No one called Adula strong. They sometimes said she was nice, or crafty, or shy. They sometimes called her a good mother. But most of the time, people didn’t call her anything at all. She was simply Adula - the lady with a gaggle of children at her feet, shoulders slumping under black-and-white Aztec shawls, the hems of her long skirts fraying until threads scraped the crusty prairie snow. She rarely looked anywhere other than down – her eyes dancing around her children or her feet or the lines of cracked cement after the spring melt. Once, I imagined that she actually dissolved right into that cement, every part of her softening as she slowly transformed from a solid to a liquid, like the fudgsicles I bought at the 7-Eleven, not able to lick them fast enough. It didn’t take long for her to disappear – a small puddle of pores, then just a dirty Aztec shawl in the middle of the sidewalk.
I knew about the strong women. They were the ones that checked the thread count when they shopped for soft winter coats with satin linings, and covered their sleek leather boots with protective spray before dashing from house to car to work and back again. They were the ones who held their heads high, laughing with friends they bumped into at the grocery store, or planning girls’ weekends at the spa. They were the women with jobs downtown and smartly dressed husbands and shiny houses with tall ceilings and vases on end tables.
They were not Adula.
Once, I heard two strong women talking about Adula. They didn’t know her name, but they did know that they would never be like her. See her, one of them said, nodding her head in Adula’s direction and then tsking a little. What a life, the other woman said, wrapping an arm around her middle as she cradled a takeout cup in the other hand. I wanted to talk to them, tell them things about Adula. I wanted to tell them her laugh was bigger than an elephant’s trumpet, and that she said Jumpin’ Jehovah! whenever she was surprised. I wanted to tell them that her whispers could bring plants back to life and that she loved fruit salad and that her neck hurt from looking down so much. I wanted to tell them that she filled the bathtub with dried leaves every fall and then sank down into them in her polka dot pajamas, crunching them between her fingers until the tub was filled with stems and dust.
But mostly, I wanted to tell them that Adula could see through walls. She saw the boy even while I left my body behind, suspended somewhere nearby, not quite there. She readied herself as he pushed a bony shoulder hard into me, trapping me against the bed, one of his hands under my sweater while the other yanked at my underwear and hissed in my ear. You know you want it. I willed my hands and legs to move, to fight - but they would not listen. I heard a voice, far away. No. Stop. No. I don’t want this. And then I heard another sound, like the growl of a Rottweiler, and then words, low and steady and angry. Get off her. Now. Or I’ll kill you myself. I felt his body scramble, his shoulder digging deeper into me as he pushed off the bed and zipped up his jeans. I could hear him shouting – okay, okay! Jeez, get that thing away from me! My body was still frozen in place, a human-shaped shell that didn’t contain me. But then I felt my eyes open, and my knees curl into my stomach.
Adula stood in the doorway. Her head was up, and her shoulders were square to the floor. There was a stick in her hand, a thick one that had been collected for the wood-burning stove. It was hot and smoldering, ready to burst into flame with the right puff of oxygen. Adula moved in front of me as the boy clambered for the door, the torch still hovering between her and him.
Between us and him.
Adula died ten years later. It was a small funeral, mostly family and the ladies from church who were serving the lunch. Those other women, the ones with designer coats and shrill laughs and unchipped nails, didn’t come. Perhaps they hadn’t heard the news. I didn’t call them the strong women anymore, although I knew that they too, had strengths I might never see. I just called them women. And I was learning what it took to be one.
I sat in the front pew with my brothers and sisters, an Aztec shawl around my shoulders, and I wept for a life barely noticed. I wept for the moments Adula’s eyes had been locked onto the floor, her heart believing she was invisible or inadequate or unloved. And I wept for the times when that was true. Then I bowed my head with a gratitude and reverence that made my knees hurt.
Mama, I love you. I whispered.
© 2023 Shirley Hay
*First published in the online journal: Creation Magazine: Issue 2 A Focus on Feminism