A Faceless Beast Cloaked in Ice
By Maya Shadid
A Faceless Beast Cloaked in Ice
by Maya Shadid
When I saw it, I stopped. The snowy sludge on which I’d been traversing oozed into the crevices of my boots, solidifying in complement to each rubber fissure; I was incapable of moving. Though caustic winter breezes swarmed my body and leached away my heat, my fixation on the object sent an impulse throughout my flesh that counteracted all shivering, all discomfort.
A statue. I had wandered along this path many times before, but only now did I notice it. Rugged limestone formed an androgynous being, kneeling on a striated pedestal and hugging itself. The stone creature looked downwards solemnly, yet no features were carved into its countenance. It was nobody and everyone. Perhaps the figure was particularly captivating this day because of the way the snow ornamented it - a fluffy white cloak upon its grimy, naked body. Though I found this scene majestic, I didn’t halt on my own accord. Rather, there was someone I felt compelled to share it with.
Hundreds, possibly thousands, of people passed that lumpy stone figure, most not giving it any thought. I had been among them. But, my father was different. He had an appreciation for the intricate - a sensitivity for the subtle beauties of the world. Seeing enthusiasm churn within his mind was utterly gratifying, and I thrilled in supplying him with little delights - coal for the furnace of his thoughts.
Taking out my cell phone with numb fingers, I photographed the faceless beast and sent it to him. Then, I realized how pointless it was. My lip began to quiver, and I let it. Anyone else would think I was merely cold. Truthfully, what I felt at that moment wasn’t the absence of heat but a lack of something far more profound. The little shiver snaked down my body until my entirety trembled as I scrolled through our messages - a torrent of my unanswered texts.
When I was a child, my family regularly attended church on Sundays. I recall one in particular, a day that began as ordinarily as all others. My family squeezed into a wooden pew, shushing each other as our footsteps echoed against the marble floor. As we took our seats, the oak fibers creaked and groaned. Like a primped-up doll, I sported a frilly dress, my hair adorned with a matching bow, plush and slightly excessive. My mother, sisters, and I wore matching colors, and my father coordinated his tie accordingly as if to signal that he was part of our little posse. Though, I doubt anyone could ever think otherwise; my face was nothing but a feminized version of his.
I nestled into my father’s side, his warmth swirling with mine as we became a single thermodynamic unit. He was plump and soft and safe. Being just a child, I rarely paid attention during mass; instead, I found myself zoning in on the small details of my surroundings. I looked upward at my father’s balding scalp, the stained-glass windows refracting beams of rainbows that glistened upon his shiny head. My attention darted around the room as I sought out something to entertain my mind. And, I found my prize. In the front row sat a line of somber individuals dressed in black garments. At a young age, I learned the critical significance of these dark clothes. The threads of the modest anthracite dresses and suits wove a reality far more complex than mere outfits. Upon seeing this, I glanced toward my father to see if he had arrived at the same conclusion: Bread.
And, death. But that was just the subtext. Due to our Lebanese heritage, my family belonged to a Maronite-Catholic parish with unique traditions and customs. One of these was that when a person passed away, a mass would be celebrated in their memory. After the liturgy, everyone could give condolences to the departed’s family. In return, the family handed out the most aromatic, saccharine, wonderful bread that you could possibly conceive. Infused with orange blossom and rose water and subtly coated in a honey-like substance, this food was a drug to my young self. Yes, I felt some sadness that the price of this treat was a life, but I never knew the people who died or mourned; I was never affected to a significant extent. What I did know was that this treat was only distributed by families adorned in black, sometimes stoic, sometimes sobbing. And yet, no matter how taboo, I was excited.
Booming, authoritative footsteps traveled down the center aisle. A man reached the front of the church, carrying a large tray in his hands. Stacked upon it in a neat spiral formation was the bread, and I salivated as he set the tray on a display table. Church had suddenly become more bearable.
My father was well aware of my passion for this bread. Maybe because he knew better than to explain the significance of human expiration to a child, or maybe because he was aware of just how amazing the bread was, he didn’t attempt to dim my mildly inappropriate ardor. Instead, when the liturgy concluded and it was time to collect our yeasty reward, he snuck me a second piece. When he revealed it to me, joy lit up my eyes like sparks behind their sockets. I wonder if he saw himself in me, in those large brown eyes we shared. We left the church arm-in-arm, giggling at each other as we scarfed down the delicious grief of black-cloaked strangers. No, we didn’t think of them then. Instead, we smiled and ate.
Then came the day he stopped eating. I didn’t realize how bad he had gotten. Nobody told me; I suppose I didn’t let them. It was the first semester of my Freshman year of college, and my last final exams were two days away. As I studied in the library with which I had become all-too-well acquainted, I received a frantic call from one of my younger sisters. My breath grew stale in my chest as her name illuminated my phone screen; she never called with good news.
“Dad’s in the hospital again. He’s really not doing well,” she sobbed. My throat tightened as I swallowed my own emotions, shoving them into the pools of my stomach acid to be digested with my dinner.
“Stop,” I interrupted before she could ramble on, “Just, stop. I can’t, Lily. I can’t right now. Don’t say anything else. Don’t call again with anything sad. I just have to get through these tests. Two days, and I’ll be done. Right now, I can’t. I can’t.”
And, when the two days passed, I came home for winter break. I packed all my favorite clothes - lovely, bright textiles. I recall leaving many of the darker items behind; I always hated how I looked in black.
When a family member picked me up from my bus stop, the first place we went was the hospital. I was led to the east corner of the fourth floor - the hospice wing. I had known my father was sick; however, I’d been shielded from the magnitude of the situation. My body grew heavier with each step as reality slowly clawed at the walls of my aching mind: I should have packed the black.
I entered his room timidly, a helpless child lost in my own flesh. The moment I saw him, I rushed into his bony arms. My once-chubby, cuddly father had shrunk in on himself, cheekbones slicing through his pallid skin. So, so skinny. Where had he gone? He was stolen. Yes, stolen by a thief of profound power, an evil of immense magnitude, yet with a name so small: cancer. It thrived within him as he rotted before my eyes, those eyes we shared. In killing him, it would kill itself - along with the rest of us.
My mother lingered near his side and instructed me to sit down before urging everyone else to leave the room. “Daddy has to tell you something,” she said, weariness contorting her features into those of a much older woman.
“My body is rejecting food. I can’t keep anything down without puking it back up,” he calmly announced. “My intestines are failing. I don’t get hungry anymore. I’ve decided to stop eating. I’m done, Baboo.” I had never heard my nickname muttered so solemnly. Done. He was done. I had been so, so good at keeping my composure, but at that moment, I couldn’t do it anymore.
“No, no, no, Daddy,” my voice was desperate and animalistic; I could hardly recognize it beneath my rasping sobs.
Oh, but yes.
I thought I had more time. He was diagnosed only a year prior; at first, there were high hopes for his survival. I found myself ignoring that another possibility even existed. But, on one occasion, I allowed the notion to enter my mind. As I sat with him in his room that day, I turned to him and asked, “Are you scared?”
Though he stuttered out the word “no,” I could see the truth in his wide eyes, those eyes we shared. For a moment, he wasn’t my father. He wasn’t a man. He was but a small child, and all I wanted to do was protect him. I thought back to my youth - all the times he comforted me, calmed my fears, checked my closet for monsters. But, this was a monster he couldn’t save me from. And, I couldn’t save him.
The church was colder than I remembered. My heels rhythmically clicked against the solid floor, but my knees wobbled as if I were walking along a rugged path. I found my seat in the front row and sandwiched myself between my mother and sisters. I grasped my mom’s hand, and our icy bodies trembled together. I could hear people shuffling into the pews behind us, but I refused to turn my head. I wished I could disappear from their perception, shed my body, my face. Perhaps then I wouldn’t be reminded of my loss every time my eyes met themselves in the mirror. I breathed in deeply. The mass would begin soon.
As I continued to wait, it became harder to ignore the surrounding commotion; booming footsteps approached from behind me. So loud, so heavy. Then, I realized. I reached my hand to my gaping mouth, muffling the sobs that threatened to escape. A man reached the front of the church, carrying a large tray in his hands.
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