Member Bio: Nora Ohanjanians
When she’s not teaching high-school English, Nora likes to dabble in writing. Words attract her and she naturally gravitates toward them. She likes them on paper, on screen, spoken and dramatized. She enjoys them simple or complicated, in English or other languages she knows. She just can’t get enough.
***
Lovestowrite
By Nora Ohanjanians
There are many resident beasts living inside the outer shell of my body. Many of them I despise, so I try my best to obliterate, imprison or silence them. Some I like, but they are detrimental to my health, social or family status or otherwise my well-being. These I attempt to keep in check.
There’s one, however, of whom I am quite fond, but have a very difficult time communicating with. She’s an immature, capricious and unpredictable little girl who I’ve named Lovestowrite.
One of the most irritating things that Lovestowrite does is she often hides on me. During these disappearances, I worry because I don’t know if she’s playing a game with me, is safe and asleep somewhere or perhaps lost forever in the dark depths, and I won’t be able to find her ever again.
There are certain aromas though, that we both enjoy and, so far, have never failed to make her magically appear on my inner horizon. For instance, the aroma of a meaningful conversation, a clever argument, an exciting encounter with an interesting person or a loved one, or an enriching sensory experience are guaranteed to call her up. But these are few and far between. Yes, I do socialize, talk and listen and get input through my senses but memorable moments involving any of these are rare.
Lovestowrite and I also enjoy the arts. She loves it when I read good writing and vibrates with excitement when I enjoy a poem or a novel or sometimes even a clever wording in a newspaper article. She’s never missed a movie, play or concert that I have been to. Again, she resonates happily when I enjoy the performance.
Another thing that also sometimes gets her going is my getting together with people who write. She enjoys talking about writing and also jumps up and down with joy when she sees my name in print. Her friend Pride also joins her in these silly outbursts.
When she’s awake and happy, Lovestowrite is full of smart ideas and clever figures of speech and starts begging, coaxing, and cajoling me to write. She won’t take no for an answer. If I have the time to do so, she’s content and at times, even encouraging. If I don’t have the time or the inclination, she’ll keep nagging me for a while and then will sulk and disappear. Sometimes, when a few hours after her initial supplication, I find the time and want to write, she’s nowhere to be found. That behaviour frustrates me to no end but my attempts at communication fall on deaf ears.
Sometimes when the timing is right and I am ready to put pen to paper or hit the keyboard at her beck and call, the little missy finds me too slow, complains about my lack of concentration or accuses me of poor choice of words. She’s almost never happy with the final result and keeps criticizing and hurling insults at me. Needless to say, this behaviour is unacceptable, but my desperate attempts to modify it have not yet yielded any results. She doesn’t seem to be listening to me.
Now one would think that a little beast so stubborn with me would act the same way with others. Wrong. She gets easily sidetracked by her fellow resident beasts, such as Perfectionist, who never fails to interrupt us with his corrections of my spelling or grammatical mistakes; or Impatience, who shows up toward the end of our sessions and starts yelling and screaming, “Aren’t you done yet? C’mon, let’s go, LET’S GO!” Little miss Lovestowrite is totally quiet and passive when those two start bullying me.
Despite our communication problems, her temperament and third-party disruptions, overall, I don’t mind the havoc Lovestowrite wreaks in my life. After all, any relationship has its ups and downs and although, during the recurrent down periods we sometimes give up on each other, a spark in someone’s eye, a play on words or a clever argument summons her back to me and she starts pestering me to write again.
I think our relationship is going through growing pains.
***
Survival
By Nora Ohanjanians
Yonge Street was all lights, colours and ice. The streams of steam rising from pedestrians’ faces came alive above their heads in a frantic instance before vanishing into the snarling traffic. It was seven-thirty on a blustery December night.
Inside the dimly lit Loops Sports Bar and Grill, the air was buzzing with chit-chat, laughter and the aroma of grilled meat. At a table by the window, two men in their mid-twenties were talking over their second pint of Blue.
“I don’t care how amazing this new chick is, man. If she doesn’t show up in five minutes, I’m leaving,” said Jason, the tall, blonde, muscular man, throwing a self-congratulatory smile at a blonde eyeing him from the opposite table.
“She goes to the gym after work, that’s why she’s late. Well, actually she’s never on time. But I don’t care. She’s hot, man. You’ve just gotta see her,” said Matthew, adjusting his thin-rimmed glasses over his kind, hazel eyes, impatiently running his hand through his light brown hair.
Matthew’s face suddenly lit up. In an instant he was on his feet, his medium-built body leaning forward to kiss a tall, dark young woman holding a duffel bag. Jason’s cocky eyes travelled from her jet-black ponytail down her smooth, long neck to her cleavage sprouting out of a bright red v-neck and rested on her round buttocks packed airtight in her black jeans. By the time he reluctantly got his eyes back to her face, her piercing brown eyes had already electrocuted him.
“Jason, this is Gohar. Gohar, Jason.”
“Say what?”
“It is pronounced just like ‘go hard’ without de ‘d,’ she said in a clear, pedagogical voice.
“What does it mean, anyways?”
“It means ‘jewel,’ was the silencing answer. There was an awkward pause.
“So how vas your day?” she turned with a smile to Matthew, trying to make conversation.
“I got nothing done. You know, it’s Christmas time. There’s so much food everywhere. I’ve been sitting around eating all day. And how was your day?”
“Same as alvays. And I am hungry,” she answered almost defiantly.
By the time her pasta arrived, Gohar was on her second pint of Carlsberg and the conversation was flowing again. She drifted in and out of the conversation. The semi-bitter taste of the German beer took her back to the goodbye-party her friends and neighbours had thrown for her at the refugee camp in Bad Neuheim, Germany. They got so drunk that night, she almost missed her flight to Canada. They had become her family during the ten months she had lived in her bare room at the camp, nursing her to health when she had pneumonia and consoling her tirelessly when she heard the news of Hovo’s death in Gharabagh and had fallen apart. She wondered what they were doing now. From there, her mind found its way back to her present worries and the phone call she was so anxiously waiting for.
Jason and Matthew were telling funny stories about their office and Gohar laughed with them, at times absent-mindedly. She didn’t talk much about her office. By the third Carlsberg, she joined in, cracking her own jokes as they roared with laughter. Later that night, in Matthew’s apartment, when the beast of passion had been fed, Gohar held Matthew in her arms for a long time.
“You know, I like this part most,” she said.
“What, the hugging?”
“Not just any hugging. Feeling the pressure, the weight of your whole body on mine.”
“You’re weird, you know. Weird but gorgeous,” he said and kissed her.
“So you don’t mind that I’m veird, ha? I am lucky I am gorgeous,” and they both laughed.
She closed her eyes and was transported to another place and time, when the pressure of another body had remained on hers all night, because they had to sleep in the same single bed at the university residence whenever she managed to smuggle him into her room. They would make love, smoke, fall asleep, wake up, talk, make love again during those endless nights in the bliss of that single bed, in the tiny room, in the dark, she enjoying the intimacy of the mass of his flesh against hers. Even after she married Hovo and had a double bed, she liked to sleep close to him so their whole bodies could touch all night.
Matthew drove her home. She lived in a basement apartment in Scarborough. She had never invited him in because she said the old landlady didn’t want her to bring men into her house.
Gohar opened the door quietly and walked down the stairs. The smell of dampness invaded her nostrils. She went to her room, unlocked the door and flicked on the light switch. The bed under the opposite wall, the table, the lone chair by the door and her two briefcases waiting faithfully by the foot of her bed suddenly sprang at her when the bulb on the ceiling shattered the darkness. A mouse that was more than halfway across the room scurried toward the opposite wall and disappeared into a tiny hole. Her eyes searched the floor for a message slipped under the door. Nothing. Samvel hadn’t called. Her heart pounded her chest.
She put her duffel bag on the old empty table, opened it and took out four slices of bread, a few pieces of cheddar cheese, and two teabags from a plastic bag. She stacked them on the styrofoam box with her left over pasta dinner and went to the room next door. She knocked. No answer. The squeaky door let the body odour filling the room escape to slap Gohar in the face. She peered at the grey-haired woman lying on the bed by the wall in darkness. Her dark eyes were opening under her glasses.
“How are you feeling, Kolsoum?”
“I’m starving.”
“I brought you food.”
“You are my saviour.”
Kolsoum heaved her old body up with the help of her right arm and leaned onto her left elbow. Her trembling hand snatched the styrofoam box from Gohar, opened it and sniffed in the aroma of the pasta.
“Let me varm it up for you.”
“No, no, it’s okay. Just give me that spoon.”
Gohar looked at the square piece of cardboard covering the upside-down milk crate used as a night table. The dirty spoon was inside a mug standing beside a roll of toilet paper, some medication bottles and a thermometer. She picked up the mug and spoon and darted toward the door.
“Where are you going?”
“To vash it, quickly.”
“Oh come on, I’m hungry.”
Gohar was back fast. “I vill clean this room and give you a vash on Sunday, if I am not vorking.”
Kolsoum had already swallowed a few mouthfuls. “That’s my daughter’s duty, if she was a real daughter…” Gohar tuned out and let Kolsoum continue her diatribe on her daughter in her hoarse voice. She checked Kolsoum’s mousetraps. They were empty. She caught sight of a photograph of Kolsoum’s four-year-old grandson on the wall. His dark eyes stabbed her in the heart, reminding her of another pair of innocent, young dark eyes etched forever in her existence.
Should she call Samvel now? Tomorrow might be too late. What if he has forgotten? What if he refuses? She felt hollowness in her stomach. She tuned in as she heard the usual concluding words, “I’m sorry dear. I don’t talk all day. The only thing I do is lie here and think how miserable I am. You are my saint. Without you, I wouldn’t survive.”
She reached her wrinkled fingers, grabbed Gohar’s smooth hand and pulled her toward her bed. “Come sit down a minute; tell me what’s happening in the world outside.”
“Vat do I know about the vorld outside? I am cleaning inside houses all day.”
“Did you see your boyfriend today?”
“Yeah, that vas the only good thing about the day.”
“Tell me more. Come on.”
“He’s gentle and simple. He believes everyting I tell him. I tell him I vork in an office and go to the gym after vork.”
“Go where?”
“The gym, you know, vhere they exercise?”
“You’re funny. Why did you tell him these lies?”
“Vhat else can I tell him about my bag full of dirty vork clothes and cleaning supplies? Vhat accountant vants to date a cleaning voman a few years older than him?”
“You can’t keep doing that. He’ll find out one day.”
“Yeah, maybe. But I’ll enjoy him as long as I can. He helps me keep sane… Vith him I live life the vay it should be, you know… Spend time above ground not vorking… Eat and drink properly, talk and laugh… Hold hands, kiss, say nice things, forget about the past and the future, pain and misery… I’m tired. I need to get up early tomorrow. Do you vant a cup of tea?”
“What a question? I never say no to tea.”
When Gohar came back with the cup of tea, Kolsoum said, “I almost forgot. A guy named Samvel called and left you an address and a phone number. He said to call tomorrow morning and to take the money before four o’clock.”
A magic wand filled the hollow in Gohar’s stomach with warm, yellow light. “Thank you, Lord!” she exclaimed and gave Kolsoum a hearty kiss on the cheek.
She ran to her room, took a metal box out of her big suitcase, opened the lid and took a small envelope out of it. She opened the envelope, counted the four dark green U.S. twenty-dollar bills in it, put them back into the envelope and put the envelope in her purse. She started planning her course of action, practising her lines and bracing herself for the battle ahead tomorrow.
Svetlana picked her up at seven-thirty sharp as usual. “Ve have an office and three houses to clean today,” she said, her blue eyes fixed ahead at the road. She flicked the ashes off her cigarette as Gohar closed the door.
Gohar stared at Svetlana’s strong jawbone perched on the collar of her warm parka.
“You’re not going to like vat I tell you Svet, but I need to send money home by a passenger who leaves at four this afternoon. So I need my pay around lunchtime and I need to take the afternoon off to go to the bank to change it to U.S. money and then take it to the man before he leaves for the airport.” She bit her lip.
“And how am I supposed to finish ze work by myself?”
“I know it is too much to ask, but if you drive me, ve could do it in an hour.” Gohar was squeezing the handle of her duffel bag.
“Vhat? I am your personal driver now?” Svetlana finally made cold, glassy eye contact with Gohar.
“No, no. Please don’t say those things.” Gohar pressed her duffel bag to her chest.
“You think you can just valk in and make demands and I have to listen to you? SELFISH BITCH!”
“Svet, please. How can I demand anything? I am begging you. You are the boss. You are the one with the car. You are the one paying me. The money is for my mother. Vithout it she can’t survive. You have a mother, don’t you? You can understand…” Her voice cracked.
“And vhat makes you think you are gonna get paid if you take off in ze middle of ze day?”
“I know you are a good voman Svet. I know you are kind. I believe you vill not take avay a whole veek’s pay from me ven you know my rent is due next veek and my mother is cold and hungry in Armenia.” Gohar was sobbing and they were already at the door of the office that had to be cleaned by nine o’clock.
“Okay, okay. Enough. Zis is my luck. Starting my day off like zis and ending it God knows vhen, cause I have to chauffeur some people around. Vhat can I do? I’m stuck. I need a worker. Blow your nose and let’s go. Ve’ll think of something.”
At the TD Bank, before exchanging her pay for another six dark green U.S. twenty-dollar bills, Gohar asked the teller for a piece of paper. As she was waiting for her money, she used the pen chained to the counter to scribble in Armenian:
Dear mom,
I miss you and Narek a lot. Hope you are both all right. I’m surviving. I have enough to eat, a warm place to sleep and most importantly, a job to make money. I’m sending U.S. $200. Buy yourself a coat and Narek two pairs of warm mittens so he won’t get frostbite again when he’s playing in the snow. Please tell him I sent the mittens. Talk to him about me. Don’t let him forget he has a mom, please. I hope this will be enough for a month or two. I’ll send money again when someone I trust comes home. I’m still waiting for my refugee hearing. As soon as I get my papers I’ll start yours.
Miss you, Gohar
Gohar wiped the tear from her cheek, folded the green bills inside the sheet of paper and stuffed them in the envelope. She walked to the car where Svetlana was checking her map for Samvel’s address.
“Actually, zis place is on our way to ze next job.”
“Good. So ve vill not lose a lot of time.”
Thank you, Lord, for delivering me again, Gohar kept repeating to herself.
***
Visceral Love
By Nora Ohanjanians
“She’s a whore,” thundered Seda, banging her plump fist on the kitchen table. “I’ll die before letting her sleep under my roof.” Her head shook, her flabby cheeks quivered and her breath was choppy.
“Your lawyer was the one who said I should marry a Canadian citizen so I could get my immigration papers more quickly,” Ashot, her younger son said, with a mischievous smile.
“What? It’s time for jokes now? You can’t face anything seriously, can you? When you run out of excuses, you start monkeying around. Just like your father…”
“Is it my fault that I’m just like my father? Did I ask you to marry him? If you didn’t want children from him you should have slept with your neighbour. You might have liked me better if I was his son,” yelled back Ashot, flashing his fierce black eyes set under the majestic arcs of his black eyebrows.
“Shut up, Ashot, or get lost,” said Norik, his younger brother, timidly, staring at his tea-stained empty cup. He was glad the children were already safely asleep and his wife was upstairs, so he didn’t have to feel embarrassed about yet another late night family scandal.
“Is it too much to expect from my own mother and brother? Gala is a good woman. She’s helped me out and agreed to marry me on paper; I want to help her out. It’s as simple as that. She’s scratched my back; I’ll scratch hers. I’m paying my way in this house, I should have some basic rights,” yelled Ashot, downing his second shot of vodka.
“Basic rights, my ass,” yelled Seda. “Your real wife and two lovely daughters are waiting for you in Armenia. This fake marriage was only for you to get your papers faster. I paid the slut $2,000 for it, and that was to be the end of it. But then you started flirting with her, buying her dinner, giving her money instead of sending it to your family back home. And now she wants to save herself rent and move into my house? She knows you’re a married man, she knows you have two kids. And she’s still milking you? Isn’t she ashamed? Does she have any conscience?”
“Oh, c’mon mom. You only think about money.”
“Damn right I do. I’m the one who paid your way and your brother’s way to this country, bought this house, am still paying the mortgage on it, still work all day in the basement. Your brother works day and night, barely paying for his family, and you’re spending your money on whores? Somebody needs to keep a roof over our heads. Somebody needs to think about money.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. We know all that. You never let us forget. But think about me for a second, okay? I’ve been living alone for two years now. A man has his physical needs. If Gala moves in with us, I won’t need to take her out, or date other girls. And I’ll be able to pay you a couple of hundred dollars a month for the mortgage.
Seda got up heavily and roared, “Now you’re trying to bribe me? I spit at dogs like you! You filthy scum.”
“Enough, Ashot. Have some respect,” mumbled his brother, still staring at his cup.
Stabbing them with daggers in his eyes, Ashot swiveled on his heels, kicked a chair, grabbed his coat, and walked out into the night.
* * *
Sleep was nowhere to be found for Seda that night. Her brain was replaying her whole life again. The day she met her husband. How tall and strong and manly he looked. The mischievous playfulness of his eyes, the deep tone of his voice, the powerful grip of his hands, the sun-burnt aroma of his skin, and the radiating heat of his lips…
“A man has his physical needs,” Ashot had said…What about a woman? What about a woman used and abandoned with her two young kids, because her man was chasing other women? Because she was too preoccupied with the children to give him pleasure. Because she was tired, and sleep-deprived… fat, with barf stains on her clothes and unable to bother with her looks… What about her? Didn’t she have physical needs? All those nights spent alone in that cold marital bed, the money gradually stopping, and the husband eventually disappearing… Just like that… No explanation, no apology, no guilt.
But she couldn’t even mention her physical needs. She was a woman. Respectable women didn’t talk about things like that. Plus she had more pressing matters on her mind. Two kids to look after, rent to pay, food to put on the table. That’s how she ended up being a hairdresser. She could work at home while keeping an eye on the boys.
And her life hadn’t changed much. Thirty years later and half a continent away from where it started, the story of her life was almost the same. She had bigger financial obligations now. And she had to watch her first-born, the apple of her eye and the bane of her existence, who was an exact replica of her husband, walk in his father’s shoes, leaving his poor wife and two daughters behind to fend for themselves, chasing sluts for his own physical needs. It was déjà vu. She was trapped on a merry-go-round of suffering. It made her nauseous.
The next morning Seda finished applying her makeup, put on her platform slippers, and took a last look at herself in the mirror. As usual she didn’t like the fat, middle-age, dark haired and black-eyed woman who stared back at her from the mirror. In protest, she walked out of her bedroom.
Her hair salon, in the converted basement rec room, emerged from the darkness when she flicked the light switch. She got the coffee maker going and turned on the radio. Her first appointment was seven minutes late.
“Hi, Seda,” said Maria, her rich and only cousin turned customer, “Oh, I love coming to you for a haircut. It’s so relaxing here with the music and the aroma of coffee. Plus, I love chatting with you.”
How else can I lure you and others here to make money for my prick of a son to chase dumb blondes? Seda thought to herself bitterly, and with a sincere looking smile said, “Oh, Maria. You’re my best friend in this country.”
“What’s wrong?” Maria asked, noticing Seda’s puffy eyes despite the heavy makeup.
No answer.
“Is it Ashot again?” Seeing tears well up in her cousin’s eyes she said: “Like father like son, eh? It’s incredible how he looks exactly like him too… Every time I see him I’m shocked at the resemblance… The handsome ones usually don’t stay long… You didn’t listen to your poor mother when she tried to convince you he wasn’t gonna be a good husband for you and when your father said he wasn’t gonna let you do it, you eloped…”
“Yeah, but I thought my sufferings would be over after my divorce. I thought I could make money, raise my kids and not look back… And for a while I did. You are my witness, Maria. I’ve paid my dues. I’ve worked like a dog all my life.” Tears started rolling from her brown eyes. “Why is God punishing me? Why does Ashot have to be so selfish? Why is he doing this to me?”
“At least Norik takes after you. A hardworking, law-abiding, family man. Don’t be ungrateful, Seda. You have one good son, good daughter-in-laws and lovely grandchildren.”
“I thank God every day for them. It’s just Ashot that has given me grief all my life. When he was a kid, the school would call me with discipline problems; when he was a teenager, I had to haul him out of jail, and now… this is how he pays me back… My Ashot, my favourite son, the very core of my existence.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have bailed him out every time he got into trouble. I know how a mother’s heart aches at a child’s trouble, but he’s thirty-five. He’s got to grow up, Seda.”
“I was hoping getting married would make him grow up. He was so in love. And he was so happy when his children were born. But children don’t grow up by themselves. We’re not dogs. When he had to pay for their food and clothing, when he was expected to come home every night and spend time with his family, it was not fun anymore. So he found the perfect excuse to divorce his wife. Telling her that it was the fastest way to emigrate to Canada. That I could sponsor him if he was single, but not if he was married. And she believed him, like I believed my husband when he said he was going on a business trip and would be back in a week. I wish they could arrest them for lying and fornication. No morals. No scruples. It just hurts too much to see my life play out again in front of my eyes. Leaving his poor faithful wife and innocent children so he can have fun with other women. It’s still too raw,” she sobbed. “It’s too much.”
* * *
That night, Seda was quiet. It was a rare night when Norik was home for dinner. They all sat down to dinner together.
Norik and Anna complained about their jobs, gossiped, laughed and talked to the children about school. Seda thought she had never been able to create this warm family atmosphere for her own children. Her sons were left to fend for themselves while she worked day and night to make ends meet. Meanwhile her husband took other women to restaurants and bought them new shoes and clothes.
Seda was very happy for Norik and his family now, but thinking about Ashot’s wife and children made her insides squirm with disgust and rage. When her husband had left her she was too crushed to even think about revenge. Later, as life had made her tougher and bolder, she had wished she could have struck back. But it was too late by then. They were in different countries. Now, every time she looked at Ashot, she saw her husband. She knew this was not Ashot’s fault. She knew she was being irrational. But her feelings had nothing to do with her brain.
She felt guilty for hating her own son so fiercely. She also felt angry that despite the hatred she still loved him instinctively. After all, he was her own flesh and blood… And then some… He was her favourite… Probably because of his resemblance to his dad… He had given her Ashot as a souvenir… The forget-me-not present from a husband to his wife… He had given her a replica of himself, and she sometimes felt comforted by that. Norik didn’t give her the same feeling, but with Ashot she felt she still had a piece of the only love of her life.
She knew all that. And she realized that none of this was Ashot’s fault. But there was no denying the overwhelming feelings of rage, betrayal, and the primordial urge to strike back.
* * *
Ashot broke the news to Gala after she had ordered her salmon dinner.
“I don’t understand! Who’s wearing the pants in that house? You said yourself, your brother said okay. Doesn’t his word count for anything?” Gala looked sideways avoiding Ashot’s eyes.
“You see sweetheart, mom has a lot of respect in that house. She brought up my brother and me alone. Our father left us when we were tiny children. Both my brother and I owe her a lot.” Ashot put his rough, dark palm over Gala’s smooth fair hand, and felt his pulse quicken.
“Oh, big deal! There are so many single mothers in this country. You guys didn’t ask to be born. She wanted kids? She had to take care of them. I think you romanticize her too much,” Gala said touching her wine glass to her glossy, luscious lips.
“It’s not just that. She worked under the table all the time at the refugee camp in Germany. She paid the down payment on the house we live in, sponsored me to come to Canada, paid my way and my lawyer fees, and still works eight-hour days, six days a week at her age. I can’t go against her will in her own house. That’ll be too much.” He gave her soft hand a squeeze and radiated one of his disarming smiles at her.
“So now you two grown men have to do as you’re told? And what about me? Huh?”
“You know I love…”
“Listen Ashot,” she cut him off. We’re either together or we’re not. I’m tired of living and sleeping alone. My lease is running out at the end of the month. Either we move in together or we’re finished. I’m not wasting my time with you.”
They were silent for a few minutes. Ashot sipped his wine and imagined his life with Gala at his mother’s house. His mom was not a shy or discreet woman. She would make life hell for them. But he had no choice. He couldn’t afford to move out.
He understood his mom too. He knew she was trying to protect his family from falling apart. But he was also fed up with his lonely life in this cold country. He needed a woman to warm his bed, and he had found one. He wasn’t going to let her go. As much as he loved his mom and felt indebted to her, he couldn’t let this opportunity pass him by.
He slid his hand around Gala’s waist, pulled her fragrant body towards his, and pressed his burning lips to her cool neck.
“Okay, we’ll start moving your stuff to my house, but give me until the end of the month before you move in,” he whispered.
Gala’s anger melted in the heat he injected into her neck. She was proud of herself for driving a hard bargain. Finally she had won the battle against his mother. In order to have him she had to win this battle, and she wanted so badly to have him. He was generous and handsome and all her friends were jealous that she had lucked out and gotten married after all. Never in her life had Gala dreamt that she could have such a hunk for a husband. Even if the marriage arrangements weren’t perfect.
* * *
The next morning Seda saw the three boxes and two suitcases in Ashot’s room. So this was it. She was going to have to witness the two of them flirting together at dinner and going to his bedroom after. Whatever she had been spared from seeing in her husband’s love life, she was doomed to witness in her son’s. And his physical resemblance to his father was uncanny. Why wouldn’t the ghosts of her past leave her alone? What had she done to have to relive this abomination again?
Her second appointment that day was with a girl she knew had the hots for Ashot. She’d seen the two of them eyeing each other lustily before. The girl looked like she’d stepped right out of “Days of our Lives”: tall, blonde, curvaceous and vain. As she did with all her customers, Seda offered her coffee and chatted her up, looking extremely interested in what she had to say. When the girl said she and her girlfriend wanted to go to Buffalo for some cross-border shopping but didn’t have a car, Seda felt that God had sent the girl to finally let her get even with her fate.
“I might be able to help you out, hon. My son doesn’t work on Sunday. Let me give him a call and see is he can drive you. He needs to get away and clear his mind too.”
The girl’s eyes sparkled as she said, “Thanks, Seda, you’re an angel.”
Ashot was not surprised to hear from his mom. It never failed. A couple of days of silent treatment and she always tried to make up with him. He knew she loved both him and his brother, but for some reason, he was her favourite. There was something different about the way she loved him. Maybe it was because he looked like his old man. Her love for him was visceral.
She couldn’t live without him.
In fact, that had been Ashot’s experience with all the women in his life. He knew he was blessed with a charm no woman could resist. But he was mildly surprised that his mom wanted to set him up with that hot blonde he’d met at her salon. He knew his mom hated blondes. All Armenian women hated blondes, because they weren’t blonde themselves. But he concluded that his mom had seen Gala’s stuff moved in, and was now trying to make him break up with her by finding him a new woman.
He didn’t mind. Not that he had any intention of breaking up with Gala, but she hadn’t moved in yet, and he knew she was working on Sunday. Summers in Toronto were so short, he thought, it was a shame to waste one sitting at home doing nothing. Gala didn’t need to know about his trip. Plus he could use a little bit of fun with another girl.
“Okay mama, I’ll do it for you if you want me to,” he said pretending to be reluctant, but grinning to himself.
He didn’t notice the deep breath of relief that his mother exhaled.
As soon as the girl stepped out, Seda called her cousin, Maria.
“Maria, I need your help. You have to invite all of us to go out of town with you on Sunday, and you need to do it fast. Ashot can’t make it, but Norik can. Make up a story and make sure that the whole family comes. I’ll tell you the details later.”
She put the phone down, went upstairs to Ashot’s room, found the black pouch where he kept official papers like his work permit and health card, and removed his temporary travel document. Downstairs in her basement, she grabbed the telephone book with a trembling hand and started looking for the number of the Immigration Office, as a tear slid down her fleshy cheek. This was a sin she would have to answer for to God. But she had to do it. She couldn’t take the blows of life and just pretend she would recover. Because she wouldn’t. She couldn’t live her life as a bystander anymore. She had to make wrongs right. Even if it was at the expense of hurting her most beloved son. Even if he thought of her as a traitor for the rest of his life. What did her life of righteousness and forgiveness bring her after all? More suffering. A repeat of the old cycle. She couldn’t let him do the same injustice to another unsuspecting woman. She had to stop the cycle.
* * *
Sunday morning Norik’s children had just started eating their breakfast, when Ashot walked into the kitchen, long black hair jelled neatly back into a pony tail, muscular body on display in crisp white tank top and khaki shorts, black pouch on his belt. Seda sitting at the kitchen table, looked very tired.
“Say hi to aunty Maria for me mom, and you guys have fun at the beach,” he said to his niece and nephews.
“Bye, Uncle Ashot,” came from three mouthfuls of cereal and omelet.
“Have something to eat, son.”
“I can’t, I’m late for your lady, mom.”
“Come here, give me a kiss,” Seda said, her voice trembling.
With a questioning look on his face Ashot gave his mom a kiss on the cheek and returned her long, tight hug.
Norik and Anna exchanged puzzled looks when after Ashot left, Seda left her toast and tea and went downstairs with a distraught look.
When they were all in the minivan, on the way to the family picnic organized by Maria, Seda asked Norik for his cell phone.
“Who do you wanna call at this time on Sunday?” asked Norik.
“I just want to turn it off, so you can enjoy one single day with your family with no interruptions.”
“She’s right, Norik,” added his wife in the front seat. “This is your first day off in two months. Let someone else at the pizza store handle the problems for a change. Let’s enjoy our one day at the beach this summer with no interruptions.”
Faced with two powerhouses ganged up against him, Norik had no choice but to comply.
* * *
Aunty Maria’s marinated meat had always been famous. She had prepared lamb, pork and chicken barbeque on skewers, various traditional salads and sweets, and had poured the vodka discreetly into a thermos. The sky was bright blue, the sun at its hottest and the water at its calmest. Maria’s whole family had shown up. The party of 26 family members and close friends, talked, laughed, sang, ate and drank toasts.
When they drank a toast to the absent family members, Maria got up from her seat, walked over to Seda, clinked her glass, gave her a hug and a kiss, and said, “May God help him grow up.” The two women looked into each other’s eyes with long glances that electrified the air.
Nobody noticed that no one in Aunty Maria’s family had a cell phone or pager on.
Seda tried to hide her anxiety, which had started mid-morning, by playing loud music, telling jokes and dipping her swollen feet in the warm water of the lake. The turmoil inside her got worse in the evening. Late in the afternoon, she felt sick to her stomach, and had to be helped to the public bathroom on the beach.
“The food was too heavy for her,” said Maria’s daughter.
“She shouldn’t be working so hard at her age,” said Norik.
“With your brother still up in limbo, she has no choice,” added his wife, happy to air her bottled up feelings against her prodigal brother-in-law.
“She’ll get over it. She’s a tough cookie,” said Maria, empathy running deep in her face.
* * *
On the long drive back to Toronto, the grandchildren and their mom fell asleep one by one and didn’t notice that grandma, sitting in the back row of the minivan, was crying all the way.
* * *
Half-tanned and half-burned, happy and tired, they got home at 10:30 that night.
In an uncharacteristic manner, Seda didn’t help with the unloading of the car or giving the children their showers. She went straight to her bedroom in the basement and turned off her lights.
She felt she had been buried alive. All day long she had lived Ashot’s anguish, felt his terror, anger and helplessness. Now she felt somewhere in the underworld, but at the same time was satisfied that finally in her life, she had been able to put her sense of justice ahead of the interests of those she loved.
Norik was surprised to find out the message box on his cell was full and all the messages were from Ashot.
The first one left at 10:30 in the morning was: “Norik call me.”
The next one left an hour later was, “The bitch has stolen my travel document and ratted me out to the Immigration Office! Call me!”
The next one was, “Help me, man! They’re trying to deport me back to Armenia. There’s no one home at Aunty Maria’s, the lawyer’s office is closed, Gala doesn’t have a car, and nobody else is answering their cell phones!”
Flabbergasted, Norik checked the messages on the answering machine at home. The last two were:
“They’re holding me at Pearson in a locked room. Norik! Where are you?”
“They’re putting me on a British Airways plane to Yerevan at eight tonight. Bye, Norik. Take care of mom for me.”
Photography by Doug Wright.