Three Daughters: A Novel

by Consuelo Saah Baehr

  Was it prescience? News stories of those who had sudden tragic losses are fraught with agonized retelling of premonitions. “I dreamed of a giant fish swallowing up my little girl,” said a grief-stricken mother whose child had drowned in a well. “I called him back this morning and gave him his umbrella. I don’t know why,” said a young widow. “The sun was shining but I felt he needed protection.” The husband was struck by a falling brick from a building under construction. Samir had reason to remember his impromptu meditation on his wife as he watched her cavorting in the sea.

  The second night of their stay in Beirut, they attended a dinner dance—the highlight of the grape growers’ convention. The hall, meant to hold, at most, a hundred and fifty, was overcrowded. By ten o’clock more than two hundred sun-reddened people, their inhibitions dissolved by too much of their own wine, decided to dance to the bouncy Latin tune played by the orchestra.

  The man with graying temples was impressive in his tuxedo. The voluptuous bow tie and snow-white shirt dramatized his healthy, handsome face. His lovely wife wore a dress made of rose silk georgette, the hem of which was short enough to display her legs. On her feet were silver T-strap sandals. Her hair, still a shining burnished red-brown, was upswept with a soft fullness at the sides, giving her the dreamy look of adolescence.

  “We could dance . . .”

  “Oh, no, Samir . . . we need practice.”

  “Let’s give it a try. Look!” He pointed to a grossly corpulent man leading his wife daintily as he angled for more space. “If he can do it, why can’t we? We’re athletic. Maybe it’s not difficult.”

  “All right.”

  He rose, took her hand, and spearheaded the walk to the center of the floor. She folded easily into his arms. With her high heels, they were precisely the same height and he brushed his lips against her cheek, pleased to be close to her. “You’re a tall woman,” he said.

  “Didn’t you know?”

  “Yes. I suppose it’s a hard thing to admit.”

  “My mother was slightly taller than my father, but in his own way he managed her very well.”

  “But Nijmeh isn’t as tall as Paul . . .” He was eager to be on another subject but she pressed on.

  “Are you trying to find similarities—some thread of continuity in three generations of women?”

  “No. I’m not trying to find meaning in it.” His special knowledge of her biological father and her ignorance of it made her vulnerable. He pressed her closer and spread his hand against her back to include the hollow above her hips. She stopped talking.

  They were in each other’s arms, feeling all the emotions of rebirth—poignancy, longing, sweet ruefulness, a devastating concern for the beloved—while at the same time sharing the peculiar anticipation of lovers. It was a moment out of time. And then it happened.

  At least two hundred dancers were shuffling and pounding their feet on the slick maple floor—unique in a land where wood was so scarce—to a dance called the mambo. They didn’t hear the warning creaks and faint rumbles or pay attention to the progressive sponginess of what should have been solid support. Forward . . . step . . . back . . . back . . . step . . . turn . . . chase . . . chase . . . forward—there was the sickening crack of wood tearing under unbearable weight. Whoosh . . . the floor dangled crazily. Men and women screaming—screaming!—were slipping down, down . . . twenty-four feet to the floor below . . . Eeeeeee! Everyone screaming . . . “Oh, God, help me!” . . . “Mama! Holy Mother of God, pray for us sinners” . . . “Joseph?” . . . “Joseph! Jesus is my savior. Oh, no! Oh, no” . . .

  They were thrown together in one dizzying pile . . . the top ones crushed down the first with the deadly power of hurled weight.

  The plaster dust rose like a giant cloud from an erupting volcano, making it impossible to see the fate of those who fell, but there was no mistaking the hellish screams and agonized yelps of pain and cries for help. “Help me . . . please help me. My chest . . . I can’t breathe.”

  It was difficult to breathe. They gasped and tasted dust. Samir was being pushed, crushed by throngs scrambling to reach the sides. His lungs were squeezed of air. He still held Nadia’s hand, but he couldn’t see her. A burly man with his elbows held high and using them as weapons to knock his way out of the crowd gouged Samir’s eye and momentarily blinded him. In that second she was wrenched away from him. Nadia! The plaster dust grew dense. He pushed with all his strength and grasped at a wisp of rose silk. At the same time, another part of the floor gave way under him. The weight of her as she tore away pulled his shoulder out of its socket before he went down . . . down . . . down. Oh . . . my God, no! A scrap of fabric was in his hand and the echo of her scream . . . It was her scream. She had said his name.

  He landed on another man and it saved his life. There was the sound of human flesh being pounded to death. A gagging noise equivalent to the most horrid vomiting. Please, God, he was already dead. I didn’t kill him.

  There was something wrong. He couldn’t move without excruciating pain. Oh . . . my leg! A bone jutted out crazily. But nothing could keep him still. He had to find her. He began the gruesome crawl over the mounds of soft remains and debris. There was a persistent sound . . . the sound of murmuring. Exactly like the nuns at the Russian church calling out the attributes of Mother Mary. Mother most pure. Mother most chaste. Ivory tower. House of gold. Refuge of sinners. Help of the sick. Fountain of love . . .

  “Nadia . . .” He was whimpering. “My wife . . . where is my wife?”

  He crawled for two hours, looking for anything pink, closing his eyes to the worst sights. The dust had covered everything. All night bodies were pulled out from the rubble and moved to a makeshift morgue. It was merciful that he didn’t find her. She had been crushed to death.

  They didn’t want to let him identify her. The government pressed for a mass burial because of the gruesomeness of the bodies . . . crushed skulls are not a pretty sight. He had a broken leg and a dislocated shoulder, but he kept trying to escape the medics and look for her, shrugging off restraining arms with uncanny force, hobbling around like a crazed, whimpering animal. Finally they saw it was best to lead him to her. He kissed her crushed face over and over, sobbing softly against her. “There, there. I’m here. I’m here.” He cradled her in his one good arm until the attendant, weeping, too, led him away.

  At seventy-four, Miriam was still slim, her hair black, her spine straight, but when Nadia died her back bowed overnight and she went gray. Her behavior was so erratic that Zareefa feared for her sanity. She went to Nadeem’s grave and clawed at the dirt as if to wrench him out to comfort her. No one could convince her to stop. Zareefa, in her wisdom, found Nadeem’s wedding ring and the small broom he had carried frequently to sweep snow or debris from the path to their house and put the two objects in Miriam’s hands. Only then could she lead her away from the grave.

  “I need him,” she said, looking back with such pathetic anguish that Zareefa had to walk away to keep from breaking down. “He was the love of my life. I didn’t know it.” Miriam continued talking, her husky voice still hauntingly beautiful. “I’ve lost everyone now. My baby boy, Esa . . . then Max . . . Nadeem . . .” She bent over and squeezed the inner corners of her eyes with two fingers. “And now . . .”

  They made their way home circuitously. She held on to Zareefa and the words spilled out. “Zareefa . . . so many times . . . I felt anger toward her. Horrid anger and resentment. It’s a mystery . . . why should I have resented my own daughter? I couldn’t stop myself. So many times I tried to hold my tongue . . . but I couldn’t. I never really knew Nadia. I didn’t. She never knew Nijmeh either. I swear it. We couldn’t deal with our daughters. My mother never accepted me. Do you think I did that to her?”

  “I don’t know,” said Zareefa. “I think you remember only the bad times now, but you loved her. Nadeem loved her.”

  Miriam didn’t hear
her. “We were powerless to change anything. Nadia and me. It’s a defect. The heart constricts. Ya Allah. We wanted those daughters so desperately.”

  41.

  YOUR WIFE WAS ADMITTED AS I CAME IN.

  Rita was still trembling in the afterglow of an orgasmic shudder. He was about to achieve his own climax. “Oh, by the way,” she said, “your wife was admitted as I came in.”

  He grunted in dismay and, as his mind made a complete about-face, his erection dissolved. “You bitch.”

  “Uh-uh-uh. Don’t alienate your one operating lay. You’re not going to be getting any from Starry Eyes for God knows how long.”

  “Shut up.” He felt like slapping her, but that would be stupid. Nobody had tied him down to this coarse, resentful woman. He had come of his own free will. “Don’t talk about my wife.”

  She ignored him and patted his rump. “Better run along. You’re probably a daddy by now.”

  The maternity ward was like a second home, but now that Star was there it was an alien place. They were wheeling her back to her room as he raced in. She looked so beautiful and pale that he felt his throat close up. Part of it was seeing her in a hospital gown, which for him meant the possibility of danger. “Darling, I’m so sorry. Nobody told me . . .”

  She raised her hand and touched his cheek. “It’s all right.” Her eyes were uncertain. “Are you disappointed?”

  “Disappointed? About what? Is something wrong with the baby?”

  “No, no. She’s fine. She came so quickly they didn’t have a chance to give me anything. The nurse showed her to me and she’s fine, but I know you must have wanted a son.”

  He hadn’t even known the sex. “How could I be disappointed,” he said magnanimously, “when she might turn out to look like you?”

  When they brought the baby, her thoughts and feelings were nothing like what she had expected. The small round face was bright red and indignant, the tongue vibrating with the exertion of crying. She butted her face into Star’s chest, hiccuping and rooting. Star was nervous and unsure over nursing and also a little frightened. The nurse had left a bottle of sugar water, but she considered that a dirty trick to play on the starving baby and finally undid her nursing bra.

  “Here, here . . . shh.” The baby, smelling and sensing the object of her desire, raked her face against her mother until she found the nipple. She wasn’t frail. She was wild and greedy. It was such a peculiar realization. It confirmed that the baby was a real person and not an extension of herself. “If Nurse Turner sees this,” she whispered, triumphant at having stopped the crying, “she’s going to have a fit. I don’t care. I’d do anything for you,” she said passionately and then looked around to see if anyone had heard. Oh, Mama. If you could only be here to see this.

  She wouldn’t have dared unwrap the baby, but then Paul came in and to her surprise casually undid the receiving blanket and began to pull and probe. There she was—mostly skin and bones—legs and arms flailing, belly protruding, totally helpless. Star’s heart jumped out for her daughter and she wanted to snatch her back.

  Paul raised the baby up and held her close to his face. “Hello, little angel. I’m your daddy. Yes.”

  “I think she’s still hungry, but I don’t have much milk to give her.”

  “That’s OK. Let her suck just the same. It’s good for both of you and she’s getting something.” He kissed his daughter. “I have to fill in the birth certificate.” They had thought of three names: Margaret, Julia (for each of their favorite aunts), and—just because Paul liked the sound of it—Cassandra. “What shall it be? Dependable Margaret, sweet Julia . . . or Cassandra?”

  “Cassandra. I like it because it’s fancy. This is a very fancy little girl. Look at this mouth . . . ooh! I’ve never seen a little round mouth like this one.”

  “We could call her Cassie. Cassandra Halaby . . . it goes together. If you like it, it’s fine with me.”

  When the baby and Paul left, the nurse urged her to go to sleep, but she couldn’t relax. Her mind kept darting from thought to thought. Instead of feeling relieved and elated, she felt unsettled, as if something could still go wrong. If only the baby was next to her. Maybe Cassie was crying right now and there was no one who cared to console her. She lay in the dark imagining people dying on other floors, sighing their last breath, with no one to notice. It made her anxious and afraid. She realized with a feeling of helplessness that she badly needed her mother and father.

  They brought the baby to nurse every four hours, which was too long between feedings. Cassie always arrived screaming, stopping only for a desperate gnaw at her fist. The nurse disapproved. “The formulas are so much more convenient. You’d know exactly how much the baby drinks and she wouldn’t cry so much.”

  Star didn’t waver, although it hurt to hear that the baby cried a lot. Her breasts were engorged with milk and Cassie was passionate about nursing and accepted it. She spread one hand over the breast while she ate to protect her territory. Paul became her ally and she was grateful to him.

  In the afternoons Ginny Hargrove and Dick Menden’s wife visited, each bringing a sterling silver gift from Garfinckel’s. Ginny said, “We must get together when you’re squared away.” It was just something polite to say during a visit but, unexpectedly, their exclusion hurt. Larraine had warned her that her looks made the women wary. “If you looked like Ma or Pa Kettle,” she wisecracked, “they’d want to be thick as thieves. But you’re a threat.” She had thought that motherhood would make her more acceptable.

  A bushy schefflera was delivered with a card from Penny and Tom Haywood, and Tom himself stopped by and raised his eyebrows quizzically when he found her breast-feeding. “What’s this? You’re much too attractive to be doing that,” he said bluntly, as if he were giving her sound social advice.

  Larraine arrived with wine, cheese, crackers, and two goblets. “You’ll have to excuse me.” She wiped tears from her eyes and uncorked the wine. “That little girl has touched me. I’d forgotten how they look so . . . finished. The dimples on each knuckle were the final straw.” She cleared her throat and held her glass in the air. “I would say here’s to happiness, but you look miserable. Anything I can help with?”

  “I don’t think so. Paul says I have postpartum blues a little early.”

  “I won’t say you have everything in the world to be grateful for. If you feel blue, you feel blue and that’s it.” She took a sip of her wine. “Anything specific?”

  “I miss my mother,” Star said. “It’s silly because she was timid around babies, but it would mean so much to me to share the baby with her.”

  “Yeah. I guess these are the times when a girl needs her mother. Too bad.” She looked stumped. “How’s Paul taking to fatherhood? Is he being a pillar of strength?”

  “Paul has to deal with the house. He’s supervising all the work and the rest of the time he’s here or at the office. I’ve seen more of him here than I usually do.”

  “What do you mean, ‘all the work’? I thought the house was perfect.”

  “There were a few things. The front walk and the lawn. Some flagstones in back around the lily pool. Things like that.” She was embarrassed to tell Larraine all the things Paul was doing to the house, because it sounded crazy. Paul couldn’t seem to stop redecorating.

  Larraine cleaned her glasses and put them back on her face. “By the way, I talked to the owner of the corner house on North Capitol. The brick one.”

  “You asked him to sell you his house?” Star looked alarmed.

  “No. I asked him—now, don’t throw up—if he knew of any desirable houses on the market. Some as nice as his.”

  “Ooh. Did he throw you out?”

  “No. He offered me a cup of coffee and said he’d get back to me if he heard anything. He also asked what we were willing to pay.”

  “What are we willing to pay?”

&nbs
p; “If ours was twenty-three five but smaller and not a corner lot, I thought around thirty, but I said twenty-eight. I figure if he’s interested he’ll get back with a counter offer.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Star, I know you’re a mama now, but I hope you won’t lose interest in our plans. The second time around will be easier. We don’t need Rashid’s help anymore, I don’t think.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t lose interest.” Three chimes sounded, the signal for visitors to leave. She felt the milk rushing inside her breasts. “They’re going to bring the babies out to eat. Come again, OK? I’ll be here another three days.”

  “How soon can you take the baby out?”

  “In a month, I guess. Something like that.”

  “Why that long? She has to go out to go home, doesn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  “Think about taking her out sooner. Make believe you’re taking her home if that’s the magic ticket. I want you to see that corner house.”

  “All right.” She smiled for the first time. “I’ll take her out sooner.”

  When Larraine left, Star felt exhausted and desolate. Paul stopped in to have dinner with her and then left to look over the work that had been done on the house during the day. She didn’t know where all the money was coming from, but he said everything would be paid for if he worked a little harder, which seemed impossible. The darkness around his eyes was permanent and no amount of sleep made him look less haggard.

  She heard a happy squeal from the next room, which meant the Italian woman had had her baby. She was nursing, too, and the previous day her mother had reprimanded the nurse for making a derogatory remark about breast-feeding. “Don’t you dare speak to my daughter like that again. You made her so nervous her milk’s drying up.” Star had been thrilled to hear that speech.