I will return to Egypt. With or without Nicole. But definitely with my son.
CHAPTER FOUR
At 12:10 p.m. Natalie checked her watch in the Commonwealth Club at the William Penn Inn. Nicole had sounded so distressed last night, so anxious to meet, but she was running behind, as usual. Natalie, always punctual, Nicole, usually late. She considered ordering a salad, then saw her twin sister enter from the top of the stairs. She immediately noticed the layered scarves around Nicole’s neck.
Natalie tried not to stare as Nicole settled across from her in the booth, then slowly removed dark glasses.
“What happened?” She grabbed her sister’s hand across the table.
Nicole glanced about, checking their surroundings for observant diners. No one sat nearby. She lowered the silk scarves, exposing swollen lips on her right side, the upper lip showing a jagged cut extending upward, two centimeters long, at least. Speechless, Natalie sucked in her breath. Then her focus switched to her sister’s swollen and discolored eye on the opposite side from the injured lip.
“Holy shit! Nicole, what happened? Were you mugged? Don’t tell me you ‘fell.’”
“Ahmed. Hit. Me.” Nicole fingered the cut. She never took her eyes off Natalie, assessing her reaction.
Natalie could only continue to stare. “I don’t know what to say. The bastard. I can’t believe it. What—”
“Natalie, we’ve never had any secrets. Not even when we were kids and I was always the naughty one and you the goody-goody. So, I’ll tell you, but you can’t tell Mom or our brothers.”
“You need to tell the police,” Natalie said. “Nobody treats you like that.”
Nicole looked calm, Natalie noticed, not remotely hysterical, resigned. That bastard would not get away with beating up her sister.
“Has he done this before?” Natalie asked, quite sure she knew the answer. Nicole would have told her, certainly.
“No. And I don’t know what to do.”
“Did something happen, like to start a fight?”
“Not really, but he did announce I’m to sign up Alex at an Islamic school in Villanova: the Foundation of Islamic Education.”
“But Archy’s not a religious guy,” Natalie said. “Why the sudden interest in Islam?”
“I don’t know. He seemed agitated after a phone call with his family yesterday. And he’s pissed about the latest malpractice lawsuits.”
“But hit you? Had he been drinking?”
“No. We were having dinner with Alex, and he started going off about changing schools.”
“He hit you in front of Alex?” Natalie was truly aghast.
“No. Later in the evening.”
“You have to get stitches for that cut.”
“Like go to one of my colleagues for ‘a few stitches, please’? Not a chance. I’ll fix it myself in our office.”
“What?” Natalie said, peering closer. “There’s too much edema.”
“With a mirror, I can manage. No big deal. I’m sure not going to ask Ahmed.”
“But …”
“Here’s the real issue, Natalie. My life. What if he comes home like nothing happened, apologizes even? What should I do? And there’s Alex to consider. He’s such a sensitive kid. What should I do about my life?” she repeated.
The waitress came, her eyes on Nicole’s face as both sisters ordered seafood salad, iced tea.
Natalie had always liked Nicole’s charming, attractive husband. He fit in fine with their three brothers and her own husband, Rob. She had no trouble with his ethnicity, especially since he’d been fine with raising Alex as a Catholic, as Nicole wished.
“My first impulse,” Natalie said, “was call the cops, but that has so many bad repercussions. Yikes—if it’s a slow news day … Yet you can’t let yourself be an abused wife. You of all people, Nicole. You’re still a tough kid. Maybe you should see what Archy does next, before you do—anything final, but—”
“Don’t call him Archy anymore,” Nicole interrupted. “He hates that, all of a sudden. Call him Ahmed. Okay?”
“Yeah, sure. But what I wanted to say is that you need to have a Plan B. Figure out how you would go about getting a separation. Financially, I mean. Professionally. You jointly own the office building and the practice and the house. Yours and Archy’s lives are so intertwined. You need to protect yourself—right?”
Natalie watched Nicole’s face crumple. No way would her sister cry in a public place. Natalie could cry over everything, but not don’t-fuck-with-me Nicole. Tough, Natalie reflected, except of course when it came to her son. Nicole cherished that little kid.
“You’re right, Natalie. I have to think ahead. Worst-case scenario—if he hits me again, I have to have a plan. If we weren’t together anymore, would it even be possible to be business partners?” Nicole answered her own question. “No, not with his macho ego. When we got married, I was sure he was different from the controlling Arab-man stereotype. Wrong. His ego,” she repeated, “couldn’t take that arrangement.”
When their food arrived, the conversation paused until the waitress left.
Natalie glanced at her watch. She’d be okay for her appointment if they finished lunch in a half hour.
Nicole said, “How do you and Rob handle your finances? Separate or intermixed, like we do?”
“Separate,” Natalie said. “It’s just the way it worked out. He has his construction business. I have my corporate job. But Rob’s a macho guy, too. He insists on paying for everything except my clothing. I have my own credit cards for that. But how many clothes can you buy?”
“Enough to make you look awesome,” Nicole said. “How much did you pay for that St. John suit? Seriously, so all the money you make at Keystone is in your name?”
“Yes. That’s just how we left it when we got married.”
“We never argue about money, but Ahmed keeps a close watch on our bank statements and investment accounts. He’ll know if I touch anything.” Nicole ignored her uneaten salad and lowered her head, fiddling with her scarves.
“Does it hurt to eat?” Natalie asked.
“Not hungry. I guess that’s what happens when your husband beats you up.”
“You have two important considerations,” Natalie said. “First, is Alex. How you handle this so he doesn’t get hurt. Look, Nicole, if you leave Arch—Ahmed, you can raise Alex on your own. Look what a good job Mom did with us. Who needed a husband! And you’re tough, just like Mom. Second, you’ll have to disentangle your joint practice and financial assets. For that, you’ll need a lawyer. Somebody real experienced. Talk to Mike. His firm has just the caliber of attorney you’ll need.”
“No. I don’t want to ask any of our brothers for help.”
Natalie nodded. Nicole had always been fiercely competitive when it came to their two older brothers. To ask for help would be a sign of weakness. “Just—”
“I don’t want interference from them. They’ve always considered us damsels in distress, helpless. Plus, they’d freak out if they knew that either of us got hit by her husband.”
Natalie nodded again, eating her salad. Their three brothers—two older, one younger—scored high on the macho scale.
“This is your life you’re talking about. I do think you should talk to Mike. Right away.”
“I feel a lot better after talking to you. And remember—you promised.”
“Swear you’ll call me immediately if this happens again.” Natalie checked her watch. “I’m on my way to Manhattan, but Rob is around if you need him. In an instant. He’s never away from his phone.”
Nicole shook her head. “You can’t tell him.”
“Yes, I can,” Natalie said. “And I will. He’s my husband.”
“Nobody else!”
The receptionist approached their table, leaned down to say to
Natalie, “Your car is here, Dr. Nelson.”
“Get to your meeting, Natalie. I’ll get the tab. And thanks.”
“Don’t f
orget to stitch that lip. Even backwards in the mirror you’ll do a better job than any plastic surgeon in the East.”
CHAPTER FIVE
“DR. NELSON, ARE you okay? We didn’t expect you back after lunch—”
Ahmed had just settled in to review a patient’s chart when he overheard Nicole’s assistant’s question.
“I’m fine,” he heard Nicole’s cool voice. Then she called, “Could you get me a surgical set up? Just bring it into my office …”
He was relieved that she’d not stayed home and sulked.
“But you have no patients scheduled,” her assistant objected. “I canceled them, like you requested—”
“I’m going to fix this cut over my lip.”
Ahmed wondered what excuse Nicole had given for the black eye, the swollen and cut lip.
“Dr. Nelson, you can’t do that. I’ll get Dr. Masud. He’s not with a patient yet, and his schedule is light. I tried to fill in with some of the patients you canceled, but … they wanted to wait for you.”
“Shit.” People are so ignorant. I’m a damned better surgeon than Little Miss Beauty Queen.
Nicole’s response, immediate, definitive, “No. I will handle this on my own.” Followed by a door slamming.
A wrapped sterile tray in hand, Nicole’s assistant stood just outside Ahmed’s open door. “Dr. Nelson is back, Dr. Masud, and she says she’s going to fix that cut on her lip. I told her she should have you do it—”
“My wife is a grown woman,” he said. “She makes her own decisions.” But not for long if they moved to Egypt. In Egypt, there would be no doubt. Dr. Ahmed Masud would never be overshadowed by a woman, especially a blond, American woman. If she came with him to Egypt, he may, or may not, let her work. If he did, she’d stay in the background, relegated to the assistant’s job. The thought made Ahmed smile.
“Uh, okay, Dr. Masud, but she really hurt herself when she took that fall.”
So, she’d protected him. That fall. Maybe he should offer to help. The staff adored Nicole.
He got up, followed the woman with the tray into Nicole’s private office. His wife was in the adjoining bathroom vigorously scrubbing her face with surgical soap.
“You can leave us now.” He extended one hand for the tray, holding open the door with the other.
The plump assistant hesitated, swiveled instead toward the small bathroom. “Nicole, sure you’re okay?”
Ahmed steeled his voice. “You are to refer to my wife as Doctor Nelson. You are not her best friend. We pay you. We are not on a first-name basis in this practice.” A pet peeve of Ahmed’s. One pooh-poohed by his wife.
The woman lingered for a second, and when Nicole said nothing, left the room. “Yes, Doctor Masud.”
Nicole emerged from the bathroom, her right lower face all stained with antiseptic. Without a word, she reached for the tray. She’d already switched on the bright light over the mirror and laid out surgical gloves on the side table. She said one word, “Out.”
The word stung like a jet of saliva in the eye; he gave her the tray, turned, and left the room.
That crazy bitch could stitch up her own face. He wasn’t going to fight her over this. Neither could he afford to piss her off more, or she’d tell them what happened. For now, he’d have to endure the Western world’s version of How to Treat a Woman.
A patient was waiting for Ahmed when he returned—another middle-aged woman wanting a face-lift. Same for the next two patients. One of them let it slip that she had asked for Dr. Nelson—but she was fully booked. The last patient had flown in from Cairo, an aging socialite, a Mubarak supporter and an acquaintance of his own family—she wanted to look “like Cleopatra.” Seriously.
Ahmed decided to spend the rest of the afternoon following up on his sister Merit’s suggestion yesterday that he check out Facebook references to the Mubarak regime. While living in the US, he’d focused on his medical career, ignoring global political issues, avoiding politics of any stripe. Only if an issue personally affected him did he give a damn.
The aftermath of September 11 did negatively affect his life, of course, as it had that of any Arab in America. But because he lived within the protective orbit of his wife’s influential and wealthy family, and because he was a prominent plastic surgeon on staff in an excellent hospital, he’d never really faced ethnic prejudice. Until now. The malpractice lawsuits kept coming and the litigation demeaned him.
Ahmed spent the late afternoon researching the politics of his homeland that he’d ignored for so long. He found disturbing trends: strong signs of discontent in Egypt; masses unhappy with the status quo, intolerant of government corruption, challenging Mubarak cronyism and the power elite’s concept of an inherited presidency. Mubarak cronyism? Indeed, the description fit his own family: Hosni Mubarak’s son Gamal and Ahmed’s brother Jafari were pals—and business associates.
On the drive home, he hardly worried about his differences with Nicole. She was the smartest person he knew—hard as that was to admit—and he was eager to share with her what he’d learned on the Internet, to get her take on Egyptian current events. To explain to her how his family figured in the political and economic controversies now raging in cyberspace. Curl up together on the sofa in front of the fire, and talk about important topics, like they used to do before his son was born.
But when he arrived home, Nicole was gone. She’d left a note. His translation of it: he was not a priority. His excitement evaporated. Discuss the trends evolving in his homeland? Why would she care?
Face it. Nicole doesn’t give a damn about what’s happening in Egypt. About how close my family is to Mubarak. How my family’s fate will be affected if Mubarak does go down.
I wouldn’t involve her anyway. In Egypt, women aren’t expected to be politically engaged. My sister Merit is one of a kind.
CHAPTER SIX
NICOLE INJECTED LIDOCAINE and stitched the cut above her lip with several tiny sutures. She cleaned up the debris of bloody gauze scraps and then stepped into her office to check e-mails. Distracted, she scrolled through the routine, stopping to read the personal ones. From Natalie—was she okay? Her mother, who was spending a month in New Zealand at her vineyards there—how’s Alex? Nicole recalled that Alex had one of his ear infections about the time her mother had left the country. Her salon—reminder about a pedicure appointment. Alex’s teacher—suggesting a follow-up to their last meeting. Her sister-in-law Monica with tickets to her forthcoming benefit concert in Philadelphia between Christmas and New Year’s—next year.
When she read that one, a smile started to form—until she felt a painful tug on her sutures.
No patients scheduled, no chart reviews due. For once, Nicole would go home early. Ahmed’s office door still was closed. She waved to her assistant and scooted off. Between the medical building across from Bryn Mawr Hospital and their home on Philadelphia’s Mainline, she had a ten-minute commute. If she hurried, she’d be able to detour to Alex’s school; with her schedule, she rarely could pick him up. She’d call from the car to let school security know she’d be in the queue in her silver Lexus SUV; no need to go in and expose her damaged face.
She’d “fallen down the stairs,” she’d told Alex and Anna, their nanny/housekeeper. How well she knew: the universal excuse of abused women. Never did she think she’d be among them. Alex seemed to buy it, his innocence protecting him. Anna had looked skeptical.
How would she handle Ahmed, now? She couldn’t just carry on as if nothing had happened. Neither was she about to stage a scene that would disturb Alex. At times like this, she thought about her mother, the single mom and surgeon, raising five kids …
As she waited in the line of minivans and SUVs, Nicole flipped on the radio. She tuned to NPR—a discussion of the real estate market debacle. Thirty percent of signed contracts abandoned by home buyers. Banks with more foreclosures than new loans. Unemployment figures in the double digits in so many areas. She started to listen more closely when the C
EO of D. R. Horton, self-proclaimed “America’s Builder,” expressed serious concerns about the viability of his own firm. She wasn’t up on Case-Shiller home price index’s steep decline or other technical financial terms, but the building industry was in shambles.
This real estate drama hit close to home. Her sister Natalie’s husband owned one of the region’s largest home building firms, Johnson Quality Homes. Could Rob’s business be in serious financial trouble? Could he lose all he had worked so hard for? Natalie hadn’t said anything specific. And yesterday at lunch, Nicole had been so absorbed in her own drama, she’d not even bothered to ask what was happening with Natalie.
“Mom.” A tap on the passenger door—Nicole hit the unlock button and attempted a smile until she grimaced from the pain of her stitches.
Alex jumped in the backseat, tossing his bookbag beside him.
“How was your day?” She asked the everyday kid question as he buckled in.
“Good. I told everybody about how you fell down the steps and your eye looks real weird, but you’re okay!”
Nicole couldn’t help but wonder what he’d have said if he’d known the truth: Daddy hit Mommy but she’s okay.
Right then she made her decision. She’d act normal tonight at home. Alex deserved that.
But she’d been home less than a half hour when HUP—Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania—called. The ER—Level 1 trauma unit, specifically. Nicole was an adjunct faculty member, and as such, was on a call rotation for severe craniofacial injuries. Since U of P had their own dedicated surgical staff, they rarely called her. But tonight, they needed all hands; a team bus full of high school kids had overturned on the Pennsylvania Turnpike near Lancaster. All six of HUP’s ambulance helicopters were inbound. She was needed STAT.
Nicole hastily kissed her little boy, murmuring her usual excuse. “I have to go help somebody who’s hurt.” She made sure all was well with Anna, an American of Egyptian descent, who had been with the Masuds since Alex’s birth. She was the perfect nanny, thirty-six years old, unmarried, dependable. Third generation, she spoke limited Arabic and had no interest in Islam or for that matter, any religion.
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