by Dina Silver
“She’s having trouble forming thoughts and sentences, and her handwriting is all messed up.”
The girl continues to type. “OK, have a seat and someone will call you.”
We wait three hours, during which time we observe an elderly man who tripped on his front stoop and can’t move his left foot, a three-year-old boy who cut his forehead open on the edge of a bookcase after chasing a balloon, a teenage girl whose eye was swollen shut after bumping into the back of her friend’s head on a trampoline, a pregnant woman who can’t stop vomiting, and a middle-aged woman with a troublesome rash on her neck.
“I should have called an ambulance. A gurney is the ticket to being seen immediately.”
She smiles. “I’m fine. I feel terrible about your trip.”
“I’ve already forgotten about it.”
She scans my face in an affectionately judgmental way that only a mother can. “You should wear a little lip gloss when you go out,” she says and mimics the act of applying it with her hand.
I cross my arms and blink. “All of a sudden, you have no problem coming up with your words?”
She dismisses my nonsense with a wave.
“I didn’t have the right shade of red for this fluorescent ER lighting,” I add.
Her shoulders limp forward. “I love you,” Mom says. “You look beautiful with or without.”
“OK, now you’re really scaring me. Stick to the passive-aggressive insults if you want me to believe you’re going to be just fine.”
She laughs. “I should say that more often.”
I tilt my head. “I know you love me.”
“Catherine Clarke,” a man calls from the hallway, and we rejoice with an incredible sense of victory. We both look in his direction, and I’m suddenly afflicted with my mother’s case of cat’s-got-your-tongue-itis. The voice calling her name is emanating from a well-dressed doctor who looks about my age. He’s tall with dark wavy hair, sun-kissed cheeks, and blue eyes—a shade of aqua that is detectible all the way from where we’re standing. He removes a pair of reading glasses from the pocket of his coat and looks around.
I wave, and we walk toward him.
“I’m Dr. Marcus,” he says.
I grin, wishing I’d worn lip gloss, and extend my hand before he can say anything else. “Ann Marie Neelan.” We shake. “And this is my mother, Catherine.”
He shakes her hand. “I would not have guessed you were her mother.”
“Thank you.” Mom blushes. The handsome doctor’s compliment has erased the three-hour wait it took to get it.
“Please follow me,” he says.
Mom takes my hand and gives me that look as we follow behind him. That “Let’s find out if he’s available” look that mothers of daughters across the globe have perfected.
We enter the room behind him and close the door.
“Are you married, Dr. Marcus?” Mom asks.
“Wow,” I mouth silently to her, and my eyes go wide.
His smile indicates how many times a week he’s asked that question. “No, I’m not. You?” he asks my mom.
“No. We are not,” she offers.
After many humiliating and humbling niceties come to an end, we get down to business and tell Dr. Marcus what’s been going on. He listens and has her write some things down on paper so he can see how the letters are curling. She takes a pen and writes her full name, Catherine Suzanne Clarke. Then she writes her address and a couple of salutations such as How are you? Have a nice day, and so on.
Dr. Marcus stares intently and then blinks. “I think we’ll do a CT scan today and see if we come up with anything.” He looks at me, then at Mom. “Is that all right with you?”
Mom nods and folds her hands in her lap after placing the pen down.
“Thank you,” I say as he stands.
“I’ll be right back,” he says and leaves the room.
I take a seat on the rolling stool that he’d been using. “Are you OK?”
She nods.
“He thought we were sisters, so that’s a bonus.” I try and gauge her level of nervousness.
“At least we’ll have some answers.”
I nod. “Stay strong. We’ve been through much worse,” I say. “Some old lady once told me that.”
She laughs.
Every part of me believes we have a long journey ahead of us simply because there was something so inherently different about her from the moment she arrived. I choose to look at my canceled Mexico trip as a blessing and a long-overdue opportunity to be with my mom and spend time with her.
A nurse comes to take her away.
“Give me a hug. It’s going to be fine,” I say and watch her walk out.
The room becomes suddenly more miserable now that she’s gone. The posters on the walls detail stupid signs of whooping cough and heart attacks. Who would need that information at this point? If I’ve come to the ER after collapsing from chest pains, why do I need a list of symptoms now? I glance at my cell phone, which has been in my hand since we arrived, and my first instinct is to call my mother. My second is to call Todd, and I hate myself for it. Instead, I call my neighbor Jen and let her know she’s off the hook for carpool since I won’t be going anywhere. She voices her concern and says she has tequila and salsa for me when I’m ready.
Mom returns a half hour later.
“How did it go?”
She shrugs. “As well as can be expected.”
“Did you see Doctor Feel Good?”
Her eyes squint as she grins. “He escorted me out of the machine and said he’d be in to talk with us.”
We sit in silence as I answer a couple of texts from Rory, who stayed back with Luke.
He doesn’t want to play outside. How much TV is too much TV? she asks me.
I laugh out loud. Whatever makes him happy. I traded my Mom-of-the-Year trophy for a case of Chardonnay long ago.
There’s Chardonnay?? she answers.
Another thirty or forty minutes pass. I lose count. Mom and I discuss what we should do for dinner, order in or cook. A topic we can easily debate for at least three more hours if necessary.
It’s almost 4:00 p.m. when Dr. Marcus returns. “I apologize for the wait,” he says and sits on the wheeled stool. “I have some results.” He points to the images he’s brought with him. “There is a dark spot here on the brain that I think you should have a look at.”
Mom and I study the scan as if we can possibly make out the one dark spot he’s referring to from any other random dark spot on the X-ray. “Is that from a stroke?” I ask.
“It’s hard to say without further testing.” He begins to write a name on a piece of paper. “Here.” He reaches past Mom and hands it to me, unintentionally labeling her too feeble to look after herself, just like the attendee at the front desk did. “She’s one of the best in the brain biz.” He grins. “I would bring my own mother to her.”
I look at the paper, which reads Dr. Elena Crane.
“She’ll need to have a biopsy done as soon as possible. I will put a call in to Dr. Crane for you, as she can be booked for many months.”
“That is very kind of you,” Mom says.
“A biopsy? So, you think it’s cancer?” I ask him.
“In this job, I try not to make a habit of guessing.”
I see my mom squirm.
“Can we see her tomorrow? This Dr. Crane?”
“Call that number first thing in the morning, and they will do their best to get you in.”
Mom gets to her feet. She’s understandably had enough of this entire day. “Thank you so much.” She extends her hand, and they shake.
I stand, too. “I’m more of a hugger,” I say and give him a quick embrace. “Thank you so much.”
“It’s been a pleasure meeting you both. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to follow up to see how everything goes.” He looks at me.
“Of course, please, we’d really appreciate that,” I say and don’t dare look at my mothe
r, who I know is smiling. “Let me write down my e-mail.” He hands me a prescription pad and a pen.
Later that night when Mom is asleep, I tiptoe into her room and sniff the bottle of Chanel No 5 that she left on the dresser.
In the days that follow, her ability to speak deteriorates so quickly, there’s no time to blink. A week after the biopsy, we get the news that she has brain cancer.
Chapter Twenty-One
CATHERINE
Beirut, 1971
There was little I could do to hide my excitement on December 21, the day before I was due to fly back to Connecticut. A place that I hadn’t been in more than a year. A year in which I’d moved to Chicago, gotten pregnant, moved to Lebanon, given birth, and become terrified my husband would confine me again at a moment’s notice. Brigitte brought me lunch that day, and her eldest daughter came over with Reema to watch Ann Marie for me.
There was laughter between us. Brigitte was once again preparing for Christmas dinner with family and neighbors—as she had been the year before when we’d first met—and she and I had spent the week wrapping presents and decorating the stairwell and our respective balconies with lights and wreaths. Walid had driven me and Gabriel and the baby to get a tree a couple of weeks ago, and it stood in our family room in a large corner between the couch and the balcony doors. There were gifts underneath for Ann Marie and myself and a new watch I’d bought for my husband. We agreed to open everything when I returned.
“I’m so happy for you, Catherine.”
“Thank you. I really can’t believe it,” I said.
“And I’m very proud of Gabriel for what he’s done.”
I gave her a questioning look.
“Just that he came to this decision on his own. He knows how much this means to you.”
I opened my mouth and was about to say that my daughter should’ve met her family long before then, that the only reason he’d done this was because I’d connived him and led him to believe I was content to be here for the rest of my life. But I simply nodded instead. “Yes.” She knew the sacrifices I’d made to appease him.
“Are those all the bags you are taking?” she asked and pointed to the two small suitcases by the front door.
“There’s one more duffel bag in the baby’s room with her toys and diapers and a change of clothes for the plane. And then a larger suitcase on my bed, too. We Americans don’t pack light.” I winked at her. “I’ve also bought some gifts for my sisters and mom as well that are taking up most of one of the smaller ones. I didn’t want to show up empty-handed after all this time.”
There were still plenty of clothes hanging in my closet and folded up in my dresser. I’d packed almost all of Ann Marie’s things, though, because she really didn’t have very much other than little rompers and pajamas. Mother had sent a velvet holiday dress when she didn’t know we’d be visiting, so I packed that as well, along with some little bootees and ruffled diaper covers.
Later that evening when Gabriel came home, there was a distance about him. He smiled and ate the dinner I made—lamb stew with fried eggplant—but he didn’t have much to say. I’d prepared all sorts of answers to questions that he never asked of me: Who are you most excited to see? What will you do if the baby fusses on the plane? Who’s picking you up at the airport? He’d shown very little interest in the trip. His body language seemed to scream regret over buying the ticket, but he wasn’t interested in speaking with me, so I couldn’t say for sure.
I thought he’d spend more time with Ann Marie or maybe want to put her to sleep that night, but it was very much business as usual, even a little cold. He and I shared a drink on the balcony after dinner, and then he made some phone calls and went to bed. He couldn’t know how I was feeling about our relationship because he never asked and I never broached the subject. I began to understand my parents’ relationship more once I had my own glimpse into marriage. Even after only one year, and what was still meant to be the honeymoon stage, I found myself coexisting with my husband, just as I’d seen my mother do over the years. I’d assumed it was because they’d been married for twenty-four years, but maybe all relationships were the same back then? You avoid saying things that you know will anger your spouse. You put on airs to let everyone around you think you’re happy and that everything is perfect. I remember Brigitte’s initial reaction to hearing about the discord between Gabriel and me and how she was almost shocked I was confiding in her. She’d overheard us arguing, but rather than ask what we’d been arguing about, she was more concerned with how I should avoid it happening again altogether. She’d coached me on how to be submissive, and while I’d mocked it at first, in the end her guidance might have just saved me.
The next morning Gabriel kissed the baby and me and left for work. Business as usual. He left the necessary paperwork needed for me to take Ann Marie out of Lebanon on my own and without him. She was a citizen of both America and Lebanon, but Lebanon had much stricter laws regarding having their young citizens removed without the father being present, or his written permission. I told him I’d call him on Christmas, and if he weren’t home, I would try Brigitte and Sammy’s number. Once he was gone, I made the bed and cleaned up the house and put a load of laundry in the dryer. I would be gone before it was done, so I left a note for him on the kitchen table.
Brigitte had to work that morning, so I left a holiday card and a box of pistachio cookies for the girls and a plastic tea set especially for my little Reema. Brigitte knew I had a special place in my heart for that girl. I used to say that her face was the first thing in that country to make me smile.
But what Brigitte didn’t know—what no one knew—was that I had no intention of ever coming back.
I waved to Walid from my balcony, and he ran upstairs to help me with the bags. I thought about taking the rest of the items in my drawers, at least my favorite summer things like my white slacks and my yellow gingham bikini, but I didn’t want Gabriel to have any suspicions before I arrived in Connecticut. Once all the bags were in the car, Walid took Ann Marie and got her settled.
“I’ll be right down,” I shouted to him, then went and grabbed the cash I’d kept hidden in my lingerie drawer.
In the baby’s room, I reached into the box of diapers where I’d originally hid the plane ticket Laura had sent me. I folded it up and zipped it into my pocketbook so no one would ever find it. I didn’t think Brigitte would ever mention it, for her own sake, but if she did . . . there would be no evidence.
Twelve hours later, we landed in Westchester.
Forty-eight hours after that, I sent Gabriel a telegram saying that I wanted a divorce.
Chapter Twenty-Two
CATHERINE
Greenwich, 1972
Even though I’d convinced myself that I never should have left home in the first place, I came to realize that everything happens for a reason, and that reason was Ann Marie.
She was the light of my life. In fact, I didn’t even know my life was void of radiance until I had her back with me in the States. It was like my family—my parents and sisters—had been incomplete without her; she brought that much clarity and joy to each of us. Mom cleared out the two guest rooms in the back of the house so we’d have our own private area. I went to see Leonard Hannah, the editor of the Greenwich Times, and begged to have my job back, the one I’d never started. He gladly allowed me to work there and urged me to write about my time in Lebanon, so that’s how I began my column. Paging through my journals and writing about the foods and the culture and the people of Beirut.
“I won’t be able to write about Beirut forever,” I told Leonard.
“Make it a series of articles comparing things over there with things over here. I think it could be interesting to those of us who’ve never taken a leap of faith to save our lives. Lord knows Greenwich has enough people who refuse to go as far as Stamford, let alone the Middle East.”
Gabriel’s initial reaction was to be expected. He was angry and upset with me. He reached
out to my father to try and reason with him, but Dad told him that I was a grown woman who made her own decisions. He began calling the house repeatedly, with no concern for the bills anymore, but when he became hostile and threatening, I’d stop taking his calls unless he agreed to discuss our separation. Eventually, he had no choice but to do so.
Three weeks into my reentry—as my cousin Laura called it—Jessie came up to my room as I was getting dressed and brushing my hair. It was a weekday afternoon around 4:00 p.m., and Ann Marie had just woken up from her nap. She was on my bed, making noises and staring at the ceiling. Jessie knocked and entered without waiting for my response.
“What is it?” I asked when I saw the skeptical look on her face.
“There is someone here to see you.”
“Who?”
She closed the door. “It’s Serine Miller and her husband.”
I placed the brush on my dressing table and went to sit on the bed. Belle Haven was a gated community, but Serine and her husband knew countless people who lived there, so there was no way to stop her from coming to the house. That much I’d known for sure. It was a visit I’d been dreading but expecting. Whether Gabriel had put his sister up to it or not, I would never know. She and I had met only once before, at the dinner party my parents had thrown for us after we’d eloped. Mother called it a wedding dinner and threw the affair just before we moved to Chicago in an effort to save face. About a hundred guests, including Serine and her husband, filled the dining hall at the Belle Haven Club and watched my parents pretend they were happy for us. Scotch and vodka work wonders when playing make-believe.
“Should I tell them you’re busy?”
My mouth felt dry. “Is Mother home?”
Jessie shook her head. “At the club.”
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes for a second. “No, I’ll go down and see them.” I stood. “I’m sure they’re here to see their niece.” I went to Ann Marie on the bed. She was about nine months old then, and the picture of health and perfection. Her thighs and cheeks were deliciously pudgy and soft, her dark hair had grown in enough to hold a tiny satin barrette, and she smelled of talcum powder and rose petals. I leaned in close to her on the bed and inhaled before scooping her up in my arms and walking downstairs.
