colours of dusk began to fade. The scent of pine needles and fresh grass floated in the air. She reached for Scott’s hand and motioned for him to lie down on the blanket. She lowered herself on top of him and then began to undress him, then herself. Her embraces were so urgent because she knew if she took it slow, then she’d stop and think about what she was doin
g. She’d lose the nerve and succumb to her father’s voice inside her head: you must remain a virgin until marriage. Now the only thing she heard was Scott’s throated, rhythmic groans. The pain was excruciating yet pleasurable at the same time. The smell of sweat and earth engulfed her. She watched Scott’s soft face tighten, his neck craning, his mouth straining. Her eyes were half-closed; she was moaning, too. Scott closed his eyes until he shuddered and Adele collapsed on top of his chest.
Then she loosened herself from him. Something warm was running down her thighs. She gasped in surprise when she saw the blood that had spilled into the folds of the blanket. And before she knew it, she was weeping. She turned to her side, pretended she did not hear Scott’s words, “It’s okay, Adele. What we did was okay. Don’t feel bad about it.” She pretended she did not feel his gentle strokes on her back, pretended nothing had happened between them, that they hadn’t made love.
Adele waited until Scott fell asleep, and then she rose from the blanket. She stood in the open field. She turned and looked at Scott’s face. The lines around his eyes relaxed as his chest rose up and down with each breath. He slept with his mouth slightly open. Bending down, she traced his thick eyebrows, the small bump on his nose. She rose again, stepped back, and felt suddenly alone even though Scott was only a few feet away. She folded her arms on her chest then fell to her knees. Bowing her head to the ground, she cried. She cried for the thing she had lost to the medical profession and now lost again when she slept with Scott, the thing her sisters had saved as they had been expected to, that they had given up in the appropriate Lebanese way. At this moment, she felt a failure and it was while her sobs echoed in the evening sky that she heard the faint but audible phrases she had grown up with: Look at what you’ve done. You’ve made a mess of everything, as usual. You’ll never amount to anything. You’re no good for nothing. With her forehead pressed on the earth, she listened carefully. The script was not new. She knew the words by heart, had memorized them long ago, etched them in the lobes of her brain.
A while later, she awoke with a swelling in her head. It felt like she had a hangover even though she hadn’t consumed one ounce of liquor. She blinked a few times before she realized Scott was standing in front of her. He bent down and helped her up from the ground, wiping the dirt from her clothes. He said in a quiet voice, “How are you feeling?”
“All right,” she mumbled, walking past him towards the spot they had made love for the first time. Kneeling beside the blanket, she eyed the dark stains atop the checkered pattern of the blanket; they had melted into the fibres. Without a moment’s hesitation, she grasped the cloth between her fingers and flung it in the air, removing everything from it, crumbled pieces of soil, loose pebbles, slivers of grass blades, everything but the dried crimson spots. In a way, she had followed her sisters’ lead. She had a wedding sheet of her own. Clenching her teeth, she began to fold it messily.
Scott turned the car onto Adele’s street. Her apartment was in an artsy neighbourhood. Huge maple trees dotted the sidewalks of the narrow street, enclosing the heritage homes, many of which had been converted into apartment dwellings. On their drive back, Adele had tuned Scott out. He had made idle conversation and she had nodded politely while fixing her gaze outside the car window. When Scott parked next to the sidewalk, and began to remove the key from the ignition, Adele quickly touched his wrist and said, “Please, let’s call it a day.”
Scott looked at the clock on the dashboard. “But it’s not even late. It’s only nine o’clock. Let me make you dinner. We can eat and talk.”
“I don’t want to talk,” she said, a polite smile on her downcast face. “You understand, don’t you?”
There was a brief silence. “Not really,” he said, suddenly sounding harsh. “So we made love. We’ve been dating for a few months now. It’s perfectly natural for us to head in that direction. I would’ve been worried if we didn’t. Why are you acting like such a baby? Sulking all the way home! When I first met you, you had said you weren’t a ‘traditional’ Lebanese woman but you’re certainly acting like one. Premarital sex is not a big deal.” He sighed, leaned forward and rested his forehead on the steering wheel.
She interjected. “Maybe not for you. But I was taught to believe that a good Lebanese girl doesn’t have sex until she’s married.”
Scott lifted his head up and faced Adele. He said in a cold tone, “You’re a hypocrite then. Don’t pretend to be something that you’re not. Why did you have sex with me then?”
“I don’t know. We can still be friends.”
“Friends? Now you want to break up with me?” he said, his voice full of hurt. “I don’t need another friend. I want a girlfriend, a girlfriend who is not hung up on her old cultural ways. A girlfriend who is mature enough to have a healthy adult relationship.”
“What do you mean by ‘healthy’? Sex?”
“Of course!” he said, laughing out loud. “Christ, it’s a big part of a relationship!” he said, rubbing his forehead in frustration.
“Sex isn’t everything,” she retaliated.
“Emotional, physical, sexual—they all go hand-in-hand.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.”
“Grow up, Adele.”
“Where’s this coming from? I was wrong about you. I thought you were gentle and caring,” she said, tears filming her eyes.
“At least I’m honest about what I want. I slept with you because I love you. You can’t even begin to understand the complexities of adult relations because you’re too uptight with your old-fashioned upbringing. Are you Lebanese or Canadian? You can’t be both. Choose one and truly live it, breathe it, embrace it.”
“What the fuck do you know?” she said through clenched teeth. “You’re white. You’ve lived your whole life in Canada. You’ve never had to struggle with a dual connection to different cultures. You’ve never had anyone glaring at you as you walk down the streets just because of your appearance. I was born and raised in Canada but some people think I should go back to my country. What country? Lebanon? This is the only home I have known, not some village in the Middle East. You don’t know anything. I can’t choose one and live it ‘fully’. When people look at me, they don’t ask if I’m Canadian. Greek? Italian? Spanish? That’s what they ask. Fuck, they can’t even get my nationality straight when they insult me. I’ve been called a wop so many times. You’ve never had anyone shout at you ‘go back to your country, bitch!’”
Adele paused to catch her breath, remembering when she had been harassed by an older woman who screamed “Bitch! Return to your country. You don’t belong here, dirty Arab!” The woman had also hurled a glass bottle at Adele, who had moved quickly to avoid the blow. Those cruel comments had hurt Adele, but not as much as the turned-away faces of those who had witnessed the attack. Not one person had asked her if she was all right as she walked away from the woman who had continued shouting vulgarities. Not one person had come to her defence. “You don’t know anything about me or my culture!” Adele snapped again, her face reddening. Scott dropped his eyes. She jumped out of the car and slammed the door behind her.
CHAPTER 20
ADELE DID NOT GO OUT WITH SCOTT ANYMORE. He had begun a new relationship soon after they had stopped dating. She passed him in the corridors of the university, watching him hold onto his new girlfriend’s waist, leaning close and kissing her on the mouth. Not stopping even when he raised his eyes and saw Adele a few feet away. She studied the woman beside Scott as closely as she dared. She had blonde hair like Scott’s. But then Adele would turn her head, the muscles around her mouth tensing and her heart beating rapidly. She hurried past Scott and his new girlfriend, hurried past the rest of the students until she turned a corner and rested against the wall, her arms folded on her chest, her back cold from the concrete. She would stand there for a while, waiting for her anxiety to subside. With the end of her sleeve, she wiped away the tears that f
inally came. And she forced herself to remember that she had also hurt him.
Life returned to its usual pattern. Adele woke up early, showered, dressed, ate breakfast then hurried to her lectures and art studio. She studied and painted all of the time, only taking the occasional break to eat and to bathe. The solitary life she had before Scott encompassed her world again.
All this changed the morning Adele received a letter. When she pulled it out of her mailbox, she recognized Mona’s careful, small script immediately. But instead of opening it, she tucked it between the pages of her sketchpad. Now, sitting in the middle of her apartment with the sunlight pouring through the large window, Adele ripped open the envelope. She unfolded Mona’s letter.
Dear Adele,
I hope this letter finds you safe and well. It has been so long since we last talked, last saw each other, that I don’t know where to begin. Why don’t you come visit us anymore? I know the last visit was horrible with Babba cursing you, but you have to remember that’s the way he is. He didn’t mean it when he said you were dead to him. You know how he is. Come home, Adele. We miss you.
We just received some terrible news about Elias and I wasn’t sure if you wanted to know about it or not, but then I thought you had a right to know. From what I heard, Elias was beaten severely by his father for embarrassing him with your fiasco fake elopement. He has become withdrawn and silent, not speaking to anyone. They now say he is a shepherd, living and sleeping in the fields, the animals his only companions. His poor mother leaves him food when his father isn’t looking. Your fake elopement was very scandalous! But I must say that Elias is certainly a decent person because he took full responsibility, not blaming you once and that’s one of the reasons he was beaten. I suppose his father thought he could beat it out of him. Apparently, he endured several thrashings before his father stopped: actually, before several villagers and Elias’s mother had to pull the stick out of his hand. Yet he never let out that you had agreed to his plan. From what we’ve heard, he will not speak of you to anyone. He does not speak much at all.
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