Nothing Is Predictable

  Nothing is Predictable

  By

  Adalina Mae

  Nothing is Predictable

  By Adalina Mae

  Copyright © Adalina Mae

  2018 Special Edition

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without permission from the author.

  Some characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. The story is based on and inspired by some true events.

  Classification:

  Autobiographical Novel.

  Autofiction.

  Roman-à-clef (novel with a key)

  Cover design and interior formatting by Tugboat Design

  Editing by editors4you.com

  “Run sweetheart, hurry, run! We will hide in the neighbor’s storeroom, he can’t find us there,” Mom whispered as we ran for our lives away from home hoping Dad would not find us. We entered the storeroom beside our neighbor’s old cottage. It was dark and moldy and infested with rats. From a distance, we could hear him following us and approaching.

  I cried silently with my eyes shut, fearful about what was going to happen. That dreadful monster is back, what damage is he going to cause tonight?

  “Shhh, don’t cry, he won’t find us here, we’ll be okay darling, don’t worry,” Mom whispered as she held me tight to comfort me, yet I could see in her eyes she was not convinced.

  “Where are you? You think you can hide from me! I’ll show you who the man of the house is! You’re taking my daughter away from me, I’ll show you woman!” Dad shouted, his voice approaching closer and closer.

  He was so drunk he didn’t realize Mom was only running to safety. He thought she was taking me away from him. How on earth do you come to that conclusion? His footsteps stomped louder, as he walked toward the storeroom where we were hiding.

  “Where are you? How dare you run away!” his voice projected from outside the room.

  And then, BANG! The wooden door was flung open and it bounced off the wall.

  “Aaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” I screamed so loudly I can still hear the echo of my voice.

  I was eight years old.

  Chapter 1

  How did I get here?

  Italy 2008

  I was sipping on my coffee in an Italian café in Rome, gazing around at all the other patrons, my mind racing with thoughts of how I got there and why I’ve ended up single, with no children, married once, divorced once, then engaged once after my divorce, along with a few other short-term dysfunctional relationships.

  It had to be me, I thought, it had to be my state of mind and my thoughts that attracted all that to me. It wasn’t idyllic, but what is ideal? Everyone has a story, even those who’ve experienced less chaos and drama in their lives. We’ve all experienced our own joys and distresses in some way or another. Still, I was happy with the person I had become. My experiences in life had made me who…

  Okay!

  Who am I kidding?

  I didn’t need all that heartache and trauma in my life to become the person I am!

  That’s a load of BS. Life just happened, and I was responsible for the decisions I made that led to where and what I am. Strangely enough, happy, after all the dramas.

  I have learnt some valuable lessons along the way from my life’s incidents, that nothing is predictable, and nothing can last forever. Nowadays, I live my life based on these two premises.

  Here is my story to share with you. Incidents that will sadden you, escapades that will make you laugh and wonder if they are fairy tales, romances and adventures that will take you around the world with me and hopefully, above all, inspire you with messages to fill your soul with positive life lessons.

  My name is Zara, I was born in LA in 1972 to Yousif and Amal. They were both from Lebanon and they emigrated by boat to America in the late 1950s. My parents met and married in America in 1959 and had four children, Benjamin, Evangeline and Izabelle and then finally ten years after Izabelle, I was born.

  They were expecting a boy, but I guess God changed his mind just as I popped out. I think he forgot to adjust my brains to function like a female. Now, I’m not gay! Slap a set of male biceps in my face and man, do my legs go weak. It is more the way I think and act. I tend to be slightly different from most other women. Perhaps that’s because my life has been a bit out of the ordinary compared to many other people. Not your everyday norm. Most women my age are married with children and living a family-oriented life.

  In 1972, six months after I was born, Dad decided to take the family back to Lebanon for a vacation. That vacation lasted nine years. Why did we stay so long? Because he was happy being back in his home country. Once he decided to extend the vacation to a year, every year after that became yet another year.

  Unfortunately, Dad became a violent alcoholic, I seldom remember him sober. However, the memories of him when he was sober are the ones I try to hold on to. He was the most loving humble father, an extremely generous man who always helped the poor, gave food to the hungry, and provided shelter to the homeless.

  If only he had helped and saved himself.

  He needed professional medical help. Mother tried many times to get him that help, only to find Dad escape from the hospital during the night and return home, drunk of course.

  Amazing what alcohol can do to you when you reach a state of complete inebriation. It was strange and perplexing for me as a child that he could never remember anything the following morning when he was sober again. Numerous times, Mom would leave evidence of broken tables, chairs, and glass for him to witness in the morning. He would not believe they were his violent acts and shamefully beg for forgiveness and give her hopeful promises. By the afternoon, he was inebriated again.

  I have often wondered what drove him to his extreme drinking. Why did he feel the need to escape from reality daily? If only I had been old enough then to understand and help him to see the light. Unfortunately, I was too young and fighting my own emotional battles caused by his destructive behavior. When he was sober, he was loving, playful and a wonderful father and husband. When he was drunk, I used to think he turned into a monster. I was confused and torn between the loving father I had and then this monster that came out at night. I was terrified.

  Of course, being ten years younger than the others, I was his little princess, his little Zahra, meaning flower in Arabic. Being the youngest and the favorite, whenever my siblings wanted something from him, they always made me ask him for it. He could never say no if I asked. I was his weakness.

  One memory of his generosity that has stayed with me all my life are the camel boots.

  Chapter 2

  The camel boots

  Lebanon 1970s

  We lived in an apartment building in Byblos during school and winter season.

  Byblos is now a UNESCO World Heritage site, an ancient town in the Mediterranean region occupied since Neolithic times and one of the oldest Phoenician cities in the world. These days, people in Lebanon know it as Jbeil, which is the modern name for Byblos. It has a famous wharf that is lined with seafood restaurants, and cobblestone paths that lead into the souk or markets. That was my favorite place.

  “Just a little sip Zahra, not too much, your Mom will flip it at me. Sip it before your Mom sees you.” Dad was the only one who called me Zahra. He passed me the cup of Lebanese coffee. I was sitting on his lap.

  “You’re the best, thanks Dad.” I giggled and sipped the coffee from ’Dad’s hands. I hugged him tightly, overwhe
lmed that he was in such a happy and playful mood.

  “When are we going to America, Dad?” I asked him randomly.

  “Aren’t you happy here?” Dad replied.

  “Noooo, I am not,” I snapped back. “There’s monsters and bad people here, Dad. Can we please go to America? Mom says that this year we can go.” I was scared he might say no and keep us there forever.

  “Monsters? You are watching too much TV Zahra, this is home for now,” he replied with a startled look on his face.

  I looked down at the floor, sad and angry at his response. Mom, then in her mid-thirties and quite stunning, had been standing in the hallway. She looked at Dad and scowled, turned and smiled at me with a look of despair.

  “Very soon, I promise you,” she said and then paused. “Hey, your brother and sisters are coming home tomorrow, isn’t that great? Now go get ready, you’re coming with me to the souk today,” she announced.

  “Yeeesss! Shopping!!!” I swiftly jumped off Dad’s lap and ran to my room to get ready. I loved shopping, especially at the souk in Jbeil.

  “You didn’t tell me they were coming home this weekend,” Dad said to Mom in a sneaky way, sipping on his coffee and covering up he’d been giving me coffee. Mom stood there with her eyebrow raised looking at Dad in a somewhat disappointed yet friendly way.

  As we walked through the souk, I could smell the wooden souvenirs, artisan crafts, and clothes on the breeze from the ocean through the alleyways. We passed stores with traditional folkloric costumes hanging from the ceilings and belly-dancing costumes displayed on the wooden doors of the stores, while elderly salesmen played backgammon with their friends as they waited for customers. Their laughter, as they rolled the dice, seemed warm and welcoming to their patrons, and I was never scared to try on a tarboush, a traditional hat that noblemen wore, as they pranced along the streets with their canes and long mustaches. Whenever we went to the souk, I always insisted on trying one on. The tarboush is round and usually dark red or black with a tassel hanging down the side and to me as a child, it looked like an upside-down paper bin made of thick cloth.

  There were beautiful women from around the world, especially Europe, buying artisan artifacts, jewelry and costumes. I was transfixed by the beauty of this market. Byblos was an exotic tourist destination. It still is.

  We reached the modern stores and I saw a pair of boots in the window that were three hundred liras. In the 70s, that was a lot of money to pay for a pair of boots for a six-year-old.

  Ohhh, those boots, I will never forget them. They were camel-colored knee-highs with a bronze buckle on the ankle and a little heel.

  “Mom, please, please, I want them!” I screamed rudely, pulling on Mom’s dress to force her into the store.

  “Oh, be quiet and behave,” Mother said, looking at me severely. I was embarrassing her.

  I screamed and tugged on her dress until she turned around, picked me up, and yelled at me. “That’s it, you little brat! We’re going home, no more shopping if you’re going to behave like this!”

  We got into a taxi. I was sobbing, while her face was filled with anger.

  “Wait till we get home, wait and see what’s going to happen to you.”

  Mother is strict and a disciplinarian, but she has the most loving heart. She always considers others first and always does the right thing by them.

  We arrived home and there was Dad, sitting in the TV room having his coffee. My face lit up with excitement, firstly because he was drinking coffee instead of alcohol, so I knew he would be in his peaceful generous mood and secondly, because this was a chance to use my charms to get those boots. I ran in, jumped on his lap, and hugged him.

  “Daddy, Daddy! I love you more than Mom because…because…you like expensive things and Mom doesn’t.” I looked up into his eyes with an innocent smile.

  “Okay, what does she want?” Dad asked Mom.

  “Oh for God’s sake, don’t listen to her, she’s a spoilt little brat and she needs to be grounded for her rude behavior in the shops today, not pampered,” Mom said angrily.

  “Why, what happened?” Dad asked with a cynical laugh. “What did she want?”

  “She saw these ridiculously expensive boots that were three hundred liras. I barely spend that on a pair for myself and I’m an adult,” Mom said, expecting Dad to back her up and maybe ground me for my rude behavior at the shops.

  Dad looked at me with a compassionate look in his eyes, confused as to whether he should do the right thing and support Mother’s judgment, or make me happy and grant me those boots.

  “Don’t you dare even think of it,” Mom said to him firmly.

  Dad looked at me…then at Mom…then at me…then at Mom again. Then he said, “Go back and get them for her, my daughter will only have the best, this one is going to look after us in our old age and make us our tea when we’re old, so those boots are not even worth arguing about, go back and get them for her.”

  That event set a precedent for expensive tastes for the rest of my life.

  I force myself to remember moments like that about my father, instead of the moments when he was a drunken, violent monster. I wish I could write more about his virtues and about what a great father he was, but unfortunately, the main memories I have of him are of a violent, abusive man and a childhood filled with fear.

  Mom grabbed her purse, knowing she had lost that argument, and left furiously to get those boots.

  Later that evening, tucked up in my bed, wearing my new camel boots, I heard doors slamming and the sound of heavy feet. I pulled the pillow over my ears, hoping the noise would go away. Dad was in another drunken rage.

  Whispering to myself under the blanket with tears falling, “Oh no, the monster is here, please, I’ll be good, don’t hurt Mom again, please, don’t hurt her. I promise I’ll be good.” The noise got worse and louder.

  “Where is the Arak? I told you a thousand times not to move it.”

  Pleading with him, Mom tried to stop to him. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough Yousif, it’s late. You should go to sleep.” Then I heard her scream. “Aaaahhye!!!”

  I buried my head in my pillow. The sound of Mom being pushed and thrown against the wall frightened me. “Please go away monster, please bring Daddy back,” I cried and cried until I heard Dad stomp to his room and pass out on his bed. I lay motionless until Mom walked in quietly and slept next to me facing the door. Finally, I fell asleep.

  The next morning, I woke up, it wasn’t a school day. Remembering my siblings were coming home and remembering last night, I peeped my head above the pillows, my nose picking up the familiar and wonderful aroma of Lebanese coffee.

  I jumped out of bed and ran to the kitchen. I saw Mother sitting at the table with a pot of Lebanese coffee, looking down with one hand on her forehead and with a bruised lip.

  She looked up at me and smiled.

  “Is your lip okay, Mom? I heard the monster last night.”

  “It’s not a monster, Zara,” Mom replied with no appetite to talk. Shortly after, Dad walked in the kitchen, kissed me on the head, and walked toward my mother to kiss her.

  “Nothing like the smell of coffee in the morning,” he announced.

  Shocked at her bruised lip, just as if nothing had happened last night. With no memory whatsoever about what had happened. “What happened to your lip, Amal?”

  “The monster was here Dad, he did this, don’t you remember?” I shouted at him.

  “Shhh, Zara. It’s nothing. I accidently bumped into the corner of the cupboard.” Mom tried to cover up and shut me up.

  “What is it with this fantasy of hers about monsters?” Dad yelled back annoyed.

  “We’ll talk later, Yousif. Have your coffee now.” Mom shut him down straight away.

  Mom walked to the sink, and I took every opportunity to have coffee without her seeing me. I grabbed her cup and sipped on the coffee as soon as she turned her back. Dad laughed at how cute I was, and how swiftly and sneakily I wa
s sipping the coffee.

  Chapter 3

  I love French fries

  Italy 2008

  “Scusa, signorina, un altro caffè?” (Excuse me miss, another coffee?) Looking down at me with his sparkling green eyes.

  “Si, grazie,” I replied.

  I continued to people watch and as I turned around, I noticed two men staring at me trying to impress me with their Italian charm. They were sleazy and funny looking Italians. I tried to avoid them, but their silly acts became obvious to everyone sitting in the café. I felt awkward and avoided looking their way. The waiter finally brought my coffee. I grabbed the cup and drank the coffee as fast as I could and left some money on the table. As I was walking out of the café, one of the tables had a serving of French fries, and boy if you only know what French fries mean to me. I swiftly pinched one chip, smiled cynically at the patrons sitting on that table, and walked out confidently. They looked up stunned and laughed at my bold move. I have done that numerous times. I can’t help it, I love my French fries.

  Strolling down the streets of Rome, past the cafés and boutiques with the lights shimmering from the restaurants and bars, I couldn’t believe how elegantly dressed the locals looked compared to the tourists. It was eye-catching. It was a beautiful night with Rome at its best with melodic music in the background with that fresh Mediterranean breeze flowing through the streets. I came across a restaurant and gazed at a happy family dining together.

  Lebanon 1970s

  Back to that morning in the kitchen where I was sipping coffee with Dad watching me and laughing. We heard a knock at the door. Mom walked out to open the door.