No Time To Blink

by Dina Silver

  I took another drag and blew the smoke through the window screen. “They were good. And yes, I’ve put a thank-you note in the mail to him.”

  “Very glad to hear that,” she said. Mother would continue to ask me about myself, how I was feeling, about the church, the apartment, the weather, but never about Gabriel. It was as if I’d packed up and moved to the city alone and impregnated myself.

  “I have some news,” I started. She must’ve dreaded every time one of her daughters began a sentence that way.

  “Oh?”

  My throat tightened. “Gabriel has been transferred to Beirut.” There was a long, disapproving silence on the other end, and the words were as difficult for me to speak as they were for me to believe. I yearned for her to comfort me. “Mom?”

  “I’m here.”

  My eyes began to well up. “Please say something.”

  The day I left for college, my mother had stood at our front door beneath the outdoor lantern that hung from an enormous steel chain. It had been drizzling outside, and she puffed a cigarette as I stood in the driveway, embracing my sisters and saying goodbyes. Once everyone else had gone inside, Father had his driver bring the car around, and then he’d handed me some cash and told me to phone when I needed more.

  “Darling,” Dad had called to her, and she’d waved from where she was standing. “Are you going to say goodbye?”

  “It’s raining.” She’d crossed her arms as if to shiver. “Call when you get there, CC.”

  I could have gone to her and embraced her that day; I wanted to. But I’d never done that before, so why would I have done it then? Instead, I’d gotten in the car with the most vacant feeling I’d ever had. I’d longed for her warmth, and all I could think was that she was stuck at home with my father and maybe she longed for some compassion as well. Maybe she envied me because I got to leave.

  Talking with her on the phone that day, I experienced the same emptiness.

  “I don’t imagine that you’re going with him, are you?” she asked.

  “Of course I’m going with him. He’s my husband, and we’re having a baby.” She needed constant reminders. “What would you have me do?”

  “I would have you come home. You are not going to have your baby in a foreign country with doctors who don’t even speak our language. I will not allow it!”

  “Please don’t make this any more difficult for me than it already is. I’m going to need so much help. We’re due to leave in ten days—”

  “Catherine! Ten days?” She was nearly panting. “How long have you known about this? How could you spring this on us?” She always included the entire family when she was exceptionally furious.

  “Gabriel just told me only a few days ago. He found out at work and came home happier than I’d seen him in a long time.” My voice cracked. “I’m so scared, Mom. Please, I could really use your help.” Something I rarely asked for.

  I could hear her sigh on the other end. I knew she’d rather pretend she was in control of the situation than listen to me cry for much longer. “We will work this out. Uncle David has some business connections over there. He’s the one who knew Gabriel to begin with. I will ring Serine and see to it that she recommend a physician and contact some family for you.” She paused. “Please tell me you’ll still be able to come for Christmas.”

  I shook my head as if she could see me. “I don’t think so.” There was no hiding my tears at that point.

  “OK, OK, all right. Take a breath. Don’t get all upset. I’m going to make some calls, and I will get back to you. I still think you should be allowed to come home for the holidays. We’ve many plans with family, and I was counting on you being a part of everything.” Again, she neglected to include my husband. Perhaps that was why he was less than eager to spend the holidays with her in Greenwich.

  “I’ve been looking forward to seeing everyone more than anything in the world.”

  “Then that settles it. You will come home and then meet him in Beirut.”

  I wiped my eyes. My family did not discuss much in the way of emotions. If I was cross with my mother or father, I simply kept my anger to myself. My sisters and I did not dare to confront our parents and challenge their decisions, no matter how frustrating. My parents did not sit us down if they knew we were displeased with something. We were expected to follow rules and keep quiet. The mere idea of being given a platform for our grievances simply did not exist in our home. But I was married, and those rules did not apply to me any longer. I think that was the hardest pill of all for my mother to swallow.

  “It’s not going to happen. We’ve already talked about it, and he wants us to be together, and to be honest, I don’t really want to travel there on my own without him.” I took a deep breath.

  “Your father is not going to be pleased.”

  “Hopefully, he will understand,” I said.

  “I don’t know how much more of this I can take. This is a great deal of Gabriel to ask.”

  I sighed. “He knows, Mother, and he loves and appreciates me.”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  Ten days later, we left for Lebanon, but not before I submitted my article on the Walnut Room. Abigail Rushton encouraged me to do so, even though I would never see it published.

  Chapter Nine

  CATHERINE

  Beirut, Lebanon, 1970

  As we flew in from above, the city’s buildings resembled a crowded cluster of white beehives nestled closely together on the edge of the Mediterranean Sea.

  We landed two days before Christmas, and the air was a damp sixty degrees Fahrenheit. A driver named Walid greeted us in Arabic and then in English as we walked out of the airport before taking our bags. He was a small man and moved around as quick as a fox. His driving was erratic, yet on par with everyone else’s. I craned my neck to see if there were any dividing lines on the streets.

  “How do people know which lane to stay in?” I asked Gabriel.

  He smiled and held my hand. “They get used to it. It’s organized chaos.”

  Palm trees stood on the water’s edge, begging to be noticed against buildings and makeshift markets everywhere. Balconies were littered with people, some leaning way over to talk to neighbors below. I could hear their voices shouting as we passed. It was a beautiful, bustling city with an energy reminiscent of the French Riviera. The drive was just shy of twenty minutes from the airport to Rue Clémenceau, where Gabriel’s apartment was. The Clémenceau district was somewhat of a diverse cosmopolitan area at that time, home to Christians, Muslims, and Jews alike, and just blocks from the esteemed AUB, American University of Beirut.

  Walid came to an abrupt stop in front of a charming old building that looked like it could have stood on Bourbon Street in New Orleans, with its round, ornate balconies protruding from the front. It was tightly nestled between two other buildings that were similar yet less flamboyant. All three had a bevy of Christmas lights and other various decor—such as large pine wreaths—dripping from the terraces and doorways. I could smell them as soon as I exited the car.

  “We are home.” Gabriel turned around and kissed me.

  Not long before, that word had meant only one place for me: my family home in Greenwich. The idea that this was my third home in seven months was inconceivable. And the fact that I couldn’t call upon a friend or cousin to commiserate with, let alone speak the language, was terrifying. I took a deep breath and rested my hands on my stomach.

  Walid jumped out to get our things from the trunk.

  Cars and buses were whizzing by fiercely, preventing me from exiting the vehicle. And the honking! Gabriel jumped out the passenger side and then opened the back door. “Come this way.” He extended his hand and helped me out onto the sidewalk.

  I shivered a little. “What is everyone honking at?”

  “It’s the service cars. They are like shared cabs. They honk to get attention and let people know they are around.”

  I shook my head.

  �
��Can I get you a sweater, Miss?” Walid asked as he began to rummage through my tote bag.

  I took the bag from him. “I can manage, thank you.” I wore a pair of black slacks and a long-sleeve cotton crewneck T-shirt in a dark eggplant color. On my feet was a pair of black loafers.

  “Of course. Please let me know if you need anything.” He nodded and smiled, revealing numerous missing teeth.

  I smiled back, clutching the tote to my chest.

  Gabriel came up from behind and kissed my neck as Walid watched. “He’s going to drive you anywhere you need, OK?” Gabriel told me, and then spoke to Walid in Arabic. “We can get settled, and then he can take you to the market if you like.”

  A mother and her four children walked past us on the sidewalk and entered the building. The last one, maybe two years old, stumbled behind the pack, dragging a stuffed penguin. The woman waved enthusiastically to Gabriel and welcomed him with her smile, but she didn’t stop for any introductions.

  “It’s been a long day,” I said to him. “Maybe tomorrow.”

  He and Walid exchanged a few more words I couldn’t understand, and then Walid drove off, but not after telling me in English to have a wonderful evening.

  “He seems lovely,” I said. “But I don’t want to trouble him.”

  “It’s fine, my dear. It’s what he does. And you will find that everyone will be able to talk to you. Around here, most people will speak English and French and, of course, Arabic—which you will learn—but there will always be someone who speaks English.” He studied my face. “Don’t worry, OK?”

  I nodded.

  He took my hand, and we walked up three flights of stairs to Apartment 310. Gabriel unlocked the door and helped me drag what bags we could carry on the first trip into the foyer, and then he went to open the balcony doors. The horns from the service cars filled the apartment, along with bits and pieces of conversations in Arabic from people standing near the curb who were smoking and catching up with one another. The white curtains hanging on either side of the doors billowed, coming to life from the breeze as if they’d been holding their breath during his absence. The living room was a simple mix of white-and-cream furniture with one large Oriental rug that covered a small portion of the marble flooring. There were two paintings on the walls, both depictions of the beach and the ocean that added some color to the room. It had the look of a bachelor pad, a little sparse and dispassionate but comfortable.

  He slipped an arm around me and pulled me close. “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s very nice.”

  “I love you, and I want you to love it here,” he said and then pulled away, waving his arms about. “You change anything you want. Anything!”

  I laughed and remembered how much I adored him. Every part of him that I fell in love with months ago was exaggerated in his home. His smile, his deep voice, his affection for me and his country, and the ease with which he expressed his emotions to me and the rest of the world. I felt all of it in his embrace.

  “This is a tight community. This neighborhood and these buildings, they are like family to me, and they will treat you as such.” His eyes were serious. “Those who know me will do anything for me, and I for them. You will see.”

  “OK.”

  “I know how things were back at home for you. You will be able to have those relationships here, too. You just have to open yourself up to them.”

  “OK,” I said again, and we hugged.

  “I will get the other bags,” he said, pulling away and darting back down to the street where we’d left them.

  I walked to the edge of the glass doors overlooking the street, where Gabriel was chatting with a man below. The air was filled with the scent of baking flour and spices. I didn’t step outside because there were people just next to us on their balcony, and I didn’t want to intrude.

  A moment later, there was a knock on the door. I rushed to it, thinking Gabriel had been locked out. But it was the tiny little girl with the penguin that I’d seen waddling behind her mother earlier.

  “Why, hello,” I said, and she quickly thrust a round, pizzalike dough at me. “Thank you.” I giggled.

  She stared up at me like a little fawn with heavily lashed brown eyes. “Thank you,” she repeated.

  Her mother laughed from across the hall. “You are welcome!” the woman shouted, coaching her on the correct response.

  I lifted my head. “How kind of you,” I said to her mom.

  “Manakeesh,” she said, pointing to the dough. “It is Manakeesh. I remember Gabriel likes his like my husband, Sammy, with a little bit of cheese and meat and lots of extra thyme.”

  Gabriel’s voice could be heard from the stairwell below. “You spoil me, Brigitte!” he hollered, carrying bags in both hands. She leaned in to kiss his cheek when he made it to the top.

  “It is my pleasure,” she said, then looked back at me. “I am Brigitte, and this is Reema.” The little girl beamed at the mention of her own name.

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Catherine.” We loosely shook hands.

  “We have heard a little about you but are excited to know more.” She pulled a card out of her apron. “It’s a wedding card. Many of the ladies were very happy that Gabriel has found someone to love, and many of the ladies were not so happy!” She laughed some more and winked at me.

  He and I exchanged smiles. “Well,” I said, “I hope not to disappoint anyone. Thank you so much for this.”

  “We have more good news,” Gabriel started. “I am going to be a father.”

  Brigitte clasped her hands over her mouth and then embraced both of us. “How blessed you are!” she squealed. “Come, Reema!” she yelled, but the girl did not move. She stood staring at my hair. Then her mother yelled something in Arabic, and the girl ran back into her apartment.

  Gabriel wiped his brow and closed the apartment door behind us. He was home. He was speaking the language, greeting the neighbors, talking about his favorite foods, boasting about his baby on the way, and rummaging through drawers and cabinets, knowing exactly where everything was.

  I walked to the balcony again and stepped outside. It was not my first time out of the United States, not even close. I’d traveled before, vacationing with my family in the South of France, visiting Laura at boarding school in Switzerland. Heck, Gabriel and I had honeymooned in Italy only a few months ago. Oh, no, I was not naive to international travel, but previous excursions had all been under the guise of a vacation, with the promise of returning home on the near horizon. And there it was again, that word. I wrapped my arms around myself, never feeling so out of place in all my life.

  Chapter Ten

  ANN MARIE

  Chicago, 2008

  “If you can get a treadmill in here, I could kill two birds with one stone,” I say to Thomas, Stuart Fishman’s receptionist and my new best friend, then place a Grande, no-foam latte on his desk.

  He lifts the cup. “This better be nonfat.”

  “It’s free, drink it.”

  “I literally cannot even talk to you if you didn’t watch Lost last night.”

  “I had a dream that Sawyer saved me from a burning movie theater and had to use his shirt to put the flames out. Does that count?”

  Thomas rolls his eyes.

  “I watched it,” I say. “Can you believe Juliet outed Sun like that about the affair? I can’t stand her.”

  “She’s such a bitch. I hate her and Jack together,” he says while I take a seat in my favorite leather armchair.

  “When this divorce is over, I will own this chair, and I intend to leave here with it,” I say.

  “Have at it.” Thomas waves a hand in the air.

  About ten minutes later, I’m sitting in a conference room with Amanda and Noah.

  “Stewart is in court today,” she says. “Leaving us to be the bearers of a new challenge.”

  “Is that legalese for bad news?” I ask.

  A look passes between them. “Todd is trying to go a
fter your trust fund,” Noah says and leans forward. “We are confident he has absolutely no claim to it, but we just wanted to prep you.”

  “What? How?”

  “He’s claiming that the funds in your trust, and even a portion of the boys’ trusts, should be made available to him.”

  My eyes go wide with disbelief. I’ve already dipped into those funds to pay for these attorneys and a stack of bills that Todd left me with. My breathing intensifies, and I have to grit my teeth to suppress a scream. “He does not get any of that money.”

  My mother comes from a wealthy family but doesn’t have a ton of money at her daily disposal. It’s always hard for people to understand that, especially Todd. When we were first looking to buy a house, he’d constantly ask why my mother couldn’t help fund a more expensive place for us, despite the fact that we paid close to $900,000 for our home. He even dared to bring up my father. “How could they leave us with all these student loans?” he’d ask, meaning his loans, not mine, as if my mother should be responsible for clearing his debts. Mom’s family had money, but it was old money, split among many family members and tied up in a trust. She was given a monthly allowance to live on for many years, and was generous to no end with gifts for the kids and me, but once I graduated college and married Todd, she was through providing for her daughter, as most parents should be. There was a healthy trust set up by my mom for the boys and me, and my biggest fear was that Todd was going to try and claim some of that money for himself.

  “Todd will have to kill me first,” I add, causing both Noah and Amanda to pause. “I mean it.”

  Amanda spoke up. “Like I said, we’re confident this is some sort of attempt to upset the apple cart, or delay proceedings. We don’t want you to worry about it. No judge in his right mind will even consider this, but we obviously have to keep you in the loop and do our best to prepare.”

  Going after money that my mom saved for the boys and me is the last straw. I begin to pace, and I can feel myself teetering on the verge of insanity. I raise my voice. “If he wanted to enjoy those funds one day, he never should have . . . ,” I start, and then pause to refocus my energy. “Those trusts are off-limits.” I fix my eyes on Noah. “Todd knows exactly what he’s doing and what buttons to push with me, and this ends here and now. Are we clear?”