by Dina Silver
He nods.
“Please let him know that I will go for full custody if this isn’t dropped by the end of the day. I will put every one of his sluts on the stand, prove he’s a sex addict who’s unfit to parent his kids, and I’ll spend this trust fund of mine suing him for everything he has. Tell him he’ll be so broke, he won’t be able to afford his online porn subscriptions anymore. That should silence him.”
They both avert their eyes and take notes.
“Does my mother need to know about this?” I ask. “Please tell me she’s not being served with some bullshit papers.”
Amanda shakes her head. “No, she doesn’t.”
“OK, because that’s a call I’m not prepared to make.”
I walk out of the building and into a cool afternoon breeze. I have about two hours before I need to grab the boys from school and pick up Luke from Edith’s house. If I were in another state of mind, I might walk across the street and treat myself to lunch on Michigan Avenue, but instead I pay the twenty-eight dollars it costs me to park downtown and head home.
When I pull in the driveway, I’m thankful that Todd’s car is nowhere in sight.
I open the freezer and rummage through stacks of food-storage containers and Ziploc freezer bags, ghosts of my proactive and organized past. I grab one of the bags with something that resembles chicken breasts, but it’s wrapped in foil, so it’s true mystery meat at this point. I flip the bag over, hoping that I’d had a Sharpie nearby the day I packaged it. No such luck. Upon further inspection, I notice an ice storm of freezer burn has taken place inside the bag, so I toss it in the trash. That goes on for another four bags and containers until I shut the freezer and sit at the kitchen island.
The fridge is decorated with the boys’ artwork. There are potted plants on the patio with lifeless foliage and American flags that I’ve been ignoring since the Fourth of July. The glass patio doors are smeared from the neighbors’ dog, which stops by every morning and licks them clean. One of the recessed bulbs above the stove has been out since before Labor Day, and the clock on the microwave has been flashing 2:37 for weeks—reminding me that I’ve let time stand still around here and am not allowed to celebrate one more holiday until I put the others to rest. I get up to check the pantry for a bottle of wine.
“Thank God,” I say to myself and pop it in the fridge for later.
The way I see it, I have two choices. I can flounder around feeling sorry for myself, wallowing in freezer burn and self-hatred until all the bulbs in my house are burned out and my home is literally and figuratively the darkest place on earth. Or, I can keep my chin up and fight. Fight for my boys, my money, my pride, and myself.
I grab my cell phone and call my mom. “Hey,” I say when she answers.
“Hi, sweetie, how are you?” Her voice is tired.
“Did I wake you?”
“No, I was just thinking about going to the market and getting some juice for the morning.”
I smile at what is surely her biggest decision for the day. “I thought you play tennis on Tuesdays. Are you feeling OK?”
“Just a little headache. I normally do play today, but I played a doubles match this weekend, and I’m still beat. How are you?”
“Well, I met with the attorneys again.” I hesitate. “But I’m good; it went fine. I was wondering if you’ve given any thought to coming and staying with me and the boys for a week?”
“Oh, right.”
“I was thinking that you could come in on a Wednesday or something. We could have a few days together, and then I could go away with Jen for the weekend,” I say.
“That will be nice. I’d be happy to watch them for you. I know you could use a weekend to yourself.”
“Amen to that.”
“How has Todd been?”
I pace my kitchen. “He’s a miserable prick.”
She sighs.
“He comes over to the house unannounced, just to torment me.” I feel myself falling into the self-pity abyss. “It’s fine, though. I’m going to be fine. I actually think Ryan is on my side because he never asks to call his dad and say good night anymore. He waits to see if Todd will call him.” The idea of my kids losing contact with their father seems all too familiar and sad.
She doesn’t say anything.
“Mom?”
“Sorry, honey. Your boys will always be on your side.”
“I sure hope so,” I say. “So, if you’re up for coming in and watching them, we’d all love to see you.”
She doesn’t respond again.
“Mom, are you there?”
“I’m sorry, yes, I heard you. That’s fine.”
“You sure you’re OK?” I ask.
“I’m fine.”
After hanging up with her, I text Jen.
Looks like we’re on for Mexico. My mom is going to come in. Not quite sure I’m ready for it, as I travel with lots of baggage! And I don’t mean the kind you zip up.
She answers quickly. I’m bringing a tankini and a shot glass.
I place my phone down and grab a floodlight bulb and the step stool from the garage. I change the light over the stove and then look through both bottomless junk drawers until I find the manual for the microwave and reset the clock. Next, I take a garbage bag outside, uproot the dead flowers, and toss them in the bag with the plastic flags. As for the neighbor’s dog, he makes the boys happy, so I can live with a knee-high blurry mess on the glass for a while.
Once I finish, I have about ten minutes before I have to pick up the boys. I run down to the basement, grab my suitcase, take it to my bedroom, and leave it out on the floor. Quickly, I toss in a bathing suit and flip-flops. Just seeing it there will give me all the motivation I need to get through the next few weeks.
Three days later, a large cardboard box shows up on my front stoop. It’s addressed to my mother.
“Did you order something for the boys?” I ask when I get her on the phone.
“No, it’s for us.”
“Should I open it?”
“Sure, but promise me you’ll wait until I arrive to go through them.”
I slice open the box. Inside is a pile of her journals. I lift the first one out, thinking I’m not going to be able to keep my promise.
The leather is soft from years of wear, and there’s a rubber band holding the pages together. I slide it off, open to a random page in the center, and am puzzled by the heading: Our first Christmas in Beirut.
Chapter Eleven
CATHERINE
Beirut, 1970
It was still dark when Gabriel’s alarm clock rang the next morning, and I vaguely remembered him saying goodbye to me before he left. I lay there for a while, staring at the white ceiling and thinking I should get up and unpack before showering. By the time the sun came up, I was dressed and ready to go to the market. Christmas was the next day, and Brigitte had invited us to have dinner with them and a couple of other families in the building. Gabriel had not hesitated to accept the invitation when Brigitte’s husband, Sammy, had come to our door the night before.
I grabbed my wool coat and purse and skipped downstairs to find Walid waiting at the curb, leaning against a Volkswagen Beetle with a newspaper and cup of coffee in his hands. He quickly folded it up when he saw me. “Where to, Miss Catherine?” His toothless smile was quite charming.
I stopped when I reached the end of the walk. “You didn’t have to come today,” I said. “Did Gabriel send you?”
Walid glanced at my stomach and then patted his own. “He doesn’t want you walking far.”
“Thank you, but I’m just going up to the market and the patisserie. I’ve been told that they are only three blocks away, and I’m really looking forward to the walk, having never been here before.”
“Permit me to accompany you, then?” He pointed to his feet.
I sighed in the subtlest way possible. “Yes, of course.” I’d desperately wanted to be alone and unburdened by an overzealous local who was hired to be m
y shadow and make conversation. Little did I know at the time, Walid would become one of the most significant people in my life.
We walked for a few blocks, and I was eventually pleased to have my own personal tour guide. The streets and sidewalks were busy, but free of trash and debris. They looked as though they’d just been swept clean, and I never saw them any other way. Walid and I passed several pushcarts along the way selling fruits and vegetables and meats, which they would boil or grill for you right on the cart. “Picked fresh today from the mountains. You will not find fresher than these,” Walid assured me as we stopped to inhale the warm scent of smoked foods filling the air above the sidewalk.
“Gabriel and his family have a home there, in the mountains. I’m looking forward to seeing it,” I said.
“Yes.” He nodded with enthusiasm, as he did everything. “Beit Chabab.”
“How do you say it?”
“Beit Chabab,” he said, slower. “I will drive you there.” He grinned.
“Oh, no, not today.”
He laughed at me. “No, it would be almost two hours today. Another time. When Gabriel is ready.”
Many of the people who lived in Beirut had roots in the mountains. They spent time in the city, but went “home” to the mountain villages where their ancestors had been for many years. Each village had something for which it was renowned. One was known for olives, one for soap making, and Beit Chabab was a well-known bell foundry—crafting church bells for Christian communities in Lebanon and overseas.
Gabriel had never said much about it other than his mother lived there with his younger brother, who was born with severe learning disabilities, and she hadn’t left the village in forty years. I knew very little about her other than that she was Lebanese and spoke no other language than Arabic. His father had left when Gabriel was very young, and he had very little memory of him. Once Gabriel’s father was gone, his maternal grandmother had moved in with the family to help until she passed.
I walked into a bakery and was welcomed by the smell of fresh flour and a pleasing mix of cinnamon and other spices I could not identify. Walid waited for me outside. “Hello, I would like to get some dessert . . .” I paused, testing the English of the girl behind the counter who looked about my age.
She spoke perfect English with a thick French accent. “What would you like?”
“What would you recommend bringing to someone’s home? We will be guests for the holiday.” My brows were raised. “Maybe something traditional?” I asked.
She shrugged, her lids heavy and bored. The bakeries opened very early in Beirut. “Maybe some cake and ice cream. We’re known for our bouzet ashta. It’s rosewater ice cream with mastic—like a little bit gummy paste—and pistachios.”
I hadn’t heard of gummy ice cream before, but she seemed confident in its classic appeal. “I will take some of that, please. Enough for twelve people.”
She packed the ice cream and a few pastries into bags, which Walid promptly took from me when I exited.
By the time we returned to our building, I was famished. “Let me put these things in the freezer, and then I would like to buy you lunch.”
Walid began to shake his head.
“And I won’t take no for an answer. Gabriel said there is a falafel stand on the other corner, and I simply must eat, as you know.”
Walid insisted on running all the groceries to the apartment while I waited outside. When he returned, we walked in the opposite direction to a kiosk on the sidewalk. He was always a half step behind me. “Are you married, Walid?”
His head bobbed. “Yes, yes, of course, ma’am.”
“Please call me Catherine. You are my first friend here.” That made him chuckle, as did most things I said. “Tell me about your family.”
“My wife, she is beautiful like you. Well, not such white hairs like you, but she is beautiful and she works at the university, so our kids can go there. We have one son, who is eighteen, and our daughter is nineteen.” He paused. “I also look after my wife’s sister’s daughter, who is eight. She lost her parents in a car accident many years ago.”
I stopped walking. “I’m so sorry for her.”
He smiled and shrugged and waved his hands. “It’s OK, it’s OK! She is with us now. Very happy and smart girl.”
The shelves behind the man working the food stand were filled with baskets of Manakeesh in different varieties, emitting a fresh doughy aroma that reminded me of Jessie’s homemade biscuits. There was a long line of people waiting; some looked like American students from the university nearby, and some looked like locals. I’m not sure what I looked like, other than out of place. When we finally reached the counter, I thought I might faint from hunger. I ordered three Manakeesh for Walid to bring home to his family, two falafel sandwiches—one for him and one for me—and a chicken schwarma plate for us to share. We sat on the spotless curb and devoured it in seconds. The chicken was juicy yet crisp around the edges, and was served with a side of hummus that was drizzled with a healthy portion of olive oil. I think I went through no less than ten napkins.
When we returned, little Reema was alone in front of the building, blissfully playing with some dolls. “Thank you for spending so much time with me today,” I said to Walid, and handed him the bag of warm Manakeesh. “Please bring this home to your beautiful wife, and tell her I can’t wait to meet her.”
He leaned forward and took the bag. “Thank you,” he said earnestly.
“You’re welcome!” Reema shouted from behind.
Chapter Twelve
CATHERINE
Beirut, 1970
It was Christmas Day, and the overseas ringtones were long and drawn out. I sipped a bowl of chicken broth I’d made as a snack before dinner because my pregnancy came with hunger pains every ten minutes. My ears perked up when I heard my sister Margaret’s voice. “Hello?”
“It’s me, it’s CC. Merry Christmas!”
“Same to you! How are you? I’ve been hoping you’d call.” She muffled the receiver, and I heard her call out to my sister Colleen before returning to the phone. “What’s it like there?”
“It’s nice. Our apartment is clean and a little dull—lots of white everywhere—but Gabriel has promised to let me change things around. First thing will be painting the kitchen a light green, I think. How about you guys?”
“We’re all getting ready for brunch at the club. You just missed Mom. She dragged Mary Grace over to the neighbors to borrow a pair of tights. Dad’s had three Bloody Marys with Uncle David in the salon already, and Colleen and I are plotting our escape to meet up with Jack and Craig Denny behind the caddy shack. Mom will be too smashed later to notice. Not much has changed. We’re going to that new place, Gulliver’s, tonight. They have a disco there, and we’re meeting up with a huge crowd and some friends from the city. Now that Colleen is eighteen, she doesn’t need a fake ID anymore.”
I was a little envious. “No jelly-bean trail?”
She laughed. “Of course we did the jelly-bean trail! Just ’cause you abandoned the family doesn’t mean the rest of us have to suffer.”
Every year for as long as I could recall, my sisters and I would wake up Christmas morning to find my parents on the orange floral divan in the four seasons room that overlooked the yard, sharing a pitcher of Bloody Marys and a pot of coffee. Jessie would be in the kitchen preparing her famous holiday casserole consisting of eggs, ground sausage, chopped onions, and easily two pounds of cheddar cheese. She’d make four of them, and we’d reheat platefuls for a week.
While my sisters and I were eating breakfast, Mother, in her housecoat, would lay trails of jelly beans, one for each of us, that led to our Christmas stockings. It initially began as a ruse so that she didn’t have to hang the stockings by the fireplace. When I was five years old, my parents stuffed Margaret’s stockings and mine, hung them with care, and went to sleep. Around 3:00 a.m., a spark from the dwindling fire flew out onto Margaret’s stocking, caused some minor damage, and
forever changed the mantel on Christmas morning. As a result, Santa invented the jelly-bean trails to guide us to the new location. Mom or Dad or Jessie would set out trails of jelly beans leading from the fireplace, through the family room, winding in different directions—one trail for each daughter as the family grew—and then we’d spend the morning walking through the house like it was a minefield until it was time to find our stockings. As silly as it sounds, my sisters and I looked forward to it every year.
“Did you get new underwear in your stocking?” I asked.
“You know I did.”
I smiled. “A journal?”
“Yes. Which I will place on my shelf right next to all my other empty journals. You’re the only one who ever uses those things.”
“And five bucks?”
“Believe it or not, you picked the wrong year to move away. We each got ten dollars and some candy. I stole Patricia’s Charleston Chew a few minutes ago.”
“Maybe you got ten because I left.”
“You might be right. Thank you,” she said.
Missing all my favorite traditions left me a little heartsick, but the holiday was almost over for me in Beirut, as it was eight hours later, so I was determined to make some new memories for Gabriel and myself.
“Are you feeling good, with the baby and everything?”
I looked at my stomach whenever anyone mentioned the baby. “I am. I feel good. Mom was able to get me the name of a doctor here, so I’m going to have my first visit with him next week after the holidays.”
“Wow, April seems so far away. Are you getting fatter?”
“Not too bad yet. Mostly looks like I had a big lunch.” Gabriel walked into the kitchen, where I was sitting at the table, and grinned when he saw me. “I should probably get going because we have dinner plans with our neighbors,” I said to Margaret, but Gabriel shook his head. “Please give my love to everyone.”