Chapter Text
//
‘forgive me, distant wars, for bringing flowers home.’
- wislawa szymborska, ‘under one small star’
//
you don’t remember much about your home before the wars began. You were maybe six when the fighting came to your home, and only eight when your papa was killed while he was out getting you a new shirt for your school uniform. Your mama would not speak to you, so you had to ask your teacher at school the next day, still in your old ripped school shirt. You remember asking why your papa didn’t come home, because he said he would and you needed a new shirt and you also hadn’t slept very well because he didn’t rub your back and sing you that lullaby in his mother’s language, and you remember her getting very, very quiet.
Your mama answered you finally a few days later, said he wasn’t going to come home anymore; she said he had been blown into tiny pieces, and that you should stop asking because it was rude and upsetting. You just didn’t understand, but mama was very sad, so you stopped asking.
The kids at school told you what was going on. They explained to you, softly on the playground outside, that your mama’s people and your papa’s people did not get along sometimes. They explained that the loud bangs that had become commonplace in your home were bombs, and guns, and angry men, and they explained that sometimes, people that shouldn’t be are hurt by these weapons. They explained that your papa was ‘collateral damage’—a term an older boy with a scar on his cheek explained to you when you asked by simply motioning to the thick pink cord down his face. You didn’t ask again.
Your mama stopped speaking your papa’s language with you, stuck to her native tongue, so you would practise by yourself in your room at night time, whispering the lullaby into your sleeve so your mama wouldn’t hear. You didn’t want her to get sad; more than that, you didn’t want her to hit you again. She had started doing that when she caught you speaking Serbian or soft words of Hebrew, slapping you with the back of her hand, muttering apologies later when she came to tuck you in.
‘Zogu,’ she would say, softly into your hair, ‘forgive me. I don’t mean to be so cruel; sometimes my heart just aches. Sometimes it simply hurts too much to hear. Please understand.’ So you would turn over and place your hand on her cheek, very softly.
‘It’s alright mama,’ you would whisper, ‘it’s alright. I miss him very much too.’ And she would sniffle a bit then pat your tummy, say, ‘goodnight, zemra ime,’ and turn out your light.
//
you were nine when your mama told you you were moving to the West. You thought she meant Pejë, by the Rugova mountains your papa loved, but actually she meant Canada. You asked your teacher how far away that was from Prishtinës, and she smiled sadly at you, pet your hand, said ‘not quite far enough, xhan.’ You didn’t know what she meant, then, but the first time you woke up screaming in your papa’s tongue in a drafty single room apartment in Vancouver while the rain beat against the windows and your mama curled up next to you, you think you figured it out.
//
your mama met Joshua six months into your forced removal from Kosovo. He was very tall, and very dark, and he laughed with his belly, and he bought your mama and you warm coats because Vancouver was always rainy and you always felt it in your bones, like a dungeon inside your skin. He had a daughter; she was four years older than you, and you thought she was glamorous. When she first heard you speak, she didn’t snicker like the kids at school at your accent—a mix of your mama and your papa, twisting harshly around the strange sounds of English. She frowned a bit, then asked you to repeat yourself, and you blushed and stuttered and forgot what you were saying, so she clicked her tongue and straightened her spine.
‘Listen and watch my mouth, kitten,’ she told you, clearing her throat. ‘Hello, my name is Mattie. It’s lovely to meet you.’
You stuttered out a ‘hi’ and curled your toes, glancing at your mama. She was giving you that sharp look, the one that preceded a slap, so you tried again. ‘Hello Mattie; I am enchanted.’
Mattie laughed, and for once you didn’t feel like it was at you, and Joshua put a warm hand on the top of your head, said, ‘you’re already charming the ladies, kiddo,’ led you into the coffee shop. He bought you a chocolate croissant and a juice, and he let you try his cookie, and Mattie—who drank coffee—taught you what the strange words your classmates said to you meant. That made you a little bit sad, but Mattie told you not to worry about it, because they are ‘insignificant little weasels that can only speak one language, and a garbage one at that.’ You felt better after that.
//
your mama still hits you, with her sad ripped palms. Sometimes it is for speaking Serbian, or praying in your baka’s language, or wearing your papa’s shirt; other times, it is for nothing at all. You think it made her feel better, to hear that sharp crack against your cheekbone, so you never say anything. It hurts, though.
//
Joshua asked your mama and you to move in when you were eleven. You were so excited; you were very tired of sharing that mattress in that tiny apartment with your mama. You were an adult now. You were in grade six. Only babies still slept with their mamas; that mean boy with the white hair told you so in the cloakroom at school.
At Joshua’s house, you got your very own room. It was big, and dark blue, and you even had a mattress that was not on the floor. It made you think of your home in Prishtinës, with your big window and your blanket your baka knit. Mattie’s room was across the hall, and even though she was older and much more elegant, she left her door open so you could come in to sit on her bed and watch her do her make-up, or listen to her practise her speeches for the debate team.
Joshua’s house was on an old street in the West End. In autumn the leaves got very bright, and at the beach the waves turned from dark blue to grey. Mattie and you would go to the coffee shop on the corner of Comox and Denman, the one that Joshua had taken to you that time, and Mattie would use her allowance to buy you both chocolate croissants.
You all had dinner together on your twelfth birthday. When you went to bed, Joshua came to tuck you in. You shyly asked him if he could rub your back, but you accidentally asked in Serbian, so you had to repeat yourself when he cocked his head at you.
He smiled, large and white against his beautiful skin, said, ‘of course, miiću,’ and then wiped your cheeks when you cried, because that’s what your papa called you, and this wonderfully kind man spoke to you in the language you have to whisper. You hugged him very tight, and he kissed your head, tucked you in, kept your door open so the light from the hall spilled in.
//
Joshua legally adopts you just before you turned thirteen. He took you to the beach by your house, where you liked to feed the geese. Gently, he asked you if you would like to take his name, like your mama had, but you shook your head. He told you that was fine, that it was nice to have a bit of diversity in the family name, and smiled warmly when you nodded shyly. Mattie threw you a party, invited her cool best friends William and SJ, made you a card that said ‘To my sestra.’ You had held it together in front of her friends, but later that night, after everyone had left, you had hugged Mattie very hard, whispered ‘hvala vam’ into her chest, and apologized profusely when you got snot on her vintage Chanel blouse. She laughed and said, ‘Don’t worry, kitten. It adds character,’ and you hugged her again, because she was your sestra.
//
when you were almost fourteen, Joshua saw your mama hit you. It had gotten worse, and a lot more common, since that first time she slapped you in Prishtinës, but Joshua didn’t know. He traveled a lot for work, often spending weeks at a time in Toronto or New York for a case, so when he came home early one day in October, your mama wasn’t expecting him. So she had slapped you with her knuckles, and she had pushed you into the wall, and Joshua walked in with his fancy leather satchel as your mama was landing a very succinct punch to your mouth.
He pulled your mama away from you, told her very calmly to pack her things and find a hotel. When she argued, wiping your blood off her knuckles shakily, Joshua had gotten a very dark look on his face. You had never seen him angry before; he seemed much taller than usual, and he tucked you into his side, his large hand against your head.
‘You will pack your things,’ he said quietly, ‘and you will find a hotel for the night, and in the morning we will file the paperwork for separation. After that, I will drive you to your hotel, and you will never come near my daughter again.’
Your mama didn’t listen, and would come to your school every day when the final bell rang. She would plead with you in Albanian, and you would hug her very tightly, but every time, you would walk away.
//
Mattie threw a fit when Joshua said you were moving to Toronto. You didn’t mind; Vancouver was rainy as hell, and even now the kids weren’t very nice to you at school. You had a couple friends, and William and SJ were always kind to you, but there was nothing special keeping you there. So you packed up your room very quickly, and even though it still made your cheeks sting, you packed the picture of your mama and you, in your first month in Vancouver, posing in front of the totem poles in Stanley Park.
//
so Toronto is very large. Like, masivan. Prishtinës was quite small, not even 200,000 people, and Vancouver was…tiny. You could walk from your house all the way to the shipyards off Alexander in forty-five minutes kind of small. So Toronto is overwhelming, when you first get there. You live a few blocks from a beautiful park with a dog bowl, and although you move in March and it is snowy and cold, you drag Mattie there so you can pet the dogs.
Joshua wanted to send you to a private academy, but you staunchly refused. There is a high school up in the Annex that you think is beautiful; the old stone building reminded you of Kosovo, so you ask if you can go there. Mattie is in grade twelve, and has no friends here yet, so she agreed to go to the public school with you. Joshua buys you new boots for school, beautiful leather chelsea boots you had seen in a window in a shop on Queen West, and he also buys you a very warm black parka. You still have the toque your mama got you when you first moved to Vancouver, and although Joshua asks, you do not replace it.
Entering into a high school in the middle of the spring semester is an unmitigated disaster. Everyone already knows everyone, and now you’re the weird new kid again—not that you ever shook that title in Vancouver. But you think Toronto might be easier, because there are far less rich white kids at your school, and there are even people that look like Mattie and Joshua, and on your first day a tall gangly boy named Kirsch offers to walk you to your first class.
‘Hey, so where you from? You’re not from Toronto, are you?’ He is large and has soft, eager eyes, so instead of snarking at him, you answer quietly.
‘I moved here from Vancouver with my sister and Joshua, but I am from Kosovo.’ You whisper your home country, not wanting to deal with the pity you often see when you say where you are from, but when you glance up at Kirsch he’s just smiling.
‘Cool! My aunt lives in Vancouver; she’s a vet. Maybe you know her!’
You smile back, a tiny little thing, and say, ‘maybe.’ You breathe relief.
//
toronto is…yeah. Yeah. You love it; you and Mattie go for snowy walks down your tree-lined street, kicking at the drifts and drinking lattes (you are a Toronto girl now, Mattie said, so you have to be ‘ready for the grind’) from the coffee shop on Queen West Mattie won’t shut up about, R2. Joshua works a lot, but every Sunday he orders pizza and he buys a big two-litre of iced tea and you all sit on the squishy leather couch in the den and you watch Game of Thrones. Mattie loves the violence; you sit stock-still and only relax when Joshua wraps his big arm around you and kisses your head, whispers ‘don’t fret, miiću’ into your hair. You keep watching the show even though it makes your head buzz, because you like spending time with your family, and you like Arya.
Three weeks into Toronto Living, Kirsch invites you to go ice-skating at Nathan Phillips Square, just laughing in his goofy belly way when you tell him you can’t skate.
‘Come on, short stuff! You’re a Canadian now; it’s in your blood.’
You don’t correct him. You don’t tell him about the violence and the ache that is actually in your blood; you just smirk at him and say, ‘bring it on, then, beefcake.’
It’s freezing, -17, but it’s snowing in that big fluffy way, muffling the sounds of the city, so you pull on your toque and take the streetcar to the square. Kirsch is already there, and he helps you rent your skates, and then he helps you tie them when you complain about rope burn. He introduces you to his friend Danny and her brother Elliot, and Danny is startlingly tall, so you are squinting up into the snow to see her face. She laughs and bends down, pulling you into a hug. ‘Nice to meet you!’ she says, then, ‘Sorry about the hugging—we come from a big ol’ family of huggers.’ She motions to her brother, who is willowy and delicate and seemingly small, despite his tall frame.
His long blonde hair is shaggy and soft-looking, and his eyes are so green they remind you, suddenly, of the water of Lake Madhë, where your papa would take you in the summer sometimes. You feel a deep throb in your chest and your hand shakes as you hold it out to him.
He takes it softly, gently, and you have to strain to hear him over the sounds of the rink, but his voice is so lovely you find yourself staring at his lips long after he stops speaking.
‘Forgive me, I stopped listening by accident,’ you tell him with a crooked grin, and he smiles back, says, ‘I said it is wonderful to meet you, Carmilla.’ He hesitates, then he says, ‘and you have a lovely smile.’
//
you are absolutely terrible at ice skating. This makes you sad in a very aching way, a homesick way, because Kirsch had said you were a Canadian now. But you know you are still that sad girl that lost her papa in a firestorm in that lovely, sad city, and you will never belong among such softness. But Kirsch helps you up when you splay out across the ice, and his hands are very warm, and he drags you along with him, skating backward with such ease you can’t help but laugh as the biting wind hits your cheeks. And suddenly, among these gentle people with their smiles and their hugs, you don’t feel quite so much like ruins.
Elliot buys you a hot chocolate, waving you away when you pull out your money. ‘Please,’ he says, ‘I had to watch you fumble around on that ice for so long. You deserve a reprieve,’ so you let him, smirking through the steam when he hands it to you.
‘So you were watching me,’ you tease, and he fumbles his wallet.
‘What? No! I mean—’ he huffs, blowing his bangs out of his eyes. ‘Stop teasing me,’ he mutters, so you squeeze his mittened hand and just sip your hot chocolate quietly, watching Danny and Kirsch race around the rink for the thousandth time that day.
//
Joshua signs you up for an after-school acting class after he hears you talking about how much Elliot enjoys it. You thank him profusely, and when he chuckles and pets your head, says ‘anytime, miiću,’ you don’t even think about it when you say, ‘okay, dad. Thanks.’
Joshua gets very quiet, and then so do you, and then his eyes are wet and then so are yours. He wraps you up in his big arms, twirls you around, kisses your head. He is crying and smiling, and you are very shy but also startlingly happy. Mattie walks in, sees the hubbub, and promptly spins on a heel and leaves the room.
‘Hvala vam, Carmilla,’ he says, his usually steady deep voice quite shaky.
You don’t say anything back, but Joshua doesn’t mind.
//
Elliot is thrilled when you tell him about the acting class. Danny and Kirsch are happy too, although they are much more interested in sports than the Theatré, as Mattie had proclaimed it. Danny pulls you aside at lunch break, punching you on the arm, softly, as she says, ‘Thanks, you know.’
You didn’t know, and you say as much. Danny laughs and says, ‘I mean, for being so good to Elliot. He—he gets bullied a lot, because he’s…he’s softer than the other boys. So I’m glad you have his back, too.’
You shrug, mutter, ‘It’s no problem; it’s nice to have friends,’ and Danny gets quiet.
‘I’m honoured to be yours,’ she tells you, and you don’t know what to say because that warms your chest, so you smirk at her.
‘Yeah, yeah, just stop staring at my ass and thinking about the benefits and we’ll be good.’
Danny splutters and glares, grumbles, ‘Elliot was right, you are trouble,’ and walks away.
//
your first class with Elliot is, honestly, a blast. The teacher—Coraline, she insists—lets you two pair up for the workshops, and you soon learn Elliot is a dramatic diva, excellent on his feet and far less shy and insecure when he is pretending to be someone else. You find you love improv, but Coraline says you excel at dramatic reads. She tells you one day after class—after the other kids have left and it’s just you and Elliot goofing off with the props—that you have a very quiet intensity, that you change the tone of a room with your expressions, and Elliot proudly drapes an arm over your shoulder.
‘That’s my girl,’ he proclaims in his soft voice, ‘broody, dramatic, and entirely too good-looking not to be on the big screen.’
You shrug him off, slap a hand to his tummy, and he laughs as you roll your eyes.
As you’re leaving, Coraline puts a hand on your arm. ‘He’s right, you know,’ she says, glancing at Elliot.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You are…magnetic, Carmilla. Simply magnetic.’ And she sends you off with a quick tap on the butt and a cheery, ‘Later, Queens.’
//
Elliot convinces Danny, Kirsch and Mattie to join the acting troupe for a summer production of Grease. Kirsch is very energetic, but ultimately it turns out the stage is not for him. But Mattie loves the drama, and, surprisingly, Danny does too.
//
Mattie leaves for university in late August. She had been accepted to Dalhousie University in early spring, and dad was so proud he took you three on a surprise trip to Halifax to explore together. You all pile into dad’s mustang and drive Mattie to the airport, dad trying to keep it together the whole way there. Mattie is pretending to be aloof, but you see her lip shake when she waves goodbye at the security checkpoint.
You give her one more hug, pressing your forehead into her neck. ‘Volume vas, sestra,’ you whisper into her neck. She takes a shaky breath and kisses your head.
‘I love you too, kitten,’ and then she’s walking through security. You and dad watch her go, and then dad says, ‘come on, buddy. I need some serious ice cream.’
You go to Ed’s Real Scoop in Roncesvalle, and you run into Coraline on the sidewalk.
‘Carmilla!’ she exclaims happily, opening her arms. You smile and fall into them, pulling back and gesturing to dad.
‘Coraline, this is my dad, Joshua,’ you say, nervously, because it is still so new, having a dad again. Joshua smiles so warmly every time he hears you say it, though, so you don’t feel so shy.
‘It’s lovely to meet you, Mr Karnstein,’ Coraline says, and dad takes her hand with a quick shake of his head.
‘Oh no, no, please; it’s Joshua. Joshua Belmonde.’
‘Of course. Lovely to meet you, Joshua,’ Coraline amends, before launching into a diatribe waxing poetic about your ‘magnetic energy on the stage.’ You blush and scoff, trying to shrug off the praise, but dad won’t have it.
‘I can imagine her effect; I see it every day. Her and Elliot are quite the pair,’ he says with a deep laugh. ‘Two peas in a pod, those two.’ Under their looks, you blush again.
//
Elliot comes out to you in late September, right after you start grade ten. He is very shaky all day, and finally, when you two are in your room doing homework, your shoulders pressed together tightly, you feel him take a deep breath.
‘Hey, Carm?’ and he sounds so nervous you stop writing and look at him. He won’t meet your gaze, instead chewing on his lip and staring at a tear in his sleeve.
‘Yeah?’ you prompt, nudging his shoulder. He takes another deep breath, this one rattling in his chest, and then:
‘I’m gay,’ he blurts, covering his mouth and blushing hard. You stare at him for a beat, pursing your lips.
‘Okay,’ you shrug, pressing your forehead into his shoulder. ‘Neat. Me too, I think,’ you add, twisting your lips and staring at his Saint Anthony pendant.
He wraps an arm around your shoulders, says, ‘Your dad was right: we are quite the pair,’ and you laugh wetly.
‘No kidding,’ you say, wiping first at your cheeks and then at his.
Elliot gets very quiet again, and you headbutt him softly. ‘What?’ you ask him, pressing your forehead into his neck, and then, ‘are you okay?’ when you feel him shaking.
He shakes his head, and you feel more tears drip onto your cheek. ‘I—’ he starts, then chokes on a sob. You push yourself up rapidly, your hands fluttering around his soft, small shoulders, his drooping head.
“Elliot?’ and it comes out raspy and rushed, worried. He finally looks up, his green, green eyes sparkling and so sad.
‘I—I, um,’ he tries again, swallowing hard. ‘I also…I—I’m not—I’m not a boy,’ he tells you, so small and frightened. You are confused for a minute, before it clicks. Danny had explained sexuality, and gender, and all sorts of interesting things to you when she had told you she was bisexual.
‘Hey,’ you whisper when Elliot begins to shrink away from you. ‘Hey, come on, don’t shut me out, zogu. That’s okay, okay? I just—I just want you to be happy, you dorkwad.’
Elliot sniffles, their willowy arms wrapping around you tightly. ‘Okay,’ they mumble into your neck. ‘Okay.’
Dad is at work, so you both go downstairs to make hot chocolate. As the milk is warming on the stove, Elliot clears their throat, then tells you quietly, ‘I’d like to be called Elle, if that’s okay.’
You turn around and smash your body into hers, pressing your face into her chest. You can feel her heart pounding against her ribs, so you press a kiss to it, over Danny’s old soccer sweater. ‘Elle is a beautiful name,’ and she doesn’t let go of you until dad comes home, sees you two in the kitchen, and wraps his arms around the both of you.
‘What’s cookin’, kiddies?’ and only then do you remember the milk on the stove.
‘Oh no,’ and Elle laughs as you throw the pot into the sink right before the smoke alarm goes off.
//