CHAPTER 3

ADELE KEPT RUNNING AND AS SHE SPRINTED down the street, slowly gathering her wits, she remembered herself as a little girl playing in the snow and asking questions, fascinated by her mother’s past. “Mama, tell me about Kfarmichki.” Fresh snowflakes had begun to fall from the sky and Adele had tilted her head back and stuck out her tongue to taste the snow.

Samira had gazed at her daughter, her large eyes now closed as she let the snowflakes land on her tongue. “Try some, Mama,” Adele had said excitedly, as if the snow were an exotic delicacy.

Samira had smiled back and shook her head. “Not for me, habibti. Snow,” she had said, grimacing, “makes me too cold. Makes me think of returning home.”

“Okay, let’s go back if you like. We don’t have to walk anymore,” Adele said, misunderstanding.

“That’s not what I meant. I meant going back to Lebanon.”

“Tell me about it,” Adele had repeated.

“What’s to tell?” Samira had teased her, egging on the curiosity in her daughter.

“Come on, Mama. Please. Tell me about the village—the goats, the mountains, the ocean, your family there,” Adele begged.

“I don’t think so. It’s not interesting for a city girl like yourself,” Samira had replied and laughed. When she laughed her entire face lit up, as if the sun was shining through her skin.

“I’m not a city girl,” Adele had pouted, tapping her right foot on the ground.

Now, she vehemently denied her connection to the village she had once begged her mother to describe in detail. She stopped running and grasped the metal spikes of the fence surrounding her neighbour’s place. She stood still and watched Mrs. Foster raking the leaves on the wide lawn. There were piles of leaves everywhere. She became aware of the rich colours of autumn, taking her mind away from the argument she’d had with her father. And she fervently wished she lived in this huge house with Mrs. Foster. She glanced back and forth from the porch to her neighbour. Mr. and Mrs. Foster were childless. She could be their child, she thought biting her lower lip until she tasted blood. With the back of her hand, she wiped her mouth. Mrs. Foster would never hurt her, would never make her feel stupid. Her neighbour wouldn’t call her names or yell at her for no reason. But it was pointless to wish for a new home when she already had a family and parents. Suddenly, Mrs. Foster was standing in front of her, reaching across with her gloved hand and patting her shoulder. Adele was startled out of her thoughts.

“I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Mrs. Foster smiled. There was kindness in the fine lines around her large blue eyes.

And Adele let her mind imagine the possibility of having her as her mother. In the haziness of her dream, she blurted out, “Do you think I can come and live with you?”

Mrs. Foster lifted her hand from Adele’s shoulder and gripped the rake. She didn’t say anything though.

Adele longed for her to say “Okay, my dear. Pack your bags and head on over.” Looking across at Mrs. Foster, Adele bit her lip again and prayed her wish would come true.

Mrs. Foster opened her mouth, then cleared her throat and politely asked Adele to help her with the leaves.

Adele spent the night feeling guilty. She lay in her bed and listened to the sounds of her mother’s footsteps as she crept down the hallway, opening bedroom doors and peeking in at her sleeping daughters. This was a nightly ritual for Samira before she headed into the bedroom she shared with Youssef. Adele squeezed her eyes tight when she heard her doorknob turn. The floorboards groaned while Samira walked towards Mona’s bed first, then came to a stop beside Adele’s. Pretending to sleep, Adele lay perfectly still, keeping her eyes closed. She could feel her mother’s fingertips tracing her forehead, drawing the sign of the cross on her skin. Whispering, Samira said a little prayer before slowly withdrawing her hand and tiptoeing out of the room, carefully closing the door behind her.

Adele opened her eyes and stared at the moonlit wall. She turned her head and looked at Mona curled on her side, the blankets loosely hanging over the edge of the twin bed. She sighed loudly, trying to wake her sister. Then she whispered, “Mona, wake up. I have a question. Mona.”

Mona turned over on her back and mumbled, “What’s wrong? Did you piss yourself?”

Adele giggled quietly. “I’m not a baby anymore. I don’t do that.”

“Why are you waking me up then?” she asked, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. The light of the moon shone bright on her skin.

“Do you ever wish you belonged to another family?”

Mona stopped rubbing her eyes, straightened her shoulders and stared hard at Adele. “That’s a stupid question. There’s nothing wrong with our family.”

“But…” Adele said. “But Babba is always telling us what to do. He won’t let us be like other kids. We were born here, not in Lebanon. Why should I take Arabic lessons when my English friends don’t? Doesn’t that make you mad? Babba’s so pushy.”

“Yeah, but that’s just the way he is. He gives us money, takes us places, and buys us clothes if we need them. Who cares if he pushes us? Anyways, you should learn Arabic.”

“I don’t want to,” Adele said, her voice cracking.

“That’s your problem then, isn’t it?” Mona fell back on the mattress and pulled the covers up to her neck. She said harshly, “I can’t believe you want to belong to another family. What family would want a big mouth like you? You’re lucky to have this one. Now shut up and let me sleep, okay?”

Silently, Adele turned on her side and stared at the window, watching the first year’s snowflakes brush against the glass. She wished she hadn’t opened her big mouth at all.

The next day the snow continued to fall in big flakes, sticking to Adele and her mother’s woollen scarves and coats. They trudged along the snow-covered sidewalks towards the shopping mall. “When I was a young girl about your age, I spent a lot of time with my mother learning to cook, helping her out with housework.”

“Didn’t you have to go to school?” Adele asked, speaking in her broken Arabic. Samira looked down at her daughter. The green flecks in Adele’s light brown eyes were more apparent in the bright light of the November day. Her eyebrows were thick, but not unbecoming. Unlike her sisters, she hadn’t yet begun plucking them. But it was her open-faced smile that drew others to her, including her mother. Adele looked up and noticed her mother examining her face and she smiled back at her.

“I had to stop going to school when I was in grade three,” Samira replied. “Because my parents were farmers, they needed me to help them with the farm work. They couldn’t keep me or my siblings in school.”

“Oh,” Adele replied. She couldn’t imagine not going to school.

“It wasn’t that bad. I did learn how to read Arabic. I can read my language,” she said proudly, raising her chin slightly.

“Tell me more,” Adele prodded.

“Why are you so interested?” Samira suddenly asked.

“You’re my mother. I want to know you,” she said, trying to copy the relationship she had with Mrs. Foster.

“Well, when I was growing up, the homes in the village didn’t have indoor plumbing so I had to lug a bucket to the river to get water for washing dishes and clothes, not to mention myself!” she said, then laughed out loud. “By the time I was thirteen, I knew how to cook almost all of the Lebanese dishes—taboulleh, hummus, grape leaves, kibbeh nayeh, koosa. My allspice dreams.”

Adele asked, “What are ‘allspice dreams?’”

“Well, I don’t really know how to explain it but since I was a girl, I knew I wanted to be married and raise a family. I didn’t have the fancy dreams city folks did. I just wanted a simple life with my husband and kids. So my friends and I came up with the term ‘allspice dreams.’ You know how often I use this very important spice in our dishes, well, I wanted it to reflect my dream of becoming a wife and mother—two very important roles for Lebanese women. I wanted to be a wonderful cook, whose house would be filled with this rich smell every day. My ambition was the same as all the other girls in my village: to get married, have children, and be remembered as a wonderful mother and cook. Allspice dreams. I hope one day you’ll realize this dream too.”

“No,” Adele said too fast. “I don’t want that dream. I want to be an artist!”

“But artists can get married too. And paintings can’t bring joy to your life like a family can.”

“I don’t want to cook for a husband. I want to paint each and every day.”

“Then you’ll be a very lonely woman when you grow up, habibti. Every woman needs a husband.”

“Not me,” Adele insisted.

Changing the topic, Samira continued with her earlier thought, “Most Lebanese people love visiting one another and my village was no exception. There were no strangers. We’d have family gatherings almost nightly, sit outdoors, and spread colourful embroidered cloths across the tables in the yard where the olive grove surrounded us. Then the women of the village would bring out tons of plates for the maza, sometimes up to forty dishes! The adults would drink down the food with glasses of arak.”

Adele interrupted her mother. “You mean the white stuff you sometimes rub with a cotton ball on my teeth when one of them is sore? It tastes like licorice.”

“Yeah, you’re right, habibti. But it does help a toothache, doesn’t it?”

Adele nodded.

Samira went on, “My whole family—my uncles, aunts, cousins, and grandparents—would all scramble to speak. It was quite loud sometimes, but so much fun. If only I were a child again!”

“But then you couldn’t be my mother,” Adele interjected.

“No, I couldn’t. And a young unmarried girl with a baby would be the worst fate. Ayb. I don’t even know such a woman,” she whispered. “Anyway, I had some good days in the village. When I wasn’t cooking or helping my mother, I’d venture into the fields with my brother Ferris. He was a shepherd and sometimes he’d let me guide the sheep and goats across the mountain village. But only sometimes. I wasn’t very good at it, you see. My place was in the kitchen or on the cement walkway in front of my parents’ stone house, kneading dough into circular pieces of pita bread.”

“How come you don’t make it here? How come we only buy it?” Adele asked.

“It’s too difficult to make in Canada, much easier to buy from a store. Who has time, habibti? Don’t ask such stupid questions.”

“I’m sorry, Mama,” she said, casting her eyes on the ground and remembering that Mona said the same thing to her last night.

Samira noticed that Adele’s eyes were tearing up. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t a stupid question. Do you want to hear more?”

“Yes,” she mumbled. Adele was used to being called “‘stupid” by her father but when her mother said it, she felt something inside her shrivel up.

Samira cleared her throat. “Your Uncle Ferris once dared me to beat him up to top of the mountain. Whoever reached the top first wouldn’t have to help our Sito wash her feet. Thinking that I could beat Ferris, I accepted his offer. But I should’ve known better. He lived in the fields, spent most of his time there and around the mountains. I should’ve known better,” she said, shaking her head.

“So you lost the bet? You had to clean your Sito’s feet?” Adele asked, laughing, having forgotten her mother’s cruel comment a few minutes ago.

“Yup. But it wasn’t too bad. My Sito was a wonderful, strong Lebanese woman. She raised eight kids and helped with the fieldwork, gathering the olives, making goat cheese, and selling it in the marketplaces of Baalbeck and Zahlé. She was amazing. And she had a good sense of humour. Always joking. She made all of us laugh like when she’d belly-dance with a bottle balanced on top of her head. When I knew her, she was already quite old. Her skin all puckered, reminding me of withering olives. Everything about her was ancient except her laughter. You know how warm the kaaks I make during the Easter holiday are.”

Adele smiled and nodded, remembering the rosewater taste of her mother’s Easter sweet bread.

“That’s how warm and rich her laughter was.” Samira stopped and made the sign of the cross. “May God rest her soul. You know, she used to tell me to always be happy. She’d say ‘Laugh a lot and be happy. Life’s too short to be unhappy.’” Samira gazed down at the sidewalk, now almost completely covered with snow. Adele stared at the furrows around her mother’s tired eyes. She imagined hearing her great-grandmother’s voice echoing across continents, over the Mediterranean Sea into the Atlantic. The memories were so vivid in her mother’s stories that Adele felt she had been a part of them.

She touched her mother’s arm and said, “Be happy like your Sito said. Remember?”

“I know, habibti, but sometimes it’s hard to remember,” she sighed, taking a long breath.

Adele dropped her hand to run to the front entrance of the shopping centre. She pulled open the door for her mother, then followed her into the mall. “Thank you, Adele,” Samira said, patting her daughter’s head, which was now uncovered. Adele began to tie the scarf around her waist; her hands moved fast, looping it into a knot. And her curly hair was a tangled mess. The sunlight made the reddish-brown of her hair more visible. But when they were indoors, it looked almost as dark as her sisters’. Touching her head, Adele turned to her mother and exclaimed, “Look, I’m Medusa!” She shook her head frantically, making herself dizzy, and letting the curls whirl around her face.

Samira covered her eyes with her hands and teased, “Oh no! I don’t want to be a statue!”

“You’re my mother,” she said, looking serious. “I can’t turn you into stone.” Then she laughed loudly. Samira smiled, took her hand, and they strolled hand in hand through the large mall.

Adele watched her mother trace a silk scarf on a rack, her long fingers moving across it, touching the fine pattern of interlinked lines of green, red, and white. Her mother stared so hard at the colours that Adele thought they reminded Samira of the Lebanese flag. Samira’s eyes began to tear up. Her breathing became shallow.

Adele stood beside her mother, fidgeting. She wasn’t much of a shopper, disliking the hurriedness and crowdedness of the shopping mall. But she knew her mother liked this place filled with bargains, greasy food, and lots of action.

While Samira stared dreamily into space, holding the scarf in her hands, the sales clerk across the store rummaged through another rack, glancing up every few minutes at Adele and her mother. He was tall and thin, almost to the point of emaciation. Adele watched the way he stared at them. His tiny eyes narrowed. The man suddenly stepped closer to them, watching Samira’s dark hands move over the scarf. Her tongue licked her painted lips as she leaned into the thick hair near Adele’s ear. “What do you think, habibti?” she asked. “Do you like the scarf? Should I buy it?”

Adele nodded her head but her eyes didn’t leave the clerk’s face while he made his way closer to them. He was frowning openly now.

“Maybe next time, Adele. I don’t think your father would be pleased if I bought the scarf. You know how he hates it when I spend money,” she said in Arabic, sadly putting the scarf back on the rack. “Let’s go.” She motioned to Adele and was about to lead her out of the store when the thin man blocked her way. Samira abruptly stopped, nearly walking into the sales clerk. She hadn’t noticed him there, hovering. “Sorry,” she said, trying to move to the side and pass him. He moved his body with hers as if they were dancing. When he grabbed her by the arm, she let out a gasp of surprise. Her eyes grew wide as he pulled her back to the cash register, which was in the middle of the store. “Excuse me,” he said coldly. “You forgot something.”

With her brows pressed together, she frowned. She had no idea what this man was talking about. Looking across at Adele for guidance, who stood a few feet from her, she asked in Arabic, “What does he want?”

Adele bit her lower lip. She didn’t understand why this man was picking on her mother. She had only looked at the scarf. Her face grew hot. Then she shook her head and replied quietly, “I don’t know, Mama.”

The man gripped Samira’s arm tighter, his bony fingers digging into her coat. “Speak English. This is Canada, not whatever country you come from. In Canada, we speak English.”

“She wants to know—” Adele began.

But the man interrupted, “I’m speaking with your grandmother, not you.”

“She’s my mother,” she said, correcting the man.

“Oh,” he paused. “Well, she no speak English?” he said, taunting. “How long you been in this country, girl?”

“My whole life,” Adele answered, now standing beside her mother.

“I wasn’t speaking to you. I was addressing your mother.”

“Why did you call her ‘girl’ then?” Adele asked.

The man didn’t reply but instead stared into Samira’s eyes, which made her shy away uncomfortably; Samira was not used to strange men looking at her so closely. The clerk squeezed Samira’s arm so tightly that she cried out in pain.

“What matter? What I do wrong?” she said, her voice shaking. Her lower lip trembled as she spoke in broken English. Adele’s cheeks turned red while her mother attempted to speak with the man. “What I do wrong? Why you hurt me? I only look at scarf. Only look, no steal. Only look, only look,” she repeated, tears filming her eyes.

“Why you no speak English?” he said, laughing. He finally let go of her arm. “You want to know ‘what you do wrong?’ You stole the scarf. I saw you stuff it into your purse,” he said, motioning to the leather purse strapped over Samira’s shoulder.

“That’s a lie!” Adele shouted.

But this didn’t stop the man from suddenly pulling the purse off from Samira’s body.

“No, no,” Samira said, struggling with the man who managed to grab her purse out of her hands. He unzipped it and emptied the contents onto the counter where the cash register was. A lipstick tube, change purse, pack of Kleenex, gum and a sanitary napkin tumbled out. Adele looked away from her mother’s things.

“I no steal. Only look,” Samira insisted. “Scarf not here, no scarf. See,” she said, pointing to the items on the counter. “I no steal!” she yelled, the tears now streaming down her cheeks.

Adele stared back at the front entrance of the store. People were beginning to gawk at the commotion ensuing in the shop. Some stared directly at them and others fumbled with their bags, pretending not to see Samira’s tear-stained face, her coat sleeve dragging across her eyes. Quickly turning away, Adele stared back at her mother and the sales clerk.

“Listen, girl, I swear I saw you stuff the scarf in your purse. Maybe it’s under your coat. Open up,” he said, grasping the collar of Samira’s coat. He tried to pull it open but Adele suddenly pushed his hands away from her mother and let out a cry. At this moment, another man walked into the store. He wore a white shirt and tie and had a nametag pinned to his shirt with the store’s name printed in bold letters. He smiled at Samira and patted Adele’s head.

“Hello, Ma’am,” the man with the tag said. He had a trimmed grey beard and a wide-open smile. But he stopped smiling when he saw the contents from Samira’s purse. “What’s going on here, Steve?” he said to the sales clerk.

Steve hesitated, then said, “This lady was shoplifting. I saw her with my own eyes.”

“What did she steal?” he asked, now rubbing his right hand along his beard, trying to spot the item among Samira’s things. The clerk began to shift nervously through the things as if trying to find the stolen item. “Answer me, Steve.”

“Um … I’m sure it’s here.”

“What did she steal?” the grey-bearded man repeated, his voice now stern.

“My mother didn’t steal anything. My mother’s not a thief. He’s a liar!” Adele said, her voice rising and her finger pointing at the clerk. Her hand trembled, as if she’d eaten too many Christmas cookies.

Steve blurted out, “It was a scarf. She stole a scarf.”

“Well, I don’t see a scarf in this pile.”

“Dirty Arab thinks she can come into our store and steal from us.”

“This isn’t your store, Steve. You only work here, under me. You’re not the owner, understand?”

Steve lowered his eyes and nodded. “But we’re not in the Middle East. We have laws here and one of those laws is ‘not stealing’. I was only protecting your store, Mr. Brooks,” he murmured. “Damn dirty Arabs think they can do as they please.”

Mr. Brooks suddenly interjected, “That’s enough.” He looked across at Samira, who was wiping her face with a crumpled Kleenex. “I don’t see a scarf here, so obviously you didn’t steal it. I’m so sorry, Ma’am, for the misunderstanding,” he said, carefully placing the items into Samira’s purse. He handed it back to her. “I’m very sorry.”

Samira shook her head. “I only look. I no steal.”

“I told you my mom isn’t a thief,” Adele said quietly now.

Mr. Brooks nodded his head in agreement. “I know.” He turned to the sales clerk and said coolly, his lips pressed together, “This customer deserves an apology.”

“Sorry,” the clerk muttered.

Grumbling something under his breath, Mr. Brooks turned away from his employee in disgust and lightly touched Samira’s shoulder. “My sincere apologies, Ma’am.” He then walked to the scarf rack and sifted through it, pulling out a few and holding them up to Samira. “Which one would you like? It’s on the house.” The green, red, and white one she had been admiring was amongst the bunch.

Adele opened her mouth and was about to answer for her mother when Samira dragged her away from the man, rushing toward the exit. Adele nearly tripped on her own woollen scarf, which was sliding down her hips. “Mama, the man wants to give you the scarf for free. Take it,” Adele said with a wide grin. She thought her mother didn’t understand the man’s offer.

Samira glared back at the store, the two men standing across from one another, their voices rising in a heated argument, the scarves swinging in the owner’s hands. Samira’s eyes began to fill with tears again.

“Mama, the man wanted to give you the scarf, the one you liked,” she repeated, tugging on her mother’s coat.

“Hush, habibti, I don’t want the scarf anymore,” she said in a whisper, wiping her eyes quickly. “Let’s go back home, okay?”

Adele followed her mother’s lead. Samira wrapped her woollen scarf around her head and they hurried out the mall and down the street. Samira looked down at Adele and, her voice unsteady, said. “Promise me you won’t tell your Babba about this, okay?”

Adele wanted to ask her why, but the desperate look in her mother’s eyes silenced her; she just nodded. While they walked, Samira shook her head in disgust. As snowflakes landed in the open space between her neck and collarbone, Adele wished she had spat in that clerk’s face! Instead she had only listened to her mother stumble over words in a language not her own.

When they returned to house, Adele walked inside and tripped on her mother’s boots by the front door. Samira didn’t look back at her daughter as she raced up the stairs. After Adele regained her balance, she sat on the steps and pulled off her own boots. Head tilted back, she heard the door to her parents’ bedroom slam. Once she hung up her coat, she ran up the stairs and grabbed onto the banister while she swung her body around the corner. Then she stopped, frozen by her mother’s cries. Adele tiptoed to the door, the floorboards creaking under her weight. She pressed her ear against the door, fingering the knob, unsure of whether to intrude on her mother. After a while, she slowly opened the door. She peeked into the bedroom, spotted her mother on the edge of the bed, in front of the mahogany dresser with the large vanity mirror, the one Mona often used when fixing her hair. But her mother wasn’t brushing her hair. She was sitting with her elbows on her knees, leaning into the mirror and scrubbing her face with her hands. Adele wondered why her mother was rubbing her face without a facecloth. What was she trying to remove? Her make-up?

Samira chanted something over and over. Adele craned her neck to hear but she couldn’t make the words out at first. She leaned in closer, opening the door a little more. Her mother still didn’t know she was there. And suddenly the words became clear. “Dirty Arab, you dirty Arab!” Samira chanted again and again in a melancholic tone.

Samira fell back on the bed, crawled to the middle of the mattress, turned to her side and hugged her knees to her chest, the low sobs still shuddering through her. Adele stepped back and pulled the door shut again, crept away from the bedroom and carefully tiptoed down the stairs. Through the window next to the front door, her eyes followed the snowflakes drifting across the front steps. She leaned in close to examine her reflection in the glass, and stroked her cheeks. She examined her fingertips. There was no dirt on them. Why had the man called her and her mother “dirty Arab?” She was only twelve and didn’t understand why the man had called them “dirty.” They weren’t dirty. But after hearing the man’s cruel words, she knew some people saw them differently. Through her own reflection, she watched the falling snow carpet their front lawn.