Three Daughters: A Novel

by Consuelo Saah Baehr

  He went toward her, arms outstretched, his face in a grimace of happiness and pain. Was this all he could do . . . tighten himself around her? It didn’t seem enough. The baby, her eyes dewy from sleep, stared soberly at the stranger. A replica of her mother. He could smell the sweetness. What tore at him in those few seconds was that Nadia would never see them like this. His throat closed up. He wanted to beg for her. Beg God to give her back to him for just the seconds it would take to welcome their daughter. Nadia, here they are. Look, darling, our girl is home. There was no answer. She was buried. Dead. Weighed down and hidden in the blackness of the ground. “Oh, my dear, my dear . . .”

  “Baba . . .” All the pain was expressed in that name. “I was so afraid.” She was whimpering and the words were squeezed out. “I needed you.” She had not expected to say these things. She had expected to feel differently about him. Distant. But all she wanted was his love and his arms around her. “I needed you to help me.”

  He bowed his head over her—an attitude of protection—but too late. The worst had happened. He hadn’t been able to protect her at all. Cassie, caught between them, squirmed. Seeing her mother so distressed made her chin tremble, too. Her eyes were enormous and full of woe. “Mommy,” she said and began to wail.

  They turned to look at her. “Oh, I’ve scared you. I’m all right,” said Nijmeh. “Don’t cry. This is Grandpa. Your Sedo.” Cassie glued her face against her mother and refused to look up. “Remember I told you we were going to see your Sedo?” The tangled hair moved up and down but her face stayed hidden. “Well, here he is. Don’t you want to say hello?” The head went sideways. “Oh, that’s too bad. He’d like to say hello to you.”

  Samir put his hands by his side. “It’s all right,” he said. “I can wait. She needs time to get used to the idea.”

  This generous statement provoked Cassie to lift her head. She turned sideways to view the person who had such finesse. “Oh, what a lovely little girl.” The look on his face—pleasure and shyness—was not lost on Cassie. The handsome, distinguished man caught her imagination and, with the unerring instinct for the right gesture that would serve her all her life, she turned away from her mother and stretched out her arms. Samir trembled as he reached for her. The last person he had held this way was Nadia after she died. He felt ill prepared to resurrect those feelings, but what choice did he have? These are mine, he kept thinking. These are mine to care for. He pressed the travel-weary girl against his chest with one hand—a stuffed bear was still in the other—and was unable to wipe away the tears plodding slowly down.

  The entire clan came to the sheik’s village house, where Samir still lived. It was just like dozens of other family gatherings—the smells of buttered pignolia nuts and spiced lamb and briny olives perfumed the air. Outside it was very warm—a heat spell in February—but Samir had installed two air conditioners. “Shu hada?” exclaimed a confused Umm Jameel, who was close to ninety. “How did he change the weather?” Everyone laughed, but they, too, still considered the coolness remarkable.

  Miriam had arrived early, and after unsuccessfully fighting back tears, she put down the boxes of cookies she had brought and took Cassie in her arms. “She looks like you,” she told her granddaughter. “Too bad Nadia couldn’t . . .” She stopped. “Please, habibty, bring a dish for the cookies and put them out on the table. The butter will soak through and ruin the cloth.” Nijmeh did as she asked, happy to deal with the cookies and not her grandmother’s eyes.

  “Your mother used to hate it when I brought food to the sheik’s house,” Miriam said, looking around. “She thought it made us look socially stupid because the sheik didn’t need food. I couldn’t convince her that it was important and necessary for other reasons. If I told her this was the way we’d always done it, that was like declaring war. Maybe you feel the same?”

  “No. I understand.”

  “I had the rebellious daughter. If you told her to wave hello, she said good-bye. She couldn’t embroider. She couldn’t cook. She didn’t like to sing. She hated to visit. Our pleasure—especially in those days after the war—was visiting and she hated to visit. She couldn’t sit still. She hated being kissed by relatives. And then, after all that, look what happened.”

  “What happened?” asked Nijmeh.

  “She married the sheik’s son.” Miriam looked triumphant. “She couldn’t have done anything more traditionally right. It was the most wonderful thing and I was sure it saved her life and her happiness.” Too late she realized what she had said. “Oh . . . my. It didn’t save her life. Oh, dear! I didn’t mean that.”

  “Don’t worry, Teta. I know what you meant. You meant she stayed in the clan instead of seeking her fortune in the outside world.”

  “Well . . .” Miriam looked perturbed. She didn’t like the way that sounded. “Yes. And I also meant that it was the right choice. She loved your father. It was a match that I fought for, but she soon discovered she really loved your father.” Cassie squirmed in her lap and turned to play with Miriam’s earrings. “And you . . .” she asked timidly, “how do you feel about coming back?”

  “Peaceful,” Nijmeh said automatically. Questioning and in turmoil is what she meant. She was also thinking that, unlike her mother, she had never learned to love Paul. That hadn’t been the right choice. While her grandmother was talking, she thought of the Walkers. If she had grown up in that house and Mary Walker had been her grandmother, she would have felt just as comfortable sitting around a long, formal table, eating corn on the cob and codfish cakes and fried chicken and going to the First Presbyterian Church every Sunday at eleven. That was the crucial point. She wasn’t rebellious as her mother had been. She had done everything her father asked, but it had all gone wrong. How could you explain that? By coming back she was putting herself in their hands again. They must have rules for widows just as with everything else. Something in her pushed that idea away. “Teta, this will make you happy. Remember you gave me two thousand dollars when I married Paul?”

  “That money had a long history. From time to time your grandfather Nadeem would get the idea to start on an enterprise and, for one reason or another, he always needed financial help from me. Of course he paid me back. The money went back and forth several times and it ended up with you.”

  “You’d be pleased. I bought a house that I rent out. And we—my partner and I—used that house to buy another house. Having that business meant a lot to me, and your money made it possible.”

  Miriam didn’t respond. Did that mean she was going back to her business and her partner? Did that mean she wasn’t listening to anything Miriam was telling her? Then she mused, “Your grand-father was always buying this little building or that one, too. He was crazy about owning a structure and caring for it. Perhaps you got that from him. It’s in the blood.”

  Nijmeh winced. How could she admit that her sweet, patient grandfather had not been her grandfather at all? There was pain and confusion around every corner. “I think you’re right. He was always in my mind when I was looking for the right property.”

  Miriam looked down and began to smooth Cassie’s hair. After all these years, she still couldn’t think of Nadeem without feeling the full, searing jolt of fresh pain.

  The rest of the guests had begun to arrive. Miriam rose and put Cassie in a little fenced-in play area that Samir had devised, but when she cried she carried her outside. “All right. I don’t want to be the one who puts you in prison.”

  Zareefa and her husband came with their daughters and their families. Aunt Diana, close to eighty and still grossly overweight, her legs streaked with overburdened veins, was led to a chair by her son’s girls, Janin and Deenie. She sat meekly staring at Nijmeh. “Her mother dies, her husband dies . . . what is this?” she muttered.

  “Hush, Teta,” said Janin. “They’ll hear you.”

  “So? It’s not big news. Haram. Too beautiful. It was too much. Whe
re’s the baby? Did you see her? An orphan. A year old and an orphan already. How does she look? Like the mother? Another one with bad luck.”

  “Teta, stop. Amti Miriam took the baby outside. She looks like Nijmeh but with darker hair and brown eyes.” She turned around to see who else was coming in. “Here’s Aunt Julia and Uncle Peter and”—she put her hand to her mouth—“oh, my God, here’s Delal.”

  “Deenie, Janin, help me up, yullah. How does Delal have the nerve to show up here?”

  Delal was in her ninth month and pregnancy had robbed her of clear skin, healthy hair, slender hips, and energy. She was breathless and cranky. And right now, also perspiring. She seldom felt cowed in life, but this morning she had awakened with a feeling of dread that crowded out everything else. Suppose they figured out what she’d done? How could James ever love the child she was carrying? But she didn’t feel repentant. She thought of the scene in Gone With the Wind when Rhett tells Scarlett, who has cheated her sister out of her beau, “You’re like a thief who’s not in the least sorry he stole but is terribly sorry he’s going to jail.”

  Her mother had insisted that she come to welcome her cousin home but had agreed that it was not a good idea to bring James. “Let him think it’s a get-together for the women,” Delal had urged. “I don’t think Nijmeh’s ready to meet up with her old love. Not yet, anyway.”

  She had arrived purposely late and then wanted to leave immediately, but her mother had driven and she had no graceful way of getting back home. Besides, what would she say to James? No, I didn’t stay. I couldn’t stand seeing the woman you loved. Love? Yes, she’s as beautiful as ever. More beautiful. Breathtaking now that tragedy has given depth to her face. Sorry you didn’t go? Sorry you couldn’t get her alone and kiss her? Sorry I’m not dead? Maybe I’ll die in childbirth and you’ll be free to marry her after all.

  She went from room to room and finally caught sight of her from a distance of twenty feet. Her face was in profile and then, as someone called to her, she turned and looked squarely at Delal. Holy God, this is what I took away from James. He’ll hate me forever.

  She was coming toward her quickly, a wide smile of anticipation on her face. “Delal . . .” Her arms were outstretched. If she hugs me, I’ll die. “It’s so good to see you. Look . . . you’re pregnant . . . I didn’t know. When did you get married?”

  Shut up, shut up. Please. “Not long ago. We sent an announcement . . . really, you didn’t know?”

  “No. Congratulations.”

  “You may want to take it back.”

  “Take what back . . . my congratulations?”

  “I’m married to James.”

  Her mouth slackened. “James? James who?”

  “James . . .” Delal couldn’t get herself to say more. It was easily the worst moment of her life. Here’s another blow for the little widow. I didn’t plan this. I’ll stand here perfectly still and wait for it to be over. What can she do to me? What can he do?

  The look on Nijmeh’s face was quizzical. Then understanding crept over her face. It was sickening to watch. “No . . . not my James! Why?” Her voice was a pitiful whisper.

  “Look, I didn’t do it on purpose. I mean, you were married. Who ever thought Paul would die?” She realized she was speaking too bluntly. “I’m terribly sorry about Paul. What can I say?”

  “Is James here?”

  “No. I didn’t think you needed that kind of a shock on top of everything else. Look, I could lie and say he was sick or busy, but you deserve the truth. Tell me, did I do the right thing? Should I have brought him here?”

  She shook her head. “No.” She took a deep breath and looked around the crowded room. “Let’s go get a drink. I need a good stiff drink.”

  “You bet.”

  Her father had bought her a stroller and had Muffi remove the skinny wheels and attach rubber tires so she could wheel the baby through the orchards. The unpredictable weather of late winter was over. The days would start out with a thin sun that soon became strong and direct. The tiny purple crocuses had bloomed and wilted and the sweet narcissus and hardy cyclamen took their place, filling in both rocky cracks and fertile beds in their eagerness to multiply.

  “Fahwah?” Cassie would ask, pointing down.

  “Flower,” her mother would respond. The baby had never been so petted and fussed over as during these weeks, and she seemed relieved to be alone with her mother. Samir had driven them to the orchard cottage to stay overnight. “This is where Mama liked it best,” Nijmeh said when he prepared to leave. “I want to be alone here for a few days to think things out.”

  “Stay as long as you like. Julia and Miriam will fight over taking Cassie.” He looked uncomfortable. Something was on the tip of his tongue and he was looking for the right time to speak. He had on a business suit but no tie and the sight of his bare pink neck made him look vulnerable.

  “Tell me about Mother,” she said, choking down the word.

  His eyes darted around the room as if seeking to escape, but after a moment his shoulders sank and he gave in to his fate. They sat down opposite each other and he held Cassie in the crook of his arm. “I knew her all my life,” he said as if that were the most important thing, and then all different images flew out as they entered his mind. “She was a very private person and not out of shyness either. Out of strength. She knew what she was and was content. She adored horses. From the beginning, when she was a very small girl, her father would lead her around on a horse they owned—an old dilapidated thing—and I remember Amo Nadeem saying that was the only time she smiled easily. She didn’t want to marry me, you know. I was a catch, believe me”—he widened his eyes and smiled shyly—“but of all the girls, she was the one who didn’t want me.”

  “Are you sure? Maybe she was just afraid.”

  “Perhaps. But she wasn’t the type to be demure. For whatever reason, she gave me a hard time. But not afterward, of course.”

  “Was she always beautiful?”

  He was surprised. “Did you think she was beautiful? Most people didn’t. She had something . . . I don’t know, it appealed to me immensely. She was the only woman for me up until the very last moment.” He couldn’t trust himself to say more and they sat silently for several minutes. Cassie had fallen asleep with her thumb in her mouth and Samir smoothed back her hair. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll work everything out.”

  “I may not settle here, you know.” She hadn’t meant to say that. “Are you expecting that I will?” Two powerful emotions were working in her. This was the man who had made her lose James. This man . . . he wasn’t even her true father. He appeared far different to her than when she had left. Was it because she had grown up and was more on an equal footing? Was it because her mother’s death had made him seem fragile?

  “I thought you would need family to support you. Our family. Some of them appear silly. Your aunt Diana—my God, I expect her to topple over any moment . . . but they’re part of the fabric of our life. The past is important just as much as the future.”

  She nodded. What he was saying meant nothing to her. Who was there here who cared about her happiness? Support, she wanted to shout. What kind of support did you give me when my happiness was at stake? She couldn’t shout at him. He needed her sympathy.

  “I went into business,” she said to change the subject. “You shouldn’t be surprised. You were always preparing me to run things. I still remember how much we had to charge for crated raisins to make a profit. Thirteen cents a pound. If you received fifteen, you said it was time to open the champagne. We have a house with three apartments—I even did some of the refurbishing myself—and we rent it out. It’s something I enjoy.”

  “Really?” The news made him melancholy but then he remembered something. “Your grandfather left you a sum of money. He left bequests only to you and your mother. He loved you in a special way.”

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p; She sighed. “I could have used that money last year. My partner and I had a difficult time getting a mortgage.”

  “It’s waiting for you anytime you want it.” He rose so as not to wake the baby. “Take your time before making any decisions. You may find you like it here.”

  “I’ll take my time,” she said and walked with him to the car. He placed Cassie in the back, using a cushion to brace her against the seat. Then he faced his daughter.

  Sometimes the most naked moment sneaks in during a leave-taking, and that’s how it was for them. Samir blurted out the thing that was on his mind. “Do you blame me for your mother’s death? Do you think I could have done something to save her? Say it if you do. Say it.”

  She was shocked by the outburst. She had been blaming him. Couldn’t he have done something? But her doubts were a failure of the spirit. He had never done anything second-rate. Never. She put her arms around him and spoke with certainty. “I don’t know why Mother died, but you couldn’t have stopped it. You loved her. She knew that so well. We all have our destinies to fulfill and she had hers.”

  She had no idea where these words came from or how she could say them so calmly. Several times she had been on the verge of screaming at him that he had ruined her life by being so hard on James. He had been wrong to do it, but there was no good outcome to such a scene. None at all. It must have been her love for him that made her momentarily lucid. He didn’t know the most important thing about his life. Poor, poor Baba.

  “Perfect love,” he had once said to her, “is what parents feel for a child. It’s love that wants nothing back.” She wanted to give him peace. And she wanted nothing back.

  “I don’t blame you,” she said and kissed his face twice. He did look better. Wan, but out of relief, not worry. “I’ll call when I’m ready to come back.” He nodded, got in the car, and drove off.