“Oh, grade six. Are you enjoying it?”
“Mhm.”
I swing off my chair, dash around the house, and press down on the handle to back door that leads into the kitchen. My mom rolls oblong balls of beef mixed with mint and parsley. She plops them onto a plastic tray.
“Why aren’t you playing with the girls?” she asks without looking up from her bowl of pink beef.
“They’re hula-hooping,” I say. I lean against the closed wooden door.
“Why don’t you get out your skipping rope and play with them?” she asks. She adds another ball to the dozen placed on the tray.
“Okay.” I dash through the kitchen, around the corner, and straight to the storage room where I last left my taped-up red and green skipping rope on top of the ironing board. My shoes screech on the large white tiles. I press down on the door handle and step into the storage room. My eyes dart to the top of the ironing board. No skipping rope. I step over the abandoned packaging of the new grill and around stacked containers of old Barbie clothes beside the dusty door to the house’s electric switches. The door hangs open from the last time the living chandelier went out. All six switches point upwards. I scan the surfaces of the room. No skipping rope.
I pick my way over the empty grill box again. “Con te partirò” ends and Eman’s sharp laugh breaks the silence between tracks. “Per amor” starts on the speakers. I pivot in place, knocking over the topmost container of Barbie clothes. The lid pops off and a miniature salmon-coloured sandal skids across the dusty tiles. I stand square in front of the switch box. I smooth soot off the first switch with my thumb. I place my index finger over the upward-pointing switch. I press down. The storage room blacks out, and so do the rest of the house and the garden lamps. Bocelli’s voice dies.
June 2006
I lie level on the icy, cappuccino-coloured tiles in the foyer of my Dubai house. The rim of the red-and-grey-striped futon juts over one side of my face. The black underbelly of the couch crusts with clumps of dirt and a thick coat of dust. The musty sting slows my quick pant. Kinga’s voice bounces in my skull. “Again!” Attempting an Axel jump on marble tiles does not seem like such a good idea now. The Axel jump, as Kinga, my Romanian figure-skating coach, reminds me every lesson, is a one-and-a-half-rotation jump in the air starting from a forward outside edge.
I press my palms to the cool ground and swing to sit-up position. The hazy aqua numbers on the face of the microwave read 4:51. I pull my legs in and push the grimy soles of my grey Chucks together. 4:52. My dad should have been here at 4:45. I wonder if I’ll have enough time to warm up. When my mom drives me to the ice rink I always have enough time to warm up. I won’t have enough time to warm up today because Mom flew to Cairo last week to visit Teta, who was sick. I wonder how Teta’s doing and why we haven’t heard anything from Mom since she left. 4:53. I scan the sandy driveway through the square glass panes in the front door. 4:54.
At 4:59 the gold sand whips trails into the surrounding air as the black Dodge Durango climbs into the driveway. I bolt from the ground, heave up my brick-coloured bag, snatch my keys and my cellphone off the couch, and slam the front door. I skip down the front steps, swing around the blue and white garden gate, step into the soft sand, and secure my hand around the handle of the passenger seat door. I stop.
The silhouette of a frizzy-haired woman, with a nose shaped like an isosceles triangle.
I step back and slip into the seat behind the woman. Her inky hair makes a halo around the beige headrest and her bare arms glisten in the five o’clock sun.
“You remember my friend Eman, right?” my father yells over the sound of Elissa’s voice, which swells from the speakers.
“Mmhmm,” I nod. I wonder why my father isn’t listening to his usual rant of daily disasters from the BBC World Service.
My father pushes the gear forward, reverses, and moves the gear again. The car rocks over the uneven sand, then glides onto the road, around a roundabout, and finally onto the highway. I cross one leg over the other and X my hands over my chest in a mock axel position. I imagine spinning through frosty air and landing gracefully on one foot.
The song changes and I recognize the playlist from the CD of Arabic songs I made for my mom. Elissa asks her lover where he’s been and why he hasn’t called. Eman hums to the tune and my father’s arm rests on the gear.
At 5:25, the car rolls into Al Nasr Leisure Land’s parking lot and around the U-shaped drop-off area.
“Enjoy,” my dad says.
I slide out of the back seat and drag my bag with me. It drops to the gravel and I slam the door shut. The car revs away. I tow the bag on the asphalt behind me, then haul it onto my shoulders as I run up the grubby entranceway steps. I wave my pink laminated card at the thick-moustached man that sits in the booth by the double doors, and push the metallic handle bars. I stride through the entrance hall, past the mini-fountain, and through the green doors to the ice rink. My Chucks squeak and squelch on the ribbed rubbery floor.
Monica stands by a bench with a limp ponytail and soaked socks. She wipes the blades of her skates with a small worn-out red towel. Patches of eroded whiteness circle her knees and her elbows. She pushes her glasses up her tiny nose as I squeak toward her.
“Hey, how’s that double Salchow coming?” I ask. I let my bag plummet onto the bench. The blades of my boots clang inside.
“It’s not coming at all.” She shakes her head and her ponytail sways. She squeezes a pair of red woolen gloves and a trickle of water dribbles to the already wet rubber floor. “How’s the Axel?”
I peek down at my own pale patches on the knees of my once-black track pants. “Same thing.”
Monica slips her sock-like blade covers over the edges of her battered boots, arranges them in her bag, waves goodbye, and trudges out the green doors.
I tie each boot twice, then snap on my maroon velvet boot covers. I walk to the rink gate—my blades sink into the indents of the floor—and glide one foot, then the other onto the ice.
A white haze rises from the freshly cleaned ice. Frosty air tingles my face and neck. The cold air smells clean. My blades rip through the shiny ice. Forward, forward, inside edge, backward inside edge, crossover, crossover, crossover, crossover, forward, forward…
I land two loops, one half-loop, a Salchow, and a flip. I practice double loops and higher flips.
At the far end of the rink, Kinga slips over the banister of rink and glides towards me. At five feet two inches and ninety-seven pounds, Kinga almost disappears in the white icy haze. I unzip my sweater, lean over the banister, and fling it onto the bench. Kinga holds her index finger up, twirls it around, and mouths “Axel.”
I switch to fast backward crossovers. The wind from the quick motion whips my bare shoulders and arms. I think of Eman and her bare shoulders. I wonder how lenient professional dress codes are at Dubai Internet City, where they work. I strain my memory for a blazer or cardigan in the car. I cross my feet faster and faster. My skates rip, rip, rip through the ice. I twist around, step, swivel, swing my arms and legs into the jump, and smash to the ice, right knee first, then left. I lie face down on the ice, then roll over. Water seeps through the back of my shirt.
Kinga’s lined face, high ponytail, and blue jacketed torso lean above me. “Again.”
August 2010
Yellow. Yellow. Soft. Bruised. Too big. Too small. Yellow…
I toss barely red tomatoes to the back of the green plastic basket. The yellow and white label on the basket reads: “Tomatoes: Local AED 0.45 per kg.” The scent of dusty vegetables and overripe fruit rises from the baskets around me. The constant beeps of the weighing counter fade into the drone of the fridges and the low buzz of chatter.
“We need bananas, right?” Nadine says. She bends over the second shelf of the pale wooden rack that carries pineapples, packs of cut-up green coconut, and batches of green, yellow, and black bananas.
“Yeah, we do,” I say. I scout the tomato basket for
a perfect, red, sturdy tomato. The box to the right of the local tomatoes, the box marked “Tomatoes: Holland AED 0.97 per kg”, brims with juicy, ruby-red tomatoes. I wonder if the lady at the weighing counter would notice a perfect Holland tomato in between unripe and overripe United Arab Emirates ones in my bag.
“None of these are yellow,” Nadine swings a bunch of brown bananas away. The squat woman at the weighing counter lets her eyes dance with the swaying bananas, then back to Nadine’s face. She squeezes her lips together and beeps more buttons on her machine.
“Just get green ones,” I say.
Nadine rustles a few green bananas into a bag and sinks the bag onto the metal scale on the counter. The squat woman pushes three buttons, knots the bag, and slides a sticker onto it.
“Oh my God.”
“We need onions too. White ones,” I read from a crumpled list.
“No Carine, come look. It’s the lady, it’s Eman…”
I look up from the half-rotten tomatoes. Nadine gnaws on the cuticles of her index finger.
At the third checkout counter stand a woman and a young boy with a mushroom haircut. The woman reaches inside a green trolley, to the belt, and back. The belt piles with a baguette, Activia yoghurt packs, a milk jug, a ball of lettuce, and low-fat Kraft singles.
I duck behind the soda aisle. Nadine follows.
“Are you sure it’s her?”
“Yeah, look at her face. It’s exactly like the picture we saw on Pappy’s phone. And I see her at school, remember?”
The tiny boy with the jet-black mushroom haircut heaves the empty trolley to the other end of the third checkout counter, where a man in a green jumpsuit bags the groceries in thick emerald plastic bags. Eman rests a hand on her hip and watches the belt jolt forward. Her dark, smooth skin seems sickly pale. Her sharp nose seems to slice the air in front her as she digs through her purse for her Guess wallet. Her long, frizzy, charcoal-coloured hair clouds around her head in thick strands. Her eyes sink behind folds, creases, and dark grey eye shadow. A pair of heavy Indian gold earrings lengthen her earlobes. Chains and pendants cascade over her black tank top. A nude bra strap peeks out from under the black spaghetti straps. Her khaki skirt fits closely around her body. My mother doesn’t wear tank tops and skirts anymore.
Eman flips a tentacle-like strand of hair over her crown.
“We should go,” I whisper. “If she sees us it’ll be weird.”
Nadine nods and turns to the counter for her bananas. The woman at the counter’s eyes shuttle between me, Nadine, and the checkout counter. I grab a Holland tomato, dunk it in my original bag of UAE tomatoes and dump them in the rusty trolley.
The next morning I shuffle out of bed and peer into my bathroom mirror through sinking lids. My usually straight hair puffs into frizzy loops. A few strands curl over my shoulders.
I splash my face, brush my teeth, retie the drawstrings of my faded grey pajama pants, and amble down the stairs into the kitchen. The tiny light of the electric kettle glows red and steam fogs from its nozzle. I measure one teaspoon of Nescafé and half a teaspoon of sugar into a plain black mug.
My dad walks into the kitchen. He squints at me. His black and grey hair fluffs to one side. “Buongiorno!” he says.
“Hi,” I say. I push the corners of my mouth up as far as they can go. He presses a few buttons on his BlackBerry, squeezes a gold and white Marlboro Lights pack from the pocket of last night’s pants, and peers back up at me.
“Your hair looks nice.” He pushes a cigarette between his teeth and steps toward the back door. “You should do it like that more.” He points at my hair with one hand and uses the other to pull down the black and gold handle of the door. The door squeaks shut behind him.
I dart to the first-floor bathroom mirror. Tentacles of hair twist and twirl around my head. I spin the tap, cup some water in my hands, and soak my hair. I pull the strands down as straight as they go.
September 2012
“Can I see some ID, please?” the waitress asks.
“Sure.” I slide my driver’s licence out of my softened stringy black wallet. I slide it across the polished wood of the table for two. The group of twenty-somethings at the next table pass a pack of Belmonts around the table. I snap my menu shut and place it on the table. The waitress drops my card and picks up my menu.
“I’ll be back with a Caesar for you,” she nods at me, “and a glass of red for you,” she nods at my dad across the table. Her black platform stilettos scrape the brick floor of the terrace and click-clack as she enters the indoor portion of the bar.
A blonde at the next table giggles and taps her cigarette in the glass ashtray.
“I don’t understand how you’ve never been to this place before,” my dad says, sliding out a cigarette of his own. “It’s so hip,” he says, and sticks the cigarette between his lips. He flips the flint wheel on his metal lighter with his name, Ayman, engraved in loopy letters in the corner.
“So, what are you doing in Toronto?” I ask.
The blonde crosses and uncrosses her long tanned glistening legs.
“Nothing, really,” Ayman says. “I just had some vacation time so I’m passing through. I’m going to Cyprus next, and then Barcelona.”
“That’s nice.”
The twenty-somethings pass an iPhone around the table. They snigger at whatever’s on the screen. The blonde stubs her cigarette in the ashtray.
The waitress click-clacks toward us. She slides two small square white napkins on the table. She positions a tall, tomato-red drink on my napkin. Fat water droplets trickle onto the napkin and dot the tissue paper. A toothpick with three green olives and pickled cucumber balances across the top of a glass. Bloody Caesar. $7.99. The waitress sets a curvy glass of wine on Ayman’s napkin. 9oz Humberto Canale Pinot Noir. $14.50.
“There you go,” she says. She tucks the tray behind her back. “Can I get you anything else?”
“We’re good, thank you.” Ayman smiles.
The waitress nods, smiles, and click-clacks inside.
November 2012
I twist the cap off a diet Coke, sip the foam off the top, and set the bottle on my cluttered Ikea desk. I nudge chicken-flavoured Mr. Noodle in their paper container. I twirl a noodle strand around my fork and slurp at the end of the string. Chicken-flavoured water droplets spray my cheek and neck. I set the paper bowl onto my desk, amble into the kitchen, tear a square off the paper napkin roll, and dab my face. My BlackBerry buzzes on the desk. I shuffle to it.
The screen flashes “Nadine”. I stick the phone between my ear and my shoulder and plop down on my desk chair. I reach for the bottle of Coke.
“Hey,” I say between sips.
“Hey,” Nadine says, “Umm, I have to tell you something.”
“Sure.” I drag my laptop across the desk towards me. An empty venti Starbucks cup topples over into a pile of Wal-Mart and No Frills receipts.
“But you can’t tell Mommy,” Nadine says.
I tap my keyboard. The computer sighs and whirrs as it comes to life.
“Sure.” Watch Girls Season 1, I type into Google. I hit enter. Google presents me with a list of links. I click the first link. I can’t remember which episode I watched last.
“He got remarried.”
I set the bottle of Coke on the desk.
“They went to Cyprus so there wouldn’t be any legal issues,” she says. “And then they went on their honeymoon in Barcelona.”
I push my chair away from the desk, crushing an old copy of the Star sticking out from under my bed.
“You have to promise you won’t tell Mommy, okay?” Nadine says.
I swivel my chair to face away from the desk. A heap of clothes covers faded white-and-red-polka-dot sheets on my bed. A stray receipt sits stuffed inside a discoloured sock. I raise one leg onto the bed, and cross the other over it. I grasp the phone with one hand and chin in the other.
“Of course.”
Yellow Butterflies
Elizabeth Carroll
February 5th, 2013: 6:10 p.m.
My key rattles in the front door of my condominium townhouse. I turn it to the right and push the door open. I twist my right shoulder and shove the shoulder strap of my briefcase and lunchbox to a comfortable position before collapsing through the doorway.
“Hello?!” I holler.
Silence.
I jiggle the lock and pull my keys from the lock and place them carefully onto the cast-iron kittycat-tail key hook behind the door. I close the door and proceed to take off Mom’s fancy black winter boots from my feet. I place them in the closet and grab a hanger. I take off my white wool work jacket and shove it into the closet. Two hangers drop. Crash.
Silence.
“Mika? Hello? Where is my sweet puppy?”
Silence.
I peer around the corner of my foyer toward my twelve-year-old Chihuahua’s big cage. The door sits open and he blinks at me.
“Hi, pup.”
He looks the same way I feel today. Lazy, tired, a sickening feeling in the pit of your stomach, not because you ate something bad, but just because you are not happy with your life at this moment. You feel empty inside and just want to wake up from this bad dream, but you are not dreaming. This is just life.
I walk into the kitchen and wish I had a beer or wine or something to cover up my feelings but insist on Perrier Lime since it is Tuesday. I hate Tuesdays. I hate today. I pour the Perrier into a wine glass so it feels like I am drinking but once I place it to my lips, I feel hydrated instead of feeling more depressed.
I grab my cigarette pack from the junk drawer and snatch a smoke. I sit at the kitchen table in silence and smoke while sipping my Perrier.
I review the mail and find a new debit card and thick letter from the MS Society of Canada, most likely regarding donations. I open the MS Society letter with my finger, breaking the top of the letter into a jagged tear. I pull out a letter with a nickel attached to it and colourful return address stickers with flowers, ladybugs, and butterflies. My heart skips a beat and I put my cigarette out.
Butterflies.
Yellow butterflies.