by Dina Silver
Chapter Thirty-Eight CATHERINE Beirut, 1974 Ann Marie and I moved out of the Khalids’ house after the Christmas holiday and into our own apartment. It was near the grounds of the university campus and only blocks from where Gabriel and I used to live. I was still legally forbidden from leaving with my daughter because, as an American citizen, I didn’t have the right to take a Lebanese child out of the country. My Lebanese attorney, working with Fitz and Charley and Stewart Fishman—who was personally working on getting me a new passport—had managed to ban Gabriel from having any access to her because of his past behavior and his refusal to obey the initial court order. We’d heard he fled to Cyprus or Cairo but didn’t know for sure. Our new home was a tiny, furnished one-bedroom apartment with a butcher-type retail shop on the first floor that served food to go and had a few convenience items. Not a full grocery but things like milk, candy, cigarettes, and such. I would take Ann Marie do
Chapter Thirty-Nine CATHERINE Beirut, 1974 I stretched the phone cord over to the stove and turned off the flame under the pot of milk as my heart began to whirl. Ann Marie was sitting on the floor in front of the couch, ripping tiny pieces of foil off the chewing gum. “Just tell me what I need to do,” I said. “In thirty minutes, there will be a knock at your door. Ask who it is before opening it, and if she says it’s a floral delivery, open the door.” I swallowed. “Take the envelope and flowers from her, and close your door,” he continued. “Inside the package, you’ll find your new passport. You are to memorize whatever it says. I have not seen it, so I can’t give you any help at this time. Make sure you know your name, your child’s name, both of your birthdays, the date the passport was issued, and of course, your country of origin.” He cleared his throat. “There should be a section for your spouse, if you have one, and I don’t know what it will say, but it’s optional, so I’m hoping t
Chapter Forty ANN MARIE Chicago, 2009 I want to be able to say my mom isn’t going down without a fight, but that’s not quite the case. I’m finding her chemo pills all over the house, which I’ve chastised her about constantly, but she claims she doesn’t want any more poison in her body. She continues to order spirituality books on Amazon and jewelry on QVC, but she refuses to take her medication. Every time I look at her sitting on my couch in her heels and baubles, I liken it to the scene in Titanic where the aristocrats were sipping brandy and refusing to wear their life vests as the ship went down. The hardest part about my journey with her is that she can’t tell me how she’s feeling. Her tumor has cut the current that sends the thoughts in her head out through her mouth, and it’s incredibly frustrating for both of us. Her sisters and cousins are e-mailing me and calling daily, begging to come see her, but she keeps refusing company. Finally, my aunts Margaret and Colleen booked tick
Chapter Forty-One CATHERINE Beirut, 1974 We arrive at Beirut International Airport about an hour after George delivered my new passport. Our flight wasn’t for four more hours, but I was eager to get out of that apartment and through customs. The line was moderate; there were mostly families and some businessmen. It was rare to see a woman and child alone, but I was relieved to see at least one other pair headed for Boston. It’s a funny thing, suspicion. Being the guilty party, I was desperate to glide through the airport unnoticed. It was a seemingly simple task that offered numerous opportunities to fail when trying to accomplish it with a small child. We got in line and stood there about ten minutes before Ann Marie decided she needed to use the bathroom. Having just completed her potty training about two months prior, I wasn’t in a position to push my luck, but I just wanted to get through the line. She began to grab her dress and pull on my leg, and I could feel my chest start to s
Chapter Forty-Two CATHERINE Connecticut, 1974 Because of the time difference, we landed around 2:00 p.m., essentially more than twenty-four hours from when our journey began, and still had a three-hour car ride ahead of us. Laura and her brother, Henry, were at the gate waiting to greet us. We burst into tears at the sight of one another. My hair had grown past my shoulders at that point, and I was looking more like my old self again. Laura came close and gave me a kiss on the cheek. There was a kind man who’d offered to take my things off the plane because Ann Marie was asleep, slumped over my shoulder like a sack of flour. “Let me carry her for you,” Henry offered. I stroked her back and shook my head. “I would hate for her to wake up and see your face before mine.” He acted snubbed. “Many woman actually fight for that privilege,” he joked and grabbed my bags from the other passenger. Laura wiped her eyes. “We’re just so relieved. I called your mom early this morning, and she’d only
Chapter Forty-Three CATHERINE AND ANN MARIE Chicago, 2009 It’s been a rough week for Mom, but today is the big reunion, and I can see that it’s ignited a spark in her eyes. She lost another few pounds, and she’s finding it harder and harder to focus on simple conversations. Her speech is gone almost entirely. I’ve learned how to manage her with questions that require only a nod or a headshake. Anything above and beyond a yes-or-no answer is deemed inconsequential. As for me, I’m a wreck. Monica says I’m in denial, and Scott says I have to come to terms with the disease, but neither of those two options can prepare me for losing my mom. The boys and I pray for her every night, but I know I need to let go and prove to her that we’re going to be fine, and I can be strong for her like she was for me. I think about the years she spent without me and how much her death parallels my abduction as a child. It’s clear why she needed me to know what happened. To show me if she could pull through
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS While this book is entirely a work of fiction, it was inspired by an extraordinary woman and her very real experiences. A profound thank-you to my friend for sharing her mother’s harrowing and poignant life story with me as she grew from a headstrong young woman into a loving grandmother battling cancer. It’s been an incredible and humbling honor to be trusted with her memories. Additionally, I could not have told this story without the support and encouragement of the following people: Brigitte Ghannoum—Since I’ve never been to Beirut, and certainly not in the 1970s, I am so grateful to Brigitte for her invaluable FaceTime session with me and her notes on the sights, sounds, and smells of this Lebanese city. Also, thank you to my Purdue University pal Raed Taji for the introduction! I can’t tell you how many times I referred to the pages and pages of notes I was able to extract from her. Christina Tracy—Speaking of Purdue pals, thank you to my Kappa Kappa Gamma sister
ABOUT THE AUTHOR Photo © Robin Miller Dina Silver is an author, a wine lover, and an excellent parallel parker. She lives with her husband, son, and twenty-pound tabby cat in suburban Chicago. She’d prefer to live somewhere where it’s warm year-round, but she’s also a licensed real estate agent in Illinois, and she loathes the thought of having to take the broker exam again in another state. Dina is the author of five other novels, including One Pink Line, Kat Fight, Finding Bliss, The Unimaginable, and Whisper If You Need Me. To find out more about Dina and her books, visit www.dinasilver.com.
ALSO BY DINA SILVER
Kat Fight
One Pink Line
Finding Bliss
The Unimaginable
Whisper If You Need Me
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2018 by Dina Silver
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503954120
ISBN-10: 1503954129
Cover design by David Drummond
CONTENTS
Chapter One ANN MARIE NEELAN
Chapter Two CATHERINE CLARKE HADDAD
Chapter Three CATHERINE
Chapter Four ANN MARIE
Chapter Five CATHERINE
Chapter Six CATHERINE
Chapter Seven ANN MARIE
Chapter Eight CATHERINE
Chapter Nine CATHERINE
Chapter Ten ANN MARIE
Chapter Eleven CATHERINE
Chapter Twelve CATHERINE
Chapter Thirteen ANN MARIE
Chapter Fourteen CATHERINE
Chapter Fifteen CATHERINE
Chapter Sixteen ANN MARIE
Chapter Seventeen CATHERINE
Chapter Eighteen CATHERINE
Chapter Nineteen CATHERINE
Chapter Twenty ANN MARIE
Chapter Twenty-One CATHERINE
Chapter Twenty-Two CATHERINE
Chapter Twenty-Three CATHERINE
Chapter Twenty-Four ANN MARIE
Chapter Twenty-Five CATHERINE
Chapter Twenty-Six CATHERINE
Chapter Twenty-Seven ANN MARIE
Chapter Twenty-Eight CATHERINE
Chapter Twenty-Nine CATHERINE
Chapter Thirty ANN MARIE
Chapter Thirty-One CATHERINE
Chapter Thirty-Two CATHERINE
Chapter Thirty-Three ANN MARIE
Chapter Thirty-Four ANN MARIE
Chapter Thirty-Five CATHERINE
Chapter Thirty-Six CATHERINE
Chapter Thirty-Seven ANN MARIE
Chapter Thirty-Eight CATHERINE
Chapter Thirty-Nine CATHERINE
Chapter Forty ANN MARIE
Chapter Forty-One CATHERINE
Chapter Forty-Two CATHERINE
Chapter Forty-Three CATHERINE AND ANN MARIE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Chapter One
ANN MARIE NEELAN
Chicago, 2008
As I reach the attorney’s office on the thirtieth floor, I’m disappointed by my reflection in the large glass panels that make up the entrance. My shoulders are slumped, and there are dark circles underneath my blue eyes. Nothing ages you like stress and sadness. I lift my chin and yank one of the door handles before seeing the word PUSH etched above it. A profound thud echoes through the corridor. Once inside, I can sense the receptionist’s disdain.
I approach him with a rueful grin. “I’m Ann Marie Neelan. I’m here to see—”
“Please have a seat,” he says.
I settle in an old leather armchair near a window overlooking Chicago’s renowned Michigan Avenue and look down at my unsteady hands gripping the folders in my lap as if my life depends on them, which it does. Despite everything, my fingernails are perfectly manicured in pale pink to match my lips, and my long dark hair is pulled into a low, tidy ponytail at the nape of my neck, because I’m not allowed to fall apart. I can hear my mother’s resolute voice: “Put your pearls on and fake it.”
I flip open one of my folders and pretend to care about its contents. Copies of e-mails, phone records, credit card receipts. All of which I’ve seen a thousand times in the course of the months that led me to where I am today. Broken promises, broken vows, broken hearts—mine, anyway—and a web of lies woven so expertly that I’m ashamed to be at the center of it all. My stomach turns.
Fifteen minutes later, an intercom buzzes and alerts the receptionist. He lifts the phone receiver and then places it back down. “Stewart will see you now.”
I hurry up and out of the chair. “Oh, great. Thank you so much,” I say with a smile and then disappear around a corner. I run a hand over my head, but I know there isn’t a hair out of place.
Stewart Fishman is hanging up the phone and motions for me to sit down when I enter his office. His desktop is large and very sparse, save for a phone, an electric pencil sharpener, a coffee cup, and a glass paperweight in the shape of a golf ball. His skin is wrinkled and tan, and his expression gruff, but there is evidence of what was once a handsome, youthful man. I watch as he adjusts a pair of reading glasses over his dark eyes, topped by a pair of bushy white brows, and studies me.
“You can put those on the desk.” He gestures to my folders, and I do as he suggests. “So,” Stewart begins, “I know we discussed your situation a little over the phone, but why don’t you brief me on everything now that you’re here.” His voice is low and comforting. All I want is to have someone else take control of my life and do my fighting for me.
I manage a smile. “My husband, Todd, moved out about six months ago, recently stopped paying the mortgage, and is threatening to stop paying the utilities if we don’t come to an agreement on selling the house ASAP. I can’t have it go into foreclosure.” I pause and take a breath. “I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get in here, but it’s been hard with the boys being so young. I’m embarrassed by how blindsided I was by all his lies and cheating. There was a short period of time where I even thought maybe we could work things out.” I throw my arms up and shake my head.
“So, how did you find me?” He lifts his glasses and scans a notepad on his desk.
“My therapist, Monica Farlander.”
He gives a small, knowing nod. “OK, Ann Marie . . .” He looks at his notes again. “Neelan. Tell me about yourself. What’s your maiden name?”
“Haddad. It’s Lebanese.”
He writes down the name, furrowing his brow. “I’ve seen that name before.” He stares at the page and then looks away for a moment.
“It’s a common Lebanese name,” I add.
“What’s your mother’s name?”
“Catherine. She’s from Connecticut.”
He writes her name on the paper and then sits back in his chair, rests his hands in his lap, and looks me straight in the eyes. “Wait, is she a Downing?”
I’m a little surprised by his question, as people don’t normally make the connection without my telling them. The Downings are a renowned East Coast dynasty, and yes, my mother is somewhat related. Her father, Albert Clarke, was the elder brother of Hazel Clarke Downing, the matriarch of the Downing dynasty. “My mom is a Clarke,” I say. “Hazel Downing is my mom’s aunt.”
Before I know it, he leaps up out of his chair and places his hands on his hips.
I squirm in my seat. I can’t afford to meet with any more attorneys at this point. Todd has already met with so many of the other good ones in Chicago, barring them from representing me. “Maybe your firm has done a Clarke or Downing divorce before?” I ask. A fair question, considering the countless number of failed Downing marriages over the past four decades. My parents being one of those.
Stewart takes a deep breath, and his eyes go wide. “Your mother was a client of mine.” He starts waving a finger and pacing behind his chair.
“What?” My skin gets warm, and a lump of uneasiness lands in my throat.
“Catherine Clarke Haddad. CC, right?”
I nod.
“She was quite the beauty, that woman.” He pauses, reveling in the thought of her as so many people do, including me. “And a fighter, too. She made quite an impression on people,” he adds. “Do you have any idea what that family went through?” He looks away.
I’m about to answer, but he continues to speak, reliving the memory.
“What a horrible story that was.” He shakes his head and sits down, placing his elbows on the desk.
“Well, no divorce is without its issues, as I’m sure you know, but I didn’t think it was all that bad. I mean, the Clarkes and the Downings aren’t in the habit of discussing ‘unsavory’ matters, that’s for sure, but they—”
Stewart lifts a hand and points at me. “Oh my God.” His eyes penetrate mine. “All this time I’ve wondered what happened to that poor little girl.”
I eye him. “I’m not sure I know what you’re referring to.”
“Are you her only dau
ghter?” he asks.
“CC’s? Yes, of course.” He must have me confused with someone else.
“This is incredible.” He looks me over as if he’s seeing me for the first time.
We stare at each other. Me, uncomfortable; him, astonished.
Stewart Fishman rubs his forehead and then briefly covers his mouth with the palm of his hand. His eyes become glossy. “I can’t believe you’re the little girl.”
Chapter Two
CATHERINE CLARKE HADDAD
Chicago, 1970
On top of the dining-room sideboard was a photograph from our honeymoon in Italy. We’d gone to Rome, Florence, and then Venice. Gabriel was pictured standing in Saint Mark’s Square—arms outstretched liked a human perch with a pile of birdseed in each hand and a mass of fluttering, ambitious pigeons on each arm. I couldn’t help but smile when I lifted it for a closer look. I placed the frame back down and finished dusting.
Our first few months of marriage had been challenging. We’d eloped at city hall after dating only a couple of months, disappointing both our families and, worse, enraging my mother. Not long after, we left my childhood home in Greenwich, Connecticut, for Gabriel’s new job in Chicago. Mother begrudgingly drove us to the airport and would hug only me, not my husband, goodbye.
